Paks lowered her wooden blade, gasping for breath.
“You’re strong enough,” Siger said. “But strong’s not the whole game. You’ve got to be quick, and you’ve got to think as fast as you move. Now let’s break the thrust stroke down into its parts again.” He demonstrated, then had Paks go through the motions several times. “Let’s try that again. Don’t stand flat-footed: you need to move.”
This time practice seemed to go more smoothly, and at last Paks’s blade slipped past his to touch his side. “Ah-h,” he said. “That’s it.” Twice more that afternoon she got a touch on him, and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles. “But you still must be quicker!” was his parting comment.
Chapter Three
It seemed to Paksenarrion that events had moved with blinding speed. Only that afternoon she had been a file leader, and Siger had praised her. Now she was shivering on the stone sleeping bench of an underground cell, out of sight and sound of everyone, cold, hungry, frightened, and in more trouble that she’d dreamed possible. Even with cold stone under her, and the painful drag of chains on her wrists and ankles, she could hardly believe it had really happened. How could she be in such trouble for something someone else had done? Her head throbbed, and her ears still rang from the fight. Every separate muscle and bone had a distinctive and private pain to add.
It was so quiet that she could clearly hear the blood rushing through her head, and the clink of the chains when she shifted on the bench rang loudly. And the dark! She’d never been afraid of the dark, but this was a different dark: a shut-in, thick, breathless dark. How would she know when dawn came? Her breath quickened, rasping in the silence, as she tried to fight down panic. Surely they wouldn’t leave her down here to die? She clamped her teeth against a cry that fought its way up from her chest. It came out as a soft groan. She could not—could not—stand this place any longer. Another wave of nausea overcame her, and she felt hastily for the bucket between her feet. She had nothing left to heave into it, but felt better knowing it was there. When the spasm passed, she wiped her mouth on her tattered sleeve.
Her breathing had just begun to ease again, when she thought she heard a sound. She froze. What now? The sound grew louder, but still so muffled by stone walls and thick door that she could not define it. Rhythmic—was it steps? Was the long night already over? She saw a gleam of light above the heavy door; it brightened. Something clinked against the door; it grated open, letting in a flood of yellow torchlight. Paks blinked against it, as the torchbearer set his light in a holder just inside the cell door. Then he pulled the door closed, and turned to face her, leaning on the wall under the torch. It was Stammel: but a Stammel so forbidding that Paks dared not say a word, but stared at him in silence. After a long pause, during which he looked her up and down, he sighed and shook his head.
“I thought you had more sense, Paks,” he said heavily. “Whatever he said, you shouldn’t have hit him. Surely you—”
“It wasn’t what he said, sir—it was what he did—"
“The story is that he asked you to bed him, and teased you when you wouldn’t. And then you jumped him, and—”
“No, sir! That’s not—”
“Paksenarrion, this is serious. You’ll be lucky if you aren’t turned out tinisi turin—you know what that is, sheepfarmer’s daughter—” Paks nodded, remembering the old term for a clean-shorn lamb, also used for running off undesirables shaved and naked. “Lies won’t help.”
“But, sir—”
“Let me finish. If what he says is true, the best you can hope for—the very best—is three months with the quarriers, and one more chance with a new recruit unit, since I haven’t taught you what you should know. If you say he’s lying, you’ll have to convince us that a veteran of five campaign seasons, a man with a good reputation in the Company, would be so stupid in the first place, and lie about it in the second. Why should we believe you? I’ve known you—what? Nine weeks? Ten? I’ve known him nearly six years. Now if your story is true, and if you can prove it some way, tell me. I’ll tell the captain tomorrow, and we’ll see. If not, just be quiet, and pray the captain will count your bruises into your punishment.”
“Yes, sir.” Paks glanced up at Stammel’s stern face. It was even worse than she’d thought, if Stammel thought she could be lying.
“Well? Which is it to be?”
Paks looked down at her bruised hands. “Sir, he asked me to come to the back of the room—he didn’t say why, but he was a corporal, so I went. And then he took my arm—” she faltered and her right arm quivered. “And tried to get me to bed him. And I said no, and he wouldn’t let go, but went on—” She glanced at Stammel again. His expression did not change; her eyes dropped. “He said he was sure I wasn’t a virgin, not with my looks, and that I must’ve bedded—someone—to be a file leader—”
“Say that again! He said what?”
“That I must have—earned that position—on my back, he said.”
“Did he say with whom?” asked Stammel, his voice grimmer than before.
“No, sir.”
Stammel grunted. “Go on, then.”
“I—I was angry—about that—”
“So you hit him.”
“No, sir.” Paks shook her head for emphasis, but the nausea took her again, and she heaved repeatedly into the bucket. Finally she looked up, trembling with the aftermath. “I didn’t hit him, but I did get angry because that’s not how I got it, and I started to—to say bad things—” She heaved again. “—that I learned from my cousin,” she finished.
“Drink this,” said Stammel, handing her a flask. “If you’re going to heave so much, you need something down, ban or no.”
Paks swallowed the cold water gratefully. “Then, sir, he was angry for what I said—”
“It couldn’t have been that bad—what did you say?”
“Pargsli spakin i tokko—”
“D’you know what that means, girl?”
“No—my cousin said it was bad.”
A flicker of amusement relaxed Stammel’s face for a moment. “It is. I suggest you learn what curses mean before you say them. Then what?”
“He clapped a hand over my mouth, and tried to push me down on the bunk.” She took another swallow of water.
“Yes?”
“So I bit his hand, to make him let go, and he did and I got free. But he was between me and the door, and he took off his belt—”
“Did he say anything?”
“Yes, sir. He threatened to beat me, to tame me, and then he swung the belt, and I ran at him, trying to get away. I thought I could push past him, maybe, the way I did with my father. But he grabbed my throat—” her hand rose, unconsciously, “—and hit my face, and—and I couldn’t breathe. I thought be would kill me, and I had to fight. I had to breathe—”
“Hmmph. That sounds more like the recruit I thought I had. Tell the rest of it.”
“I—it’s hard to remember. I broke the throat hold, but I couldn’t get away, he was so fast and strong. We were on the floor, mostly, and he was yelling at me—hitting—I remember feeling weaker, and then someone was holding my arms, and someone was hitting me. I suppose that was after you came, though wasn’t it?”
Stammel’s face wore a puzzled frown. “No one hit you after I got there. When I came in Korryn was hanging onto you, Stephi was lying on the floor, and Korryn said he’d just then been able to pull you off. Captain Sejek wanted to hit you, all right, but he didn’t.” Stammel sighed. “If you’re telling the truth, girl, I can see why you fought. But Korryn was there, or says he was, and his story is against yours, as well as Stephi.”
“He was there, at the beginning, but he just laughed. I—I am telling the truth, sir, really I am.” Paks swallowed noisily. “But I can see why you wouldn’t believe me, if you’ve known him—Stephi?—so long. Only, that’s what really happened, sir, no matter what Korryn says.”
“If it were only your word against Korryn’s—” Stammel p
aused and stretched, then shifted his weight to the other leg. “Paks have you bedded anyone here?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve been asked, surely?”
“Yes, sir, but I haven’t. I don’t want to. And I asked Maia—”
“Maia?”
“The quartermaster’s assistant. I asked her if I had to, and she said no, but not to make a fuss about being asked, like I might at home.”
“Has Korryn bothered you about it?”
Paks began to tremble, remembering Korryn’s constant teasing, taunting attempts to force her into bed with him. “He’s asked me,” she whispered.
“Paks, look at me.” She looked up. “Has he done more than ask?”
“He—he has sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you say something to me or Bosk?”
Paks shook her head. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to—to make a fuss. I thought I was supposed to take care of it—”
“You aren’t supposed to act like a new wench in an alehouse, no. But no fighter should have to put up with that sort of thing from a companion. When you refuse, they’re supposed to drop it; there’s plenty enough that are willing. I wish I’d known; we’d have put a stop to that.” He paused briefly. “Are you a sisli?”
“I—I don’t know what that is. He—the corporal—asked me that too.”
“Like Barranyi and Natzlin in Kefer’s unit. A woman who beds women. Are you?”
“No, sir. Not that I know of. Does it matter?”
“Not really.” Stammel shifted his weight again and sighed. “Paks, I want to believe you. You’ve been a good recruit so far. But I just don’t know—and even if I believe you, there’s the captain. Sejek is—umph. You’re in more trouble than most people find in a whole enlistment.”
Paks felt tears sting her eyes. It was hopeless. If Stammel still thought she could be lying, no one else would believe her. She thought briefly of Saben, who had left before the fight broke out—why hadn’t he stayed? Her belly turned again, and she heaved the water she’d drunk into the bucket. She hurt all over, and tomorrow could only be worse. A sob shook her body, then another one. She tried to choke them back.
“Wishing you were back on the farm, Paks?” Stammel’s voice was almost gentle.
Her head came up in surprise. “No, sir. I just wish—I wish it hadn’t happened, or that you’d been there to see it all.”
“Still want to be a soldier, even after this?”
“Of course! It’s what I’ve always wanted, but—but if everyone thinks I’m lying—I’ll never have the chance.” She retched again.
“Paks, is all this heaving from being in trouble, or what?”
“I—I think it’s from being hit, here—” She gestured at her midriff. “It hurts there.”
“I thought you just had a black eye and a bloody nose—let’s see, can you sit up straighter?” Stammel moved away from the light to her side. “No, keep looking toward the light. Hmm—that whole side of your face is swollen. I can’t even see your eyelashes. Your nose is broken, certainly.” He touched the swelling very gently. Paks winced. “That could be from more than one blow. Do your ears ring?”
“Yes, sir—but it comes and goes.”
“What’s this gash on your shoulder? He didn’t have a blade, did he?”
“No. I think that was the belt buckle. My father’s used to do that.”
“I wish this torchlight was brighter and steadier,” grumbled Stammel. “Lift your chin. Looks like your throat is bruised, too. Does it hurt to breathe?”
“Just a little.”
“Well, where else are you hurt?”
“In—in front. It all hurts. And my legs.”
“Stand up, then. I’ll want a look at the damage.”
Paksenarrion tried to stand, but her legs had stiffened after hours of sitting on the cold stone. At first she could not move at all, but when Stammel gave her an arm to pull up on, she staggered up, still unable to straighten. She could not repress a short cry of pain.
“Here—lean against the wall if you aren’t steady.” Stammel swung her around and braced her against the wall opposite the torch. “Tir’s bones, I don’t see how you could have half-killed him in the shape you’re in.” Then he paused, glancing down at his arm and then at the stone bench. “It is blood. What did they—”
Paks felt herself slipping down the wall; she could not seem to hold herself up.
“Here, now—don’t fall,” said Stammel. The warning came too late. Paks lay curled on her side, heaving helplessly.
“I’m—I’m sorry—” she gasped finally.
“Lie still then. Let me look—” Stammel raised her tunic. Even in the flickering torchlight he could see the welts and dried blood on her thighs. Her tunic was ripped in several places. Stammel swore suddenly, words Paks had heard from her cousin. Then his voice softened. “Paks, I’m going to talk to the captain. We’ll get this straightened out somehow. You can’t be faking these injuries, and their story doesn’t hold up when you’re too weak to stand.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Now, let’s get you back on the bench. I’ll try to get the captain to let me have Maia see you, but don’t count on it.” He half-lifted her. “Come on—help me. You’re too big for me to lift alone.”
Paks struggled up and finally made it onto the bench with Stammel’s help.
“I’ll be back to check again tonight, and of course in the morning. You’ll be all right, though miserable. Try not to move around—that may help the heaves—and don’t panic. We won’t forget you.” With that Stammel took down the torch, opened the door, and left, taking the light with him. Paks lay in the darkness, not quite sure whether she felt better or worse about her prospects.
* * *
Stammel came up from the cells looking, had he known it, as angry as he felt. Bosk waited near the head of the stairs. When he caught sight of Stammel’s face, his own seemed to freeze for an instant. Stammel, his mind whirling with what he must do, and quickly, before the captain went to bed, stopped at the head of the stairs and beckoned. “Corporal Bosk,” he said, and his voice surprised himself.
“Yes, sir.” Bosk was looking at something below his face—at his sleeve, Stammel realized. He felt unreasonably irritated.
“I didn’t do it, Bosk; you know better!”
“Yes, sir.” Bosk’s eyes came back to his.
“We have a problem, Bosk, and little time to solve it. I want you to isolate Korryn, at once. I want to speak to everyone who was in that room from the time Stephi came in until we got there—no matter who, or how long they stayed—everyone. Separately—I’ll use the duty room for that. And before I talk to them, I want to know what they’ve been doing, and what you and Devlin think. But quickly.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want me to move Korryn first? And where?”
“Yes. Use that storage chamber down the way, and put a guard with him. He’s not to talk to anyone. Is Dev in the duty room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll be there. You take care of Korryn and come to me when it’s done.”
“Yes, sir.” Bosk left the recruit barracks to find a guard, and Stammel walked to the duty room down the hall. Inside, Devlin was writing up the log of his watch, frowning. Stammel stepped into the room and Devlin looked up.
“Are they quiet?” asked Stammel.
“About what you’d expect. I thought we were going to have more trouble for a bit: Korryn and Saben. But I made ‘em shut up.”
Stammel realized that Devlin, too, was looking at his blood-stained sleeve. “Dev, I haven’t been beating her—someone else did that.”
“Sir. I wouldn’t have thought she’d brawl like that.”
“I don’t think she did, Dev.” Stammel paused to listen to feet in the passage behind him. Bosk must have found a guard. Devlin looked confused.
“But, sir, they both said the same thing. And Stephi was down.”
“Yes. That’ll bear thinking on.” Stammel heard vo
ices in the barracks; he and Devlin both listened. Korryn, sounding aggrieved; Bosk, sounding grim and certain. Then three sets of footsteps in the passage, going away. Stammel resumed. “Devlin, if I’d asked you this morning whose word to take on something, Korryn’s or hers, what would you have said?”
“Well—Paks’s, of course. But now—”
“No buts. If it’s just Paks against Korryn, we know Paks is more trustworthy. She’s never done one underhanded thing yet.”
“Yes, but what about Stephi? He’s not like Korryn, that I’ve heard.”
“No, that’s true, and I’ve known him as long as you have. But I’ve seen him in fights—to be as dazed as he was, with no more marks on him—that’s not like him. I wish I knew how badly he’s hurt.”
Bosk edged in the door. “Korryn’s safe, sir. And Saben wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll get to him. You need to hear this too, Bosk. Stephi’s story is that Paks jumped him when he hadn’t done more than proposition her, right? And that she halfway killed him, except that Korryn dragged her off just before we got there.”
The corporals nodded. “He said—or was it Korryn?—that he’d only hit her a couple of times since the fight started, she was so wild,” added Devlin.
“Then how is it,” asked Stammel, “that Paks is lying down there too weak to stand, covered with bruises and welts?”
“Welts?”
“Yes. Stephi’s belt, according to her, and Korryn still had his on, as I recall.” Stammel moved restlessly about the little room. “I can’t explain Stephi’s part in this, but it needs explaining. He’s not known as a liar, but—”
“Come to think of it,” Devlin interrupted, “most of that story came from Korryn, remember? Stephi hardly said a word—nodded when Korryn said ‘isn’t that right’—muttered a little, but that’s all.”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 4