The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Paks gazed across the room at the fat man’s pink face, now a shade paler than it had been. He looked from Stammel to her and made a face, lifting his brows.

  “Well, pardon me for plain speaking to an old comrade.” Stammel snorted. “What a fierce look she has, too. I had no wish, wolf-maiden, to anger you and risk a blow from that strong arm your sergeant boasts of.” He rose from his table and made an elaborate bow. “There—will that content you, or must I attempt some other satisfaction?”

  Paks looked down at the table, scarred by many diners. She would gladly have leaped on the man, and killed him then and there. Saben, sitting on her other side, nudged her with his knee.

  “We would be content,” said Stammel mildly, “to take our ale in peace—and silence.”

  “You can’t order me off!” cried the fat man. Paks suddenly realized that he was both drunk and frightened. “You don’t have any right to order me around now, Sergeant—I’ve got soldiers of my own!”

  “Tsst! Lochlinn!” said one of his companions. “Let it be, man. Don’t start—”

  Paks jumped as a tall pitcher and several mugs were dumped in front of her. Two serving wenches, as well as Bolner, were at the table, distributing the ale. Stammel turned away from the fat man to grin at Bolner. “What’s the menu today, eh?”

  “The usual. Common lunch is slices off the joint, bread, redroots, cheese—we’ve the kind you like from Sterry, no extra charge to this party. Or special—roast fowl, and we’ve three in the oven. Pastries. Cella’s tarts, plum, peach, and strawberry, but not enough of the last for everyone. Fish—but I don’t recommend it; it’s river trash this time of year. Leg of mutton—it won’t be done for several hours. Soup—there’s always soup; comes with the common lunch or the special, or a mug of soup with bread is five pages.”

  “How much for the common lunch?”

  “For this group—if you all take it—well, I’ll take off a bit. Say a niti each, ale included.”

  Stammel looked around at them. “It’s good food here. What about it?”

  They nodded, and Stammel gave a thumb’s up sign to the host, who left the table, calling orders to the kitchen. Paks looked for the fat man, but he had gone, and his friends with him.

  “Who was that?” she asked Stammel.

  “Who? Oh, him—the fat one?” She nodded. “His name’s Lochlinn. Used to be one of ours, years back; he left the Company. Now he’s in some local baron’s guard. And bed, they say, when the baron’s traveling.”

  “I’d like to—” began Paks, but Stammel interrupted.

  “No, you wouldn’t.” She looked at him, surprised. “Don’t get into fights. Remember that. The rule is the same as inside the Company—there’s no good reason short of being assaulted. You get us a reputation for brawling, and we’ll all lose by it.”

  “But what he said about Paks!” Saben scowled. “Why should we let him get away with that?”

  “Because we want to come here and eat—or shop in the market—and not be prey to every cutpurse and ruffian, and have the citizens cheering them on when you and you and you—” he pointed around the table, “—are bleeding in the street. Or being hauled off to the lockup by militia. We don’t want trouble. We aren’t paid to fight over nothing. Tir’s bones—we know any one of us could split that fat leech—what difference does it make what he says?”

  Paks reached for the pitcher and poured several mugs full. She pushed one toward Stammel and took one herself. She sniffed at it; it smelled much like the ale sold at market in Three Firs.

  “Paks, have you had ale before?”

  She blushed. “No, sir, not really. Just a few swallows.” She took a cautious sip.

  “Don’t drink much, then. It makes some people quick tempered; you don’t need that. Vik, I don’t have to ask you.” Vik had drained his mug at one swallow.

  “No, sir—and how I’ve missed good ale these long months.”

  Stammel grinned. “You can spend your pay quickly on ale, if that’s your choice. Just keep in mind—”

  “Oh, aye—no fighting, no talking—but what about wenching and dicing?”

  “Well, if you must, you must. I’d recommend Silverthorn Inn for the one, and here for the other. Whatever you do, stay away from River Lane, across the market, and don’t go to Aula’s. They’ll recommend it at Silverthorn, but don’t. All the dice are magicked, and the dwarf will slit your gizzard in a second if you show you notice.”

  “Yes, sir—perhaps I’ll wait for another day.”

  Arñe laughed. “Adding up the cost, Vik? Homebrew’s the cheapest, they say.”

  “It’s not so much my silver I care for as my fair white skin—you know how I dread being ill-marked.” The rest laughed. Between sunburn, freckles, and healing battle scars, not much fair white skin was displayed.

  “That’s all right, Vik,” called Coben from down the table. “You can teach me that dicing game—what is it?”

  “Don’t play the innocent, Cob,” said the redhead. “I heard about you with that girl from Dorrin’s cohort—was it five silvers, or six, you won from her while she taught you dicing?”

  “More than that, my lad, more than that,” said Coben, and drained his mug. “I’m a slow learner, I am. Especially when I’m winning.”

  “Here you are,” said Bolner from behind them. He and each of the serving girls carried a platter of sliced roast meat to set out on the table. By the time they had finished stuffing themselves with meat, rounds of dark yellow cheese, redroots, bread and soup, the rest of the room was empty.

  “Now,” said Stammel. “A last reminder. Don’t wander about alone—stay in pairs, at least. Keep alert; Foss has as many thieves and cutpurses as any city. The slavers won’t bother you if you stay together. Don’t brawl. Keep your mouths shut about the Company and its business, but be polite otherwise. If one of you gets drunk, the others bring ‘em home. You’re all to be back before supper, so the others can go. Clear?” They all nodded.

  In the main market square, they scattered into clumps of three or four. Arñe and Coben stayed with Paks and Saben, poking into every stall and shop along one side of the square. One sold lace, its white tracery displayed against dark velvet. Another sold strips of silk, patterned with exquisite embroidery. Paks found a spicebread stall, and managed to stuff down a square of it despite the lunch she’d eaten. They found a shoemaker’s shop, displaying pointed-toed shoes in scarlet and green and yellow, and a bootmaker’s with riding boots, laced boots, and one pair made of three different leathers. Paks stared, and the man came to the door.

  “You like those, fair warrior? ‘Tis mulloch’s hide, and goatskin, and the skin of a great snake from across the sea, south of Aare—only a nas, for you.”

  “No, thank you,” said Paks, stunned more by the price than the boots. He smiled and turned away.

  Coben stopped to look at a jeweler’s display; the jeweler’s guards dropped their hands to the hilts of their weapons. Paks looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. A tray of rings, gold, silver, some with bright stones set to them. Most were finger rings, but some were clearly earrings. Another tray held bracelets, and a single necklace of blue stones and pearls set in silver.

  “Look at that,” breathed Coben, pointing to one of the rings. “It’s like a braided rope.” Paks saw another that looked like tiny leaves linked together. She wondered what else was in the shop—far too expensive, whatever it was.

  One shop displayed clothing; they could see the tailors inside, sitting cross-legged on their platform. Bolts of cloth were piled up behind them. Another shop was hung with musical instruments: two lap-harps, a lute, something twice the size of a lute with more strings, and many more that none of them recognized. In a litter of woodshavings the maker was working on a part, and smiled at them as they peeked in the door. He reached a hand to pluck one of the harps and show its tone. Paks was entranced. She had heard a harp only twice, when musicians came to the fair.

  “Can—can you play, as w
ell as make, them?”

  His bushy eyebrows rose. “Of course, girl—how else would I know if I’d made them well? Listen—” He unfolded himself from the workbench, lifted the harp, and ran his hands along the strings. Paks had never heard that music before, but shivers ran up her spine.

  “Do you know ‘Torre’s Ride’?” asked Arñe, nudging Paks forward.

  “Certainly—three versions. Where are you from?”

  “From the north—from Tsaia.”

  “Hmm.” He paused to adjust a tuning peg. Then the thrilling sound rang out, one of the few songs Paks had learned before leaving home. She found herself humming along; Arñe was murmuring the words, as was Coben. The instrument maker finished a verse with a flourish. “There you are. But are any of you players?”

  Paks could have listened all afternoon. She shook her head, and Arñe said “No, sir,” and he went back to his bench, shaping a little piece of wood with a small chisel. Paks wondered which instrument it was for, and where it would fit, but was too shy to ask. They left that shop and moved on.

  She found the surprise for Saben several shops down. Here were trays of religious symbols, carved of the appropriate stone or metal. Most she did not know. The crescent and cudgel of Gird were familiar, and the Holy Circle, and the wheatsheaf of the Lady of Peace. The sword of Tir was there, both plain and cleverly set with a tiny jewel in the pommel. But whose was the leaping fish, or the tree, or the arch of tiny stars? She looked at tiny golden apples, at green leaves, at anvils, hammers, spears, fox or wolf heads, little human figures clothed in flowers (swirling hair made the loop for hanging). Here was the antlered figure of Guthlac, and the double-faced head of Simyits, a harp for Garin, the patron of harpers, and shears for Dort, the patron of sheepshearers and all in the wool trade. Then she saw the little red stone horse, and remembered Saben’s words that day in the stronghold. She looked up and found the shopkeeper watching her. She glanced around; Saben was in the next shop, pricing combs for his sisters.

  “How much?” she asked. And, “Will it break easily?”

  He shook his head. “Not these symbols, lady. And they have all been blessed, by the cleric for each one. They’ll bring luck and blessings to those who wear them.” Paks doubted this, but didn’t argue.

  “How much?” she asked again.

  “The little horse? The symbol of Senneth, the horse-lord, and Arvoni the patron of horsemen?” Paks nodded. “Five nitis.” She was startled and her face must have shown it. He said smoothly, “But for you, lady—you will need luck—for you, I will say four nitis, and two serfs.” Paks had never bargained herself, though she had heard her mother and father.

  “I cannot spare so much,” she said, and looked away, shifting her feet. She sighed. She wanted that horse for Saben, but four nitis—that was four meals like lunch. And she wanted other things, too.

  “Three nitis, two nis,” he said. “I can’t do more than that—” Abruptly Paks decided to buy it. She fumbled in her pouch for the silver.

  When she came out, with the horse safely stowed in her pouch, Saben was still looking at combs; Arñe and Coben were rummaging through a pile of copper pots on the pavement. She ducked into the shop with Saben.

  “I can’t decide,” he said, turning to her. “Suli likes flowers, so that’s easy—this one—” The comb had a wreath of flowers along the spine. “But for Rahel and Maia, do you think the birds, or the fish, or the fern?” Paks thought the fern was the prettiest, and liked the leaping fish better than an angry-looking bird. He paid for the combs and they walked out. They saw fruit stalls beyond the piles of pots. Early berries, early peaches—they squandered coppers on the fruit, and walked on with sticky fingers. Coben cocked an eye at the sky.

  “We’d better be going,” he reminded them. They turned back across the square. Paks went to the spicebread stall again, and bought a stack it took both hands to carry. They munched spicebread most of the way back to camp.

  As they were going to their posts for duty, Paks gave Saben the little horse. “I remembered you lost your bit of hoof,” she said. “I couldn’t find a hoof, but maybe the whole horse will do.”

  He flushed. “It’s—it will do well, Paks. Thank you. Was it from the shop next to the comb place?”

  “Yes.”

  “I looked at it, but didn’t buy it—you shouldn’t have spent so much—”

  “Well—” This time Paks blushed. “I didn’t—I mean I—umm—”

  Saben laughed. “You, too? I bargained myself, but I couldn’t get him to go lower than three nitis.”

  “Three!” Paks gasped and began to laugh helplessly.

  “What? What did you get it for?” She shook her head, laughing even harder. A veteran walking by stared at her. Finally she stopped, sides aching. Saben was still watching her, puzzled.

  “You should have—” she began, and started laughing again. “Oh, I can’t! It hurts—you should have got it yourself—you’re the better bargainer—”

  “You mean you paid more than that?”

  “Not much,” she said, still laughing. “As—as a fighter I may be good, but at market—”

  “Well, the man tried to tell me it was bad luck to bargain over a holy symbol, so maybe it will be better luck this way.” Saben grinned. “Tell you what, Paks—the next time you want something, I’ll bargain for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “And by the way,” he went on, taking a comb from his pouch. “This one’s really for you—the ferny one.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Two months later, as Paks leaned against the wall of the courtyard in a border fort south of Kodaly, she felt well content with her position.

  “I agree,” said Saben, who was mending a tear in his cloak while she sharpened her weapons, “that it’s easier than farming. I’ve no desire to go back to mucking out barns. But don’t forget your first battle just because it’s gone so well since.”

  “I know. That could have ended it—like Effa. But that’s the chance we take, as fighters. I wish we could see other good companies too. See how they do things, how they fight. We never can see anything but what’s in front of us. It’s hard to keep the idea of what we’re doing—I mean as a whole—in all that confusion.”

  Saben shrugged. “I just go for what’s in front of me. It makes sense when Stammel shows us with sticks and things, but I can’t see it with real people. You can’t tell what they’ll do. All we can do is follow commands.”

  “But those who give the commands have to know what they’re doing,” said Paks.

  “We’re a long way from that,” said Saben dryly. “Or are you planning to leave and start your own company?”

  Paks stopped a moment, and squinted up at the sky. “No. Or—I don’t know. I can’t say. No, I suppose not—it’s a silly thought. I just—just keep thinking about it. I can’t stop. Why the captains put us there, or why their commander never used his archers on the flank, like the Duke did. That was stupid, Saben, that last time. They had the archers, but they held them back where they couldn’t see. If they’d been in that wood on the right—”

  “I’m glad their commander didn’t think of it.” Saben looked at his mending and tugged the cloth to test it. “Ah. One more chore done. Are you nearly finished?”

  “Sword’s done. I notched the dagger yesterday.”

  “I told you you’d honed it too fine. We’re on in less than a glass.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I just want to smooth this—one—spot. No, I’ll tell you, Saben, what I’d like. I’d like to make sergeant someday. Years away, I know, and only six in the Company, but—I’d like that.”

  “Well, if you don’t lose an arm or leg somewhere, or get killed outright, you ought to do it. You don’t get drunk, or lose things, or brawl, or cause any sort of trouble. And you fight well. Now me—”

  “Saben, you’re as good as I am. Better, even—”

  He shook his head. “No, and you know it. I wasn’t practicing all morni
ng. I do what I’m told, but I don’t care enough to learn every weapon in sight and practice every spare minute. You do.”

  “You don’t need much practice; you’re already quicker.” Paks took a last stroke with her whetstone, wiped the dagger blade carefully with a scrap of soft hareskin, and sheathed it.

  “Maybe. I used to be faster than you—but you’ve gotten better. The thing is, I’ve got what I want. A life I like, good friends, enough pay for the extras I want. The only other thing would be—” he slid a glance at Paks. When she met his eyes, she reddened and looked down.

  “Saben, you know I—”

  “You don’t want it. I know. Not from me or anyone. Well, I’m not asking: just if you did ever change. If it was just Korryn, I mean.”

  Paks ducked her head lower and stared at the ground. “No. Even before. I just don’t feel that way.”

  He sighed. “I’m glad it wasn’t Korryn. Don’t worry; I won’t bother you.”

  She looked up. “You never have.”

  “Good. I still want to be friends. Besides that, you are—Paks if you ever did have a company, you would be a good commander. I would follow you. I don’t think you’ll stop at sergeant, if you want more.”

  Paks blushed, then grinned sheepishly. “Even a warhorse?”

  Saben nodded. “Lady Paksenarrion, in shining armor on a great war-horse, with a magic sword—don’t laugh at me, companion! Here I’m giving you a good-luck prophecy and you laugh at me. Ha! See if I ever warn you about overhoning your blades again.”

  “No, but really, Saben—a sheepfarmer’s daughter? That’s ridiculous!” But her eyes danced to think of it.

  “So laugh. Would you rather a bad-luck prophecy? Let’s see—”

  “No! Don’t ill-wish! Let’s go; I’ve got to get ready for guard.”

  The fort’s wall, high above the village, was quiet in the late afternoon. Paks and Saben reported to the sergeant, an Ifoss militiaman, and took their station. West of the fort lay the hay meadows, striped with light and dark green as the second cutting dried in swathes. They walked back and forth, watching the road and tracks that converged on the fort, and looking along the rooftops and lanes below. The sun dropped, touching the woodland beyond the hay meadows.