By the time they reached the rise between the stronghold and Duke’s East, the sun was rising, a brief red glare between the clouds. This was the last bit of known road: the curve into the village past the Red Fox, the square, the bridge. Smoke rolled out of chimneys. As their boots rang on the cobbles of the square, faces appeared at windows and doors. Mayor Fontaine opened his door to wave, along with the row of children that appeared at his back. Several children ran from houses to march alongside, singing and yelling, until they were called back. Beyond the bridge was Kolya’s farm and orchard; Kolya was leaning on the gate, grinning.
“Good luck,” she called. “Fight well.” Paks glanced at her, and Kolya winked. Then they were past, and after another fifty paces the road swung left again, leaving the village behind to curve through a wooded swamp, now frozen. After that it climbed, and the trees fell away. A stone wall bordered the road on the west, and beyond it Paks saw a herd of shaggy cattle, guarded by several men in leather capes. All the cattle stared at them, ears wide, as they marched by. Most of them were heavy in calf, and looked as wide as they were long in their winter coats.
They were seven days on the road to Vérella, marching at first through forested ridges that gentled into farmland sprinkled with villages. The people were shorter here, and looked heavier; the women wore their headscarves knotted high, with a peak to one side. Each night they stopped by a large stone-walled barn with a fox-head design chiseled into the stone. Stammel explained that the Duke had built these barns for the farmers to use, provided they let his troops shelter there while traveling.
The column settled quickly into the habits of a long march. Recruits took guard duty in rotation with the regulars, and hardly thought of themselves as recruits. They knew the captains now: Pont, junior to Cracolnya, and Ferrault, junior to Arcolin. As they passed through the villages, they saw themselves as they were seen: mercenaries. The Duke’s Company. They began to pick up the news of the road as they neared Vérella.
“Eh, Captain,” shouted one graybeard. “You’re late this year. They Sobanai is already come by here.”
“Seen anything of Vladi’s?” called Pont.
“Nay, and I hope not. They don’t come this way but once in a while, and I’m glad for it.”
“Why, grandfather?”
“Eh, well—he’s too hard for us, that one. Better he go east.”
The captain laughed and rode on. Paks wondered who the “Sobanai” were. She watched as two children, screeching to get the soldiers’ attention, struck at each other with wooden swords. An older voice called them, angry, and they dropped the swords and ran off.
Then they came to Vérella—the first city Paks had ever seen, Vérella of the Bells, the seat of the Kings of Tsaia. From a distance its great stone walls and towers seemed to sail the river meadows, already tinged with spring green. They had passed slower carts and wagons all that morning, and as they neared the city, they met more traffic: trains of mules, ox-drawn wagons, foot travelers, and horsemen.
The guards at the city gates wore rose and gray, and carried pikes. They marched under the gate tower. It seemed immense to Paks, its opening wide enough for two wagons at once to pass. The way was paved with square cobbles of pale gray stone, and was even wider than the gate. Paks tried not to gawk, but she was distracted by the buildings, tall and many-windowed, and crowded wall to wall, and by the incredible noise and bustle. Against the tall stone walls lay a flotsam of bright canvas awnings over shop windows and street peddlers, merchandise of all sorts piled in alluring heaps—it seemed that only the constant current of traffic kept it from taking over the road itself. She had never imagined such a variety of people and things. Men in long gowns with fur-edged sleeves. A stack of intricately patterned carpets next to a pile of polished copper pots of all sizes. Four men carrying a sort of box on poles, with curtains swaying on the box. A woman in green velvet, on a mule, strumming a hand-harp. A fat child, broad as he was tall, with an axe at his belt—as they passed, Paks was startled to see a waist-length red beard on the child. She gasped.
“Don’t gawk about,” muttered Bosk. “It’s just a dwarf.”
She had not realized that dwarves were real. She tried to keep her eyes ahead, but it was impossible. They passed a man in red and blue motley carrying a strange skinny black animal with a long tail that wrapped his arm. Two children dashed by, balancing loaves of bread an armspan long. She heard a confused roar from the right, and Stammel yelled a halt. From a side street rode six figures in gleaming armor on chargers bigger than the Duke’s; the street shook to the pounding hooves. Paks felt breathless. She watched Stammel peer down the side street before leading them on. She had never seen horses so big. Were there more?
After another few minutes of marching, the street made a sharp turn left and then right. Here were fewer sidewalk stalls, but a fascinating blend of smells: roast meats, fresh bread, ale, wine, spices. Paks heard her belly rumble in response. The buildings had benches in front of them, and a row of watching eyes followed them down the street. She saw another dwarf, and then two more, on one of the benches.
At a crossing, Stammel turned right into a narrower street the column almost filled. Ahead loomed a high stone wall, and beyond it the turret of some building. When they reached the foot of the wall, Paks saw that a wide paved area lay before it; Stammel turned left again, and they marched beside the wall for a space. Paks saw no gate, and no guards on the wall. At last it swung away to the right, and they went on, again on a wide street between buildings. Here were fewer stalls, and no peddlers. Paks saw a string of mules being led through a gate; she glanced sideways as they passed it. Inside, stables surrounded a courtyard; she saw another of the great horses, this one led by a boy.
They entered a square with a fountain in the center and trees around the fountain. Here once more the canvas awnings of shops and sidewalk stalls edged the street. A barefooted woman in a short dress struggled with a large jar of water from the fountain. A plump child in a fur-lined hood trotted behind a large fluffy white dog. Two cloaked men in tall boots strolled near the fountain, hands near the hilts of their weapons. A tall slender figure in gray trotted briskly past the column on a horse bridled in green and gold. It was past before Paks realized that its face was not human.
Past that square they marched down a quiet street with trees planted in the center. Ahead was another gate. The captains, who had ridden ahead, sat chatting with the guards as they marched up. “Everyone still with us?” asked Pont.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Very good. I’ve arranged for a meal outside the gates—you remember The Golden Goose? They call it The Winking Tomcat now; old Penston’s nephew inherited it this winter. We’re called to meet with the vice-regent; wait for us there.”
“Yes, sir. Do you think you’ll be long enough to unload the mules?”
“No. Give ’em a feed though. We’ll march through to Littlebridge today.”
“Yes, sir.” Stammel led them through the gates, this time onto a wide stone bridge with a waist-high stone parapet. They were far above the water. Paks looked upstream and saw a dark still surface; she could not tell how fast the water was moving. Another bridge spanned the river upstream; a wall rose from the far bank. Ahead of them, their own bridge pierced the wall at a tower, and again they passed through gates.
Here the buildings were lower, many of them wood and not stone. Paks could see over them to yet another wall. These streets were crowded, but they saw few velvets and furs, and more bare feet. Some people wore wooden clogs that clattered loudly on the cobbles. A pack of lean dogs worried something in a gutter. They passed a row of taverns, reeking of stale beer; only one man huddled on the benches outside. A fat woman in gaudy clothes danced sideways beside the column, showing a trayful of glittering jewelry. Paks heard one of the corporals swear at her; she flung back an oath in return.
At the last wall, the guards waved them through the tall gates, and they came out to see loosely spaced bui
ldings and fallow fields beyond. They passed a tanner’s stinking yard, a pen of cattle on one side of the road and a pen of hogs on the other, a field fenced with split rails (which Paks had never seen) holding a dozen horses and a few mules, another field with wagons parked in rows. Ahead on the left was a large stone enclosure with a two-story building in front. On the sign hanging before it was a yellow cat with a ferocious leer. Stammel halted them, and entered the inn. Paks looked around. Across from the inn an open slope of bare ground eased up to a stand of trees. Ahead, down the road, was another building that might be an inn, then a row of cottages.
Stammel came out. “The court’s too full,” he said to Bosk. “We’ll eat over here—” he nodded at the open space. “I’ll take the file leaders in for food.”
Paks followed Stammel into the inn, excited and curious. It was much larger than the inn at Rocky Ford, larger than any she’d seen. They entered a long low room filled with tables and benches and noise. The landlord, a tall heavy young man with a pale mustache, led them to the kitchen behind, where the cook’s helpers were heaping platters with roast meat, bread, cheese, and dried fruit. Paks took a platter and carried it back through the dining room and across the road. The food was good, spiced with strange flavors, and Paks devoured her share. The second rank took the platters back, and they settled down to wait until the captains returned.
“How do you like cities?” Saben asked Paks.
“I don’t know—it’s not what I thought it would be.”
“Did you see that dwarf?”
Paks nodded. “I didn’t know they were real, any more. Do you know what was on that horse with the fancy bridle?”
“No. I missed that. We can ask Stammel or Bosk.”
Bosk chuckled at their question. “You mean you don’t know? It’s a good thing you didn’t point. That was an elf, from Lyonya or the Ladysforest, a messenger to the Council.”
“Elf—” Paks and Saben looked at each other. “Will we see more of elves and dwarves and things like that?” asked Paks.
Bosk spat. “I hope not. Uncanny, they are, and unfriendly, too. We don’t have much to do with them, and the less the better, I say.”
“Now Bosk,” said Devlin, who had walked up on the conversation. “Elves are good fighters, you have to say that.”
“If it’s fighting alone, give me dwarves—not that I want them, but they’re hard as stone, and tireless. Elves—they’ll sing as soon as fight, or go off after some fool idea. And they think they know everything, and have to tell you about it—without answering any question you want answered, either.”
“I don’t know—” Devlin looked thoughtful. “I’ve met a few elves—five years ago, that year you stayed north, Bosk, I talked to one. She was uncanny, but beautiful. Sometimes she’d sing in Common, about the Beginnings, and where the elves came from, and battles long ago. It was strange, but very powerful. I liked it.”
“Your choice,” said Bosk shortly. “And you can’t say some elves haven’t gone bad—”
“The kuaknom? That maybe, but they’re all dead.”
Bosk snorted. Another recruit broke in. “But won’t we go past dwarf lands in a few days?”
“South of here, yes. But we go around the mountains rather than through them. We’ll see dwarves on the road between here and Valdaire, but we won’t see their caves.”
“Are gnomes just another name for dwarves?” asked Saben.
“Gird’s arm, no! And remember that, if we see any. The Aldonfulk princedom comes near the road for a day’s travel. They’re not like dwarves at all, save their love of stone and living underground. You saw that dwarf—wide as he was tall, and so they all are. Gnomes are slenderer, but still short. Good fighters; they’re lawful folk, knowing the value of discipline and training. They don’t say much, but what they do say you can trust with your life.”
“You like them, don’t you?” asked Paks.
“Of the elder races, yes. Trustworthy, brave, well-organized. Some of them are Girdsmen.” Paks had not realized before that Bosk was Girdish; she looked at him curiously.
The sunlight had dimmed behind thicker clouds as they ate, and now a fine drizzle sifted over the landscape. Paks stamped her feet, feeling the chill.
“I hope we start marching soon.”
“We’ll have to wait for the captains. I hope they don’t linger over their meal.”
“Where are they?”
“Probably with the vice-regent. They usually eat at the palace on these journeys; the regents always have some message for the Duke.”
Paks wondered what the palace looked like. “Did we pass the palace?” she asked.
“Do you remember that wall we marched beside, before we came to the square with the fountain? That was the palace wall. You can’t see the palace itself from outside.”
“Have you seen it?”
Bosk shook his head. “No. But Stammel did once, I think. It’s just a palace, though, like any other. I’ve seen the King’s Hall in Rostvok.”
“That’s in Pargun, isn’t it?” asked Vik. Bosk nodded, and Vik went on. “I heard it had a room lined in gold, polished like mirrors, and all the guards wore jewelled helmets and a ruby in one ear.”
“I never saw a golden room,” said Bosk. “But they do wear jewels in their ears, and not just the guards, either. I couldn’t say if they were rubies. As for helmets, the ones I saw were good polished bronze, nothing more. Tell you what they did have, though: in the King’s Hall itself, where the King sits and receives ambassadors and such, they had a hanging framework that held—oh—a hundred candles, I suppose. Much like what the Duke’s got, so far, only bigger. But all over it, and hanging from it, were little chips that looked like clear ice—much too big for diamonds—and they glittered in the candlelight, and made sparkles of all colors that danced over the whole hall. One of their men told me it was a kind of glass, but I never saw glass anything like that. It was something to see, I’ll tell you—all lit up and a hundred colors. Like the sun coming out after rain, or an ice storm, only more so.”
Paks tried to imagine such a thing and failed; she had never seen even the Duke’s dining hall. She shivered as the drizzle thickened. When she glanced back up the road toward the city, she saw nothing but a cloaked man on foot, trudging doggedly toward the gates. Just as Stammel spoke of moving them into the inn courtyard, they heard a shout.
“Good,” said Stammel. “Here’s the captains, and we can go on. What I heard of the roads, it’ll be a long march.”
“What about cloaks?” asked Devlin. “If this gets worse—”
“We’ll need them dry for tonight,” said Stammel. “If a caravan’s stuck in Littlebridge, we may not have shelter for everyone.”
The captains rode up. “Sorry we were held up,” said Pont. “The vice-regent insisted that we witness the seal on a letter for the Duke. Ferrault will go on, and I’ll stay with the column. We’d better march.”
Quickly Stammel reformed the unit, and they moved out. Ferrault’s bay horse trotted ahead, quickly moving out of sight. The last large building was indeed another inn, this one with a picture of a mounted fighter on its signboard. As they passed, a small group of men lounged out its wide door to stare at them.
“The carrion crows are moving, I see,” said one in green, with gray boots.
“Whose are those?” asked another. He had a delicately curled mustache.
“Some northern warlord. Duke something-or-other, I forget. They all ape the nobility, that sort.” Paks heard him hawk and spit. “Better they go south to Aarenis and die than cause trouble here, I say.”
The others laughed. Paks noticed that Stammel’s neck was redder than usual. He said nothing. She wondered if the captain had heard. They marched on, up a rise in a gentle S-curve. The road ran between low walls and hedges, with farmland on either side. Under the drizzle the plowed fields looked soft and black. Most of the cattle were dun, with white markings on their faces. Cottages near the road were stone
below and white-washed wood above; the roofs were slate cut thinner than Paks had seen before. Each cottage had a block of fruit trees behind it.
The next two days taught Paks more than she wanted to learn about bad weather marching. First the hard-frozen road went from greasy to soft mud under the drizzle. As the afternoon and rain went on, the mud deepened, until they were all ankle-deep in thin slop. Paks felt the wet creep into her boots: first the toes, then the sides of her feet, and finally the whole foot, squelch, squelch, squelch with every step. Her socks pulled the dampness up her legs. Drizzle soaked her tunic at the shoulders, until little trickles of rain began to run down her back and sides. She worried about her sword in its scabbard. That was better than thinking about her cold feet. When the road lifted over low hills, the road firmed, but in the hollows mud was deep enough to slow them. Paks, in the front rank, could see how it had been churned already by heavy caravan wagons.
As the light faded, Paks began to wonder where they would spend the night. Usually by this time they had already camped. She glanced around. Thick leafless woods on either side of the road, as they toiled up yet another rise. Mud dragged at her feet. Several had stumbled in holes hidden by the mud; some had fallen. At the top, the road followed the ridge, swerving east. The drizzle thickened to a steady light rain, blown by a northeast wind. As it got darker, it was harder to see the road surface. Paks lurched as she missed her footing in the ruts and holes. The road swung right; she felt the change in grade as it dipped. Paks heard the captain coming up, the sucking of his horse’s hooves in the mud. He rode past her, his horse mud to the knees, and called to Stammel.
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