The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Yes, my lord; most of them I’ve seen, and all the wounded. I appreciate the chance to meet with them.”

  “I,” said the Duke brusquely, “don’t try to influence my troops.”

  “No? I’d have thought you influenced them daily with your example of courage and fairness.”

  “Don’t flatter me, High Marshal, if you want something.”

  “I’m not flattering. You command a fine, well-disciplined body of troops; everyone knows it. You don’t get that without the other. Look at Siniava’s, for example—or Sofi Ganarrion’s, though the cause is different.” The High Marshal shifted his weight and set his hands on his knees. “My lord, it’s late, and you have much to do. I will not trespass further on your time. But if you would allow me to speak to Paksenarrion again, when her memory has returned, I would like it.”

  The Duke gave him a long look. “It’s not my decision to prevent you—but we march in the morning.”

  “Can she?”

  “I leave no wounded behind for that scum or his agents to capture, High Marshal. Those who can’t march will ride in the wagons. If you’re going our way, you can talk to her again.”

  “Do you expect to have need of clerical aid, where you’re going?”

  The Duke laughed. “Delicately phrased, High Marshal. I appreciate your delicacy. No, I think not. This city, and perhaps others on the coast, were the strongholds of those deities who cannot be fought by sword alone. I expect hard battles, but straightforward ones. Your aid in healing would be welcome, but, after all, there are other sources of healing.”

  “I would like to be there when you take Siniava,” mused the Marshal. “But my own command lies elsewhere. We might meet again this season, should our ways to the same end cross. I must go to Vonja, among others.”

  The Duke’s eyes twinkled. “We might be near Vonja ourselves, though I cannot say how soon. If you would ride with us, you may.”

  “It’s a thought—”

  “But if you start with us, High Marshal, you must stay. Whatever I think of your fellowship as a whole, I trust its clerics’ discretion. But Siniava has agents all over the south, and torture—as you saw, in there—is one of his pastimes. I will not risk my Company.”

  “No, I understand. If I decide to go with you, I will tell you in the morning, early.” The High Marshal stood. “I thank you, my lord, for your courtesy. And, if you’ll allow, I’ll pray Gird’s blessing on your ventures.”

  The Duke had also risen. “Blessings, High Marshal, we always accept, with thanks.” The High Marshal bowed slightly and withdrew. The Duke stood, looking after him with a faint frown, before turning back to his captains.

  “Well. What do you think of that?” He looked around at them.

  Arcolin snorted. “Anyone stupid enough to even consider that Paks could be evil, after what she’s done—” He didn’t finish.

  “I wonder—” began Dorrin. “I don’t know if I mentioned it, my lord, but there was an incident in Rotengre last fall—”

  The Duke threw himself into his seat again. “No. I don’t recall. About Paks?”

  “Yes, my lord. Remember that we found a priest of Achrya?”

  “Oh—yes, I do. Was she involved in that?”

  Dorrin nodded. “I wondered at the time if Canna’s medallion had saved her. She came near being hit by a crossbow, and then the priest cut her with a poisoned dagger. Luckily I was nearby . . .”

  “But you’re wondering if it was all luck,” suggested Arcolin.

  “Yes. Perhaps I look at it differently, as a Falkian.” Dorrin gave each of them a long look. “But I must agree with the High Marshal that far: something has protected her, and now more than once.”

  “She takes wounds like anyone else,” said Arcolin.

  “Yes—it’s not that kind of protection, obviously. But when you think of it, as much as she’s in the front ranks, she has fewer scars than most.”

  “And she’s a better fighter.” The Duke shifted in his seat. “So, then—you think something protects her, at least from some kinds of injury. Do you see her leaving the Company?”

  Dorrin frowned, and paused before answering. “My lord, I don’t know. Once, I would have said no. But the Company has changed. If she’s being guided by—by something, perhaps she will need to leave.”

  “She could grow in the Company,” offered the Duke. “She needn’t stay in the ranks, if it comes to that. Sergeant—even captain someday.” They all thought that over. “I know it’s unusual,” the Duke went on. “But so is she—and if she’s got the potential you and the High Marshal think she has, I would be open to the suggestion later.”

  Dorrin smiled. “I’d rather her than Peska, to tell the truth, my lord.”

  The Duke laughed. “Dorrin, I promise you he’ll be gone after this campaign. And you must admit he’s a good field commander.”

  Dorrin grimaced. “In a way. If you like that sort.”

  “I agree,” said Arcolin, with a sideways look at Dorrin. “He’s not what we want to keep in the Company, my lord. But about Paks—I’d thought she would make a good sergeant, when she’s had more experience. I hadn’t thought of more.”

  “We don’t have to,” said the Duke, “until later. And I can’t see encouraging her to leave the Company any time soon. She hasn’t the experience yet to be a free-lance. But I’ll do this, Dorrin—with Arcolin’s agreement—I’ll see the armsmasters encourage her to pick up solo skills. And if anything else happens with her and that blasted medallion, be sure to let me know. All right?” Dorrin nodded, and Arcolin, and they returned to the maps.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  For some days of the journey away from Sibili, Paks rode in the wagons, unable to stand without help. Between the pain in her head, the rain, and the swaying and lurching of the wagons, she was miserable enough not to regret having missed the sack of Sibili. From Volya, who came every evening to check on her, she learned some of what she’d forgotten: which night they’d assaulted the wall, which day the paladin had repelled a black cloud near them, which day the citadel had been taken. Volya’s tale was incredible—it didn’t seem possible that she could have forgotten such fighting, just from a knock on the head. She worried at her mind, trying to force the memories to return, but nothing worked. She had fought beside a paladin—he had come later and tried to heal her—and she could not remember.

  Volya’s reports of the city’s sack were almost as strange, but not as disturbing; it bothered Paks less to have missed something completely than to have been there and forgotten. Volya told of rich treasure in the palace:

  “Gold,” she said. “I never imagined so much. Even a gold mirror. And most of the rooms had pictures on the floor, made of little bits of rock laid in patterns: all colors. And in one room, the walls and floor were all white stone, carved in patterns of vines and leaves. When the light came in the window, it glowed. We just stood and stared; it was wonderful. But underneath—” Volya paused, and went on to describe the horrors that Sibili had concealed. Both Siniava’s palace and the temple of Liart overlay dungeons and torture chambers. They had found victims still alive, but hopelessly crippled, and on the high altar in Liart’s temple a child’s body, still warm. Paks thought at once of the girl in Cha who had feared for her little brother—was that what she’d expected?

  “How many days did I miss?” Paks finally asked, when Volya had run down.

  “You were out for more than a day—but from what you say, you don’t remember much from the day or so before that.”

  “Huh. Not doing the Company much good.”

  “No, the fighting was almost over when you went down. Oh, and Paks—you should have seen the servants in the palace—”

  “Why?”

  “They all had marks on their faces—tattoos,” Stammel said. “Seems Siniava marks all his own household—his personal bodyguard, too: blue or black tattoos all over the face. It should make them easy to recognize.”

  Paks nodded. �
�It should indeed. Makes it hard for them to run away, too.”

  Volya grinned. “I hadn’t thought of that.” After she left Paks realized that she’d have to quit thinking of Volya as a recruit: she and the others had come a long way since the winter. Already they had more combat experience than Paks had had in her entire first year.

  By the time they passed Cha again, retracing their earlier route, Paks was walking part of the day, and had started exercising her burned hand, under the surgeons’ directions. She knew that the Halverics and Clarts were traveling with them, that Golden Company had taken a contract with Andressat to govern and control Sibili and Cha; the Count of Andressat had laid claim to the South Marches and those cities.

  “That’s why he was so angry with the Westland and Pliuni troops for destroying the orchards and vineyards.” Jenits, eating lunch with Paks and Volya, took a pull at his flask. “They made a mess—hacking down trees for cooking fires—”

  “They cut down orchards?” Paks was shocked. Jenits and Volya nodded. “But we don’t do things like that. What about the crops?”

  “Those troops from Pliuni,” said Jenits, “want to destroy everything the Honeycat ever owned. We’ve got some of ‘em marching with us now.” He made a sour face. “Huh—it’s all the Duke and the Halveric can do to keep them from torching everything we pass.”

  “Then why are they with us?”

  “Well—they can fight. They want to fight Siniava. That’s it, I suppose. We’ve had losses—if they’ll fight, that’s what the Duke wants. But they’re not much like us, I can tell you that.”

  “Are they spread through the Company, or what?” Paks glanced around, trying to distinguish them.

  “No. They’re in their own formation, under their own captain.” Jenits craned his neck to look. “You can’t see them from here; they wear green and purple.”

  After marching east from Cha, along the river, they took the same shortcut across the loop, this time moving northeast. But when they rejoined the river, they forded it instead of turning toward Cortes Andres. Atop the rising ground to the east was a thick forest. Paks had heard of this—the haunt of Alured the Black, the sea pirate turned brigand.

  As they neared the trees she felt grumpy and nervous at once. She was still unarmed, for the skin of her hand was not tough enough to hold a weapon, the surgeons insisted. She hated marching in back with the other wounded. Once in that cool shade, undergrowth screened the view to either side; the sunlight almost seemed green. Paks had relaxed a little when the horn call for danger rang out ahead. She felt her heart thudding; her hand dropped automatically to the sword that wasn’t there. Halveric fighters moved up from the rear to screen the wounded. Once they were in place, it was quiet but for the rustling leaves overhead. Paks looked at the broad back of the Halveric nearest her. He looked strong, but she still wanted her own sword.

  Her first sight of Alured the Black came as the Duke and the other captains escorted him along the column, introducing him to the troops. He looked nothing like the pirate or brigand she had pictured in her mind. He had long black hair in a braid, and a black beard; his face was darkly tanned. Strong bones, strong arched eyebrows, snapping black eyes. He sat his black horse easily, his broad shoulders square and erect, his hands quiet on the reins. As he and the others rode on down the column, she saw that his glossy black braid was bound with green leather and decorated with several bright-colored feathers. Paks thought this looked a little silly, but his longbow and sword were workmanlike enough.

  They spent almost four days crossing the forest, camping each night in clearings Alured designated, and closely watched by his men. These wore mottled, drab clothing well-suited for forest work, with a badge on the left breast: a gray tower on a green field. Paks wondered what it meant. Alured’s men provided fresh meat each night: rabbits and other small game, for they would not hunt the red deer in spring.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, they reached the forest edge. On their left, the land dropped steeply to a river they could see but not hear—the eastern branch of the Chaloquay. Ahead were the pastures and fields of Cilwan—three days ahead was Cortes Cilwan, the city. Scattered groves and patches of forest extended some distance from Alured’s domain; they marched to one of these before camping for the night. Paks thought of the band of men she had seen watching the column as it left the forest. She wished she knew what they were thinking.

  By this time Jenits’s arm was out of splints; he carried a shield as he marched to strengthen it. Paks had been cleared to return to her cohort. The lump on her head was much smaller, and her hand healed with little scarring. She had to rub and stretch the scars with oil every day, and wear a glove all the time, but she had a sword at her side again.

  Cilwan was much lusher country than Andressat or the South Marches. Never a stone showed in the dark soil; flowers edged the garden plots on the farms they passed. Most buildings were well-kept, shutters and doors brightly painted. But the people shunned them, hiding in the fields until the column had passed.

  Near noon a day or so later, they passed through a small village. Paks was shocked to see the Pliuni troops in front of her slip from the column to enter houses, emerging with arms full of food and clothing. Hooves pounded up from behind. Arcolin yelled at the Pliunis. They shambled to a halt. Paks could see the resentment in their hunched shoulders as Arcolin argued with their captain. A loose shutter creaked in the breeze.

  “No raiding!” Arcolin was still shouting. “These aren’t enemies—we aren’t robbers; we’re soldiers. You have enough food. You don’t need to do this.”

  The Pliuni captain had pale red hair; his skin flushed to the same color. “This is silly. Siniava robbed us often enough—these are only peasants—”

  “They aren’t even Siniava’s peasants! No. No raiding. You wanted to come with the Duke, and you agreed to obey him—”

  “The Duke, yes,” growled the Pliuni captain. “Not a bunch of damned nursemaids!” Paks heard a mutter of agreement from the Pliuni troops near her. Her hand slipped toward her sword; she saw Arcolin’s hand move toward his. The Pliunis seemed to draw together. Paks looked for the sergeants. They both nodded slightly as they moved, one on either side of the column, to the head of the cohort. From the rear came another clatter of hooves. Pont and Dorrin rode up beside Arcolin.

  “Problems?” asked Dorrin.

  “They were raiding,” said Arcolin, with a nod toward the Pliunis.

  The Pliuni captain’s face was now beet-red. “And we will raid, Duke’s man, when I say so. Your Duke isn’t paying us anything for our help, after all.” Again a mutter of agreement from the Pliuni troops. Dorrin frowned.

  “If you march with us, you follow our rules,” said Arcolin.

  “Not yours,” sneered the Pliuni. “Your Duke’s maybe—if it suits us.”

  Arcolin was white with rage. Dorrin spoke before he could say anything. “Are you not aware of the Duke’s policy on raiding?”

  The captain glowered at her. “Oh, he says there’s to be none—and that keeps the peasants quiet—but of course he knows we must do some.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to hear the Duke’s opinion in person?” Arcolin’s voice was cold.

  “Perhaps I’d like you to mind your own business!” The Pliuni captain glanced back at his men. “You think you’re so special, Captain—just because you mercenaries fight for money instead of honor—” At the word, Arcolin’s hand signal passed to the sergeants. Every blade in the cohort slipped from its sheath. Paks saw the Pliuni captain’s eyes slide sideways to see what had happened. Arcolin’s eyes never moved.

  “Captain Pont, ask the Duke to attend us, please,” said Arcolin. Pont nodded, and legged his horse to a hard gallop toward the front of the column. Paks grinned as she saw the Pliuni captain’s shoulders twitch. Men in the rear Pliuni ranks glanced back at Arcolin’s cohort, paling as they saw the naked blades. Their own hands twitched; those who had taken bundles from the houses dropped them.
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  “You can’t attack us,” began the Pliuni captain. “We’re your allies. You shouldn’t draw sword against us—”

  “Against you?” asked Dorrin. “The captain has not moved his troops an inch—are you afraid to see swords inspected?”

  “Inspected! It’s not—he was—”

  “You,” said Arcolin firmly, “were insulting us. I saw a dozen hands on sword among your troops. So I thought we’d best be sure ours were clean—ready for any—difficulty.” He looked at Stammel. “They are, aren’t they?”

  Stammel grinned broadly. “Certainly, Captain. Any time.”

  The Pliuni captain turned even paler. “It’s—it’s treason—a trap—you’re looking for some excuse to kill us all.” His men shifted in their ranks, murmuring.

  “Tir’s gut, Captain, if we’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now. Don’t be ridiculous.” Dorrin’s scornful voice caught all their attention. “We—and you, I hope—want to kill the Honeycat. That’s why we’re here. That’s why you asked to march with us. Isn’t that right—that you hate Siniava?”

  “Yes.” Most of the Pliuni troops were looking at her now.

  “Then concentrate on that, and not on making trouble. Plunder Siniava’s camp, not some poor peasants who hardly have a spare tunic.”

  The Pliuni captain was still disgruntled, and looked ready to argue, but they heard the beat of many galloping hooves. Duke Phelan, Aliam Halveric, Captain Pont, and the senior Halveric captain halted beside Arcolin and Dorrin.

  “Do I understand, Captain, that you have a problem?” Duke Phelan was angry, his voice icy. The Pliuni captain looked around but found no support.

  “My lord Duke, we—we were but—”

  “Plundering,” said the Duke. “Stealing. And from peasants we hope are still loyal to their count, who is our ally.”

  “No one’s paying us,” said the Pliuni, unwisely. “We have to have something—”

  “No one’s paying me, either,” said the Duke. “I have no contract to defeat Siniava, only the vow I made to our dead. If you want plunder, Captain, you can wait until you take it from Siniava—or you can march alone. I won’t have thieves under my protection.” The captain flushed again, but the Duke went on before he could speak. “Either you control your men, and obey my commands as given through my captains, or you march away, right now, and stay clear. And if you leave, you’d best not use my name, or that of my allies: we’ll consider you as any other band of brigands. Is that clear?”