The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Paks shook her head. She felt a certain distaste for his attempt at flattery. After the tailor’s wife’s comments, she had no illusions about being “an attractive young woman” by local standards.

  “Well—” he looked her up and down. “It might be that our interests would lie together. Or if not, a favor done might earn a favor later, who knows? But you know there’s a Council meeting set for tonight?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you’ve agreed to go.”

  “Yes.” She wondered how he knew that. She could not imagine Master Oakhallow telling him.

  He snorted. “Then either you’re a great deal more knowing that you act, or you know nothing at all.” He leaned closer to her. “You can’t hope to come out of that easily, you know. They’ll get you one way or the other.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He ticked off the points on his fingers. “A stranger in town, with plenty of money, and no liege to worry about angering, and under no protection that they know of? Don’t be silly. They’ll find some excuse, and then pfft! You’re in trouble.”

  “But I haven’t—”

  “—done anything,” he finished for her, and laughed again. “And just what do you think that has to do with it, eh? No, let me give you some advice. It’s too late to escape, if you would. But be very careful. After they back you in a corner, they’ll probably offer you some sort of deal, if they can’t find anything to imprison you for at once. Consider it very carefully, whatever it is. Very carefully. Make no promises you can avoid. Beware of that wizard, if he’s there: he’ll try to bind you with some sort of spell, if you aren’t careful.”

  “But why are you telling me all this?” asked Paks, thinking hard.

  “As I told you. A favor. I may need one from you someday. You can’t do me any good if you’re in a cell, or dead. And if they do offer you a deal, I’d like to know about it. Before I came here, I’d heard the Council had hired outsiders for some kind of interesting work. Since I arrived, no one will tell me anything. Maybe they’ll tell you, if they think they have a hold on you. And if you end up taking a job—well, you might want someone with you who wasn’t one of theirs, if you know what I mean.”

  Paks was both fascinated and repelled. What he said almost made sense, almost fit with the Kuakgan’s words. She still could not understand what sort of hold anyone could have on her, or why they would want to find her guilty of something. In Aarenis, they might have wanted an excuse to seize her for the slave market, but not in Tsaia. She wondered if Semminson was the kind of agent that the Kuakgan had been talking about. Would anyone, ever, try to help a southern army invade the north? She was sure not, until she remembered that Sofi Ganarrion was planning to come north to fight for his throne. She said nothing, rubbing her toe against the top of the other foot. Semminson was watching her.

  “Well,” she said finally. “Whatever comes, I’ll be meeting with the Council tonight.”

  “Just keep what I said in mind,” he urged.

  “Mmm. I will.” She noticed Hebbinford watching her from the kitchen door. She looked away and stood.

  “Good luck to you,” said Semminson softly. “I fear you’ll need it.” Paks went on out to the stableyard to gather her clean clothes from the line.

  * * *

  All in all, she had little appetite for supper that night. Her clean shirt had only the one tear, which she had mended, and everything was as neat as she could make it, but she still felt shabby. She wondered whether to wear her mail. If Semminson was a thief, she hated to leave it behind, but she didn’t want them to think she was looking for trouble, either. She thought it over, and finally cornered Hebbinford to ask him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s valuable, and you’re a fighter—wear it if you wish. You can’t carry a sword into Council, but the guards will keep it for you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  She wasn’t comfortable at all, but decided to go upstairs and put on the mail. Semminson was coming out of a room farther along the hall, and he gave her a knowing look. She put on the heavy jingling shirt, buffed her helmet on the blanket, and put that on as well. With a captain of soldiers coming, she might as well look like a soldier.

  Hebbinford sent one of the girls to her room to call her; she came down the stairs with a sort of muddled determination to do the right thing and not be trapped. He was waiting at the door, dressed in a long blue gown under a fur-collared cloak, instead of his usual tunic and apron. He smiled and they set off for the Hall together. Paks heard horses behind them, and moved to the edge of the street automatically. Hebbinford turned to look, and waved to the lead rider.

  “Ah, Sir Felis. You haven’t been in town these past few days.”

  “No. There’s enough to do at the keep.” Paks looked up at the mounted figure, his face lit by his escorts’ torches. He wore chainmail and helmet, and she could tell nothing about him except that he sat his horse like a soldier. He looked down at her and spoke to Hebbinford. “Is this the person I’ve heard of?”

  “Yes, Sir Felis. This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter.”

  “Hmmph.” She saw the glitter of his eyes as they scanned her. “You look more like a soldier than a free blade, young woman. You were with Duke Phelan’s company?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What rank?”

  “As a private, sir. File leader, my last year.”

  “I see. What—? No, I’ll wait until we’re in session.” He gave a causal wave of the hand to Hebbinford, and rode on past them.

  The Hall, when they reached it, was lighted by torches in brackets along the front, as well as inside. Two of the captain’s escort stood guard at the door. Paks felt sweat spring cold on her forehead; she wanted to yawn for no reason. Semminson’s veiled warnings seemed suddenly appropriate. She heard voices inside. Hebbinford nudged her, and she surrendered her sword to the guard on the right, and went on through the door.

  At the far end of a large room, much larger than the common room at the inn, a knot of people clustered around the one table. Paks recognized Marshal Cedfer, now in mail, and looking much more like the Marshal she’d seen in Aarenis. His surcoat bore the crescent of Gird on a dark blue field. Master Oakhallow, in the same long robe he had worn in the afternoon, was already seated, and talking to one of the other men. Another man in mail—Paks assumed it was Sir Felis—stood at the end of the table, lips folded tightly as he listened.

  Paks heard someone come in behind her, and turned to see the stonemason, Master Feddith. He gave her a cold look and stumped over to the table at once. Hebbinford, too, moved to that side of the room, and Paks followed slowly. A man she had not seen in town before, tall, with a generous belly, sat behind the table and looked up as the master mason and Hebbinford approached.

  “Ah,” he said. “We’re all here, then. Have a seat, Councillors, have a seat. Let’s get on with this.” He looked at Paks. “So you’re the young woman I’ve heard so much about? Paks—” He looked down at a sheet before him. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter? Of Three Firs?”

  “Yes, sir.” said Paks. The others were all taking seats around the far side and ends of the table.

  “Good. Let me introduce you to the Council. I’m the mayor, Brewmaster Ceddrin. You saw my place on your way to the grange. You know Marshal Cedfer, and Master Oakhallow, and Master Hebbinford already. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, our count’s military representative—” Sir Felis nodded shortly; in this light Paks could tell that he was a lean, weather-beaten man somewhat shorter than Duke Phelan. His beard was carefully trimmed. “—and Master Zinthys, the mage—” Paks looked at the slender, handsome young man in a long velvet robe lavishly banded with braid. He had rings on both hands, and a great polished crystal hanging by a silver chain on his chest. Master Zinthys smiled. The mayor went on. “This is Master Feddith, the stonemason, and I believe you also know Master Senneth, the moneychanger.” He looked up and Paks nodded. “Also with us tonight are past Councillor
s: Master Hostin, our miller, Trader Garin Garinsson, and Master Doggal, the smith. Eris Arvidsdotter is here representing the farmholders.” Trader Garin wore merchants’ robes, and Eris Arvidsdotter wore a wool gown and cloak. She was as tall as Paks, and broad-shouldered; her gray hair was in a braided coil. The mayor paused until Paks had nodded at each of these. Then he picked up a heavy gavel lying on the table and rapped three times; the table boomed.

  “The Council of Brewersbridge is in session,” he said loudly. “I ask the protection of all the gods, and the guidance of all good spirits, to be over us in this meeting. May wisdom and truth prevail. In the name of the High Lord, and all the powers of light.” It sounded stilted, as if he didn’t open the Council formally that often.

  “May it be,” responded the others.

  “We are met,” he said in a lower tone, “to learn what we can of a traveler here, one Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. We have heard disturbing things all this year of trouble in Aarenis. We will examine this person to see what her business is here, and how it may be bound in with what has happened there.” He waited, and Paks noticed that both the mage and the Marshal were taking notes. “Does anyone object to my asking the questions?” asked the mayor. Heads were shaken around the table. “Very well, then. If you have other questions, when I’m through, just say so. Now—is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter your true name?”

  “Yes, sir, but I’m called Paks, since I left home.”

  “I see. And you come from Three Firs? Where is that? In Tsaia?”

  “I—I’m not sure. The closest larger town was Rocky Ford; that’s where I joined Duke Phelan’s company—”

  The Marshal cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mayor, but Rocky Ford is just within Tsaia, near the Finthan border in the north.”

  “I see. Three Firs was small, then?”

  “Yes, sir. Much smaller than Brewersbridge. My father’s land was a half-day’s sheep drive out on the moors. We went to Three Firs rarely.”

  “And Rocky Ford?”

  “I’d never been there before I—I ran away to join the company.”

  “So you went directly from home to Duke Phelan’s company—hmm. And what was your father?”

  “A sheepfarmer,” said Paks. Then, anticipating the next question, she added, “I learned about mercenary companies from my cousin Jornoth; he’d left several years before, and came back with a horse, and gold, and said he was in the guard.”

  “Where? In Tsaia?”

  “He didn’t say, sir. But he said I couldn’t go directly to a job that good. He said I’d have to start somewhere else, and he told me what to do.”

  “Hmm. Not common, for a girl from a remote farm to join an army.”

  “No, sir. But I’d always wanted to be a warrior—”

  “As a mercenary?” put in the Marshal.

  Paks blushed. “Not—exactly, sir. But Jornoth said that was the way to start.”

  The mayor took control again. “You say you were trained at Duke Phelan’s stronghold, and went from there to the wars in Aarenis?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long were you in Aarenis?”

  “I was there for three campaign seasons, and in winter quarters in Valdaire.”

  “You must have had a short season this year,” he said, looking at her sharply. “Why did you leave your Company?”

  Paks hesitated. “The war—Siniava had been killed, and my two years were up.”

  “You have told Marshal Cedfer and Master Oakhallow what happened to you; we also would like to know, from your own lips.”

  “Yes, sir.” Paks gathered her wits. She hurried over the first part of the trip with Macenion, merely mentioning his half-elf ancestry and the knowledge he claimed of the mountains. Then she described the valley of the elfane taig as they had first seen it, and the dream that came to both of them. The Councillors listened without interrupting as she described the underground passages, and the chamber where they’d found the elf lord. Through the battle with him, the burning, and the running fight with the orcs, and the last struggle that ended, beyond her comprehension, with her alone on the surface, no one spoke or stirred. “Some sickness came on me,” she said finally. “I couldn’t go far along the trail; a snowstorm came down off the mountains, and I fell. Then it was that the elves came. They healed me, and entered the valley to see whether I had told them the truth. When they returned, they told me how to find my way here, and gave me messages to Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya. I was to say that the elfane taig had awaked, and the elf lord was freed.” Paks stopped, and looked up and down the table. The faces were intent, but no longer hostile.

  After a moment’s silence, Sir Felis turned to the mayor. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Paksenarrion, you say you served three campaign seasons. How soon after you joined the regular company were you made private from recruit?”

  “The first battle, sir.”

  “What was your file position?”

  “File second, the first year, sir, and the second. This past year we moved around a lot, but at the end I was file leader.”

  “I’m not clear on something. You’ve spoken both of leaving the company, and of being on some sort of long leave. Are you still the Duke’s soldier, or not?”

  Paks sighed. “Sir, the Duke had reason to give me a long leave. He and others had suggested that I might leave the company for a year or so. For other training, or experience, they said. But the Duke said I would be welcome back any time. I hadn’t decided yet, sir, how soon to return.”

  “But you have no complaints against Duke Phelan, or he against you?”

  “I have none against him, sir, and as far as I know he has none against me. And the Company is all I’ve known. I miss them.”

  “Have you any sort of token or pass from your duke, that might prove what you say of his opinion?”

  Paks remembered the ring he had given the survivors of Dwarfwatch, and reached into her pouch for it. “Here is a ring—” She handed it to the mayor, who peered at it, and passed it along the table. When they had all looked at it, the mayor passed it back.

  “Dwarfwatch,” the mayor said. “Isn’t that the name of that Sorellin fort on the south end of Hakkenarsk Pass?”

  “So the traders say,” said Master Senneth.

  “So. Those rumors, last spring, of a major battle there—” mused Hebbinford. “You must have been there. Why were you so angry with the merchants, Paksenarrion, for mentioning it?”

  Paks glanced quickly at Sir Felis and the Marshal, then back to Hebbinford. “Sir, it is the Duke’s business. I don’t talk of it with merchants. But—by treachery, most of my—of a—cohort was lost at Dwarfwatch, to Lord Siniava. Most of a cohort of Halverics, too. For those of us who lived, the Duke had these rings made.”

  “So he’s fought understrength this past year,” commented Sir Felis. “And the Halveric too, I presume.”

  The Marshal was not deflected from the original story. “What was it, a siege, or what?”

  “If she considers it her duke’s business, Cedfer—” began the Kuakgan.

  “Nonsense. Anything that’s happened almost a year ago is public knowledge in Aarenis, and we’ll know the details here sooner or later.”

  Paks took a deep breath and tried to shove her private memories back into hiding. All the mercenary companies in the south knew the story; Cedfer was right. She gathered her wits and began. “One cohort of the Duke’s company was detached from the siege of Rotengre—the Guild League cities had joined in that—and garrisoned Dwarfwatch while the Sorellin militia, who had been there, helped with the grain harvest.” She paused, and they all nodded. They listened intently as she described Halveric Company’s approach, the surrender, the departure of all but a guard cohort of Halveric’s and Siniava’s attack, the fate of the prisoners marched away toward Rotengre, and the desperate defense of the few who held the fort.

  “And y
ou were in that. I see.” Marshal Cedfer glanced at the Kuakgan and back to Paks. “Were you one of those sieged in the fort, or were you taken prisoner?”

  “Neither, sir. Three of us were not taken—by chance, we were gathering berries in the brambles and they didn’t see us. We took word to the Duke.” Paks stopped there and looked at them. Sir Felis was leaning forward, alert and eager; the Marshal’s eyebrows were up; the Kuakgan was frowning slightly. The rest merely looked interested.

  “How far did you go?” asked Sir Felis. “Where was the Duke?”

  “Outside Rotengre, with the rest of the company,” said Paks. She wished they would go on to something else. She didn’t want to think about that journey, about Saben and Canna,

  “I can see,” said the Marshal, “why you would be trusted by Duke Phelan. Remarkable. Well, then—so the Duke relieved his force at the fort. And where was the Halveric? I should think he’d have been there too.”

  “He had taken most of his Company toward Merinath,” said Paks. “They arrived the next day, too late to fight there: but they came to Rotengre.”

  “And how many troops did Siniava have?”

  “We thought about eight hundred, altogether—”

  “But Phelan’s force is what—three cohorts altogether?”

  “Yes, sir. He had help from the Clarts and Count Vladi—”

  “And Gird, no doubt,” said the Marshal firmly. “Well, indeed. That’s quite a tale, but straight enough. Now, what’s happened this last year? We’ve heard of widespread fighting, open war from the mountains to the sea, armies marched clear from the Westmounts to the Copper Hills. What about it?” The mayor was watching the Marshal closely, but did not interfere.