Paks could not suppress a grin. It sounded like fun, at least the part about finding the brigands’ camp. But as for killing or catching them—"Sir, it is an interesting proposal. But, whatever Marshal Cedfer may think, I am hardly able to defeat a band of brigands on my own.”
“Not at all,” said the mayor. “Of course not. We would expect you to lead a force, including some of the local militia. And you could confer, perhaps, with the Marshal or Sir Felis, on the best method for defeating them, once you had found their camp.”
Put that way, it sounded even more attractive. Whenever Paks thought of brigands, she thought of those who had killed Saben and Canna. She nodded at the mayor. “I have no love for brigands,” she said. “I’ll be glad to hunt them for you.”
“Good. What we propose is this: we will authorize you to call on members of the local militia who have free time, and they—or the town—will supply their weapons. We will not pay you, but we will grant you a share of any recovered goods, and a head-price for each robber killed or captured. If you need extraordinary aid, come to Marshal Cedfer, and he will arrange it as he sees fit. Is that satisfactory?”
Paks had no idea what such contracts were usually like, but it seemed reasonable. If many caravans had been robbed, surely the plunder would make a fair return. “Yes,” she said. “That will do. But do you have any idea where they might be?”
The mayor leaned forward. “An idea, yes, but we aren’t sure. Caravans have been attacked on all the roads around. But Eris—” he nodded to the farm woman, who nodded to Paks, “—Eris tells us that farms have been robbed, too—and one or two wiped out—west of here. None close in, but those farther out have lost livestock. There are several ruins out that way which might be useful to brigands, though Sir Felis found no one there—”
“That’s not to say they might not use them,” Sir Felis broke in. “We’ve had no time for more than a fast sweep—they could have been hiding nearby, if they were clever.”
“We think,” the mayor went on, “that they must have some spy in town. More caravans are robbed on their way out—especially those that have come on a market day, and sold things in our market. I won’t conceal the fact that these men—if it’s humans—are dangerous. Typically they kill all the caravaners, merchants and guards alike. That’s ten to twenty guards, maybe five merchants or so, and the drivers. They’ve killed two farm families we know of—I suppose they surprised them robbing—”
“But,” Sir Felis interrupted again, “it may be that some farmer out there is in league with them.” Eris Arvidsdotter shook her head angrily, but Paks remembered the setup at “uncle’s” in Aarenis. It would make sense. “Northwest of here,” Sir Felis continued, “was Baron Anseg’s land, but he died without a close heir years ago, and the title of that land is still being argued in Vérella. Once you’re away from the river, and well into the woods beyond Brewersbridge, there’s no lord for two days’ travel, until Baron Velis’s outside Bingham.”
“The merchants’ guilds,” put in the mayor, “naturally have an interest in the safety of the roads. We have no Guild League, as in Aarenis, with real authority, but the guilds will support any effort to keep the roads safe where no lord has the responsibility.”
“I see,” said Paks. She was becoming confused again, and clung to what she did understand. “So you want me to hunt around and find where the brigands are hiding, and lead a small force to drive them out? Do you want them driven away, or killed, or captured, or what?”
“Killed or captured, definitely,” said Marshal Cedfer. “Drive them out, and they’ll return as soon as you’re gone.”
“I say kill them,” put in the mason. “What good are brigands anyway?”
Paks wondered if he’d ever killed anyone. Himself.
“And if you find out who is—I mean, who may be giving information here in Brewersbridge—” added the mayor.
Paks grinned. “You expect a stranger to find out what’s going on when you, who know everyone, can’t? I might be able to find the brigands, sir, and I know I can fight, but I’ve no experience in finding out secrets like that.”
“Well, but if you should happen to learn—”
“I would tell—Marshal Cedfer, you wished me to report to? Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. Or me. But Marshal Cedfer is best.”
Paks looked around the table. Everyone was watching her. The mage gave her a bright smile, as if to encourage her. The Marshal and Sir Felis looked impatient, as if she were a slightly stupid recruit. Master Oakhallow’s level gaze held a challenge. She felt, suddenly, very tired. To fight brigands was well enough, and she’d be glad of an honest, above-ground battle again, but she had the feeling that they all expected something else. Something more.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll do that—or try to. I suppose the first thing is to look for the places they might be. Do you have a map, perhaps, of the local—”
But at that they all began to talk.
“How good of you—”
“No need for that tonight, now that you’ve—”
“Perhaps tomorrow you can meet with Marshal Cedfer—”
“—out to the keep, and I’ll introduce you to my sergeants—”
The mayor banged his gavel once, and everyone quieted. “One last thing. The town, as I said, will supply the militia, their food and weapons. But do you have what you need for yourself? I see you have armor—” He waited for her answer. Paks thought about her gear. To move about the countryside, as far as he had mentioned—a day’s ride away?—she would need a horse of some kind.
“I could use a horse or mule,” she said. “My pony’s not the right animal for prowling around.”
Sir Felis frowned. “I haven’t any spares, right now. We’ve thrush in the stable, and horses lame.”
The mayor shook his head. “It’s so late in the season. The horses in town now are work horses—and in use every day. Marshal Cedfer?”
“No. Sorry. My own mount, and Ambros’s, that’s all I’ve got. If you wanted to buy one, perhaps Sir Felis could send to the count’s stable—”
“There’s one spare horse,” said Hebbinford. “In my stable—that black horse.”
Paks felt a surge of excitement. She had not thought of the black, but that was the sort of horse she had dreamed of in the past. A true warrior’s horse. She looked at the mayor, and Hebbinford, and back again. “What about that one, then? No one else is using it.”
“I suppose that’s all right,” said the mayor slowly. “I can see you need a horse, to go looking all over the country. If the rest of you agree—”
“What of the man’s heirs?” asked Master Feddith. “He looked a friendless man, but if he had heirs, they’d have some right to the beast.”
“What of the fines he’d have owed, for trying to rob our Master Smith, if he’d lived?” asked Senneth sharply. “I say the Council can claim his horse for damages, and sell it to Paksenarrion if we choose.”
“Perhaps, sirs,” said Paks, uncertain if she should speak. “I could but have the use of the horse at first—paying Master Hebbinford for his keep, of course. It may be that I have not the skill to master such an animal—” She paused as the smith snorted loudly, and all eyes went to him. “Even if I do, I will not need it after this, I think.”
“That’s well spoke,” said the smith abruptly. “’Twould do that beast good to be worked, that it would, and the trying of him out would be a reason for her to ride about the countryside. But as for skill—” He looked hard at Paks. “You’ve either skill of a horse-breaker, girl, or magic in your fingers, and that’s a fact.” Paks saw both the Kuakgan and the Marshal give her hands a quick glance. She was glad they were clasped to cover the ring.
“Well, then,” said the mayor, “how think you? I see no harm in that, and it saves Master Hebbinford risking his own neck to keep the beast exercised, for I doubt you’d let Sevri try it, would you Jos?”
“Never,” said Heb
binford, with a ghost of a grin. “Nor is my lass that crazy. I’m for it.”
“And I,” said the other Council members.
“And I hope you’ll decide to buy that horse,” said Senneth, as they rose. “If you go, and leave it here, the Council will be left with the care of it all winter until the spring fairs. We’ll give you a good price, I swear.”
“We can do better than that, Senneth,” said the mayor, clapping him on the shoulder. “Should she succeed in routing all the brigands, we might call it a reward. Then she could not refuse, and we need not worry about the feed.”
The others laughed, and gathered around Paks for a few words each before leaving. When she had retrieved her sword from the guard at the door, she found Hebbinford and the Kuakgan waiting to walk with her. The night had turned even colder, and she looked forward to the new cloak the tailor would make.
Chapter Twelve
After so late a night, Paks would have been glad to sleep later than usual, but anticipation of the black horse woke her at dawn. Could she ride it? She felt sure of the power of the ring, but once mounted she could not concentrate on her ring finger. She knew she should be thinking of the brigands, and less of the horse, but the black horse fit her old dream of adventure so perfectly . . . she could almost see herself riding through admiring crowds.
She had hoped to work with it in privacy first, but early as it was everyone in the inn seemed to have business in the stableyard. She began with grooming; the beast had nearly caught Sevri with a massive hoof, and after that his owner had done it. Paks kept her thumb firmly on the ring as she picked up a brush and eased into the stall by its head. The ears were alert but not flattened, and the great dark eye watched her calmly as the horse worked on its ration of grain.
“There now,” crooned Paks, setting the brush to that massive shoulder. “There, quiet, stay calm, black one.” She began to brush, more gently than would do for a thorough grooming, and with a wary eye on the ears. The horse stood taller and more heavily built than the Duke’s warhorses, as tall as Arcolin’s favorite. She worked her way along the ribs, the croup, the rump. Dust and scurf flew; the horse had not been well-groomed for some time. She brushed down the haunches, saw them tense, and concentrated on the ring for a moment. “Nothing’s wrong, horse. I won’t hurt you. Quiet, now, easy—” Bunched muscles relaxed; she saw the fetlock sink deeper in the straw. “You’d like to be out of here, wouldn’t you? Go for a ride? Out in the open air—along the roads—good horse—” Soon she had brushed both sides, the belly (another pause for the ring’s action there), brushed out the heavy tangled mane. She looked up and saw Sevri’s awed face over the stall wall.
“I didn’t think you could really do it,” said Sevri.
Paks grinned at her, thumb firm on the ring. “I wasn’t sure I could myself. Can you bring me a pick?”
“You’re going to touch his feet?”
Paks shrugged. “What if he has a stone? If he’s taken this much, he should take that.”
Sevri handed over a hoofpick. “I just finished Star. Here.”
Paks leaned down beside the near fore, impressed again by the size of those platter-like hooves. “Come on, black one—let’s have a hoof.” She could feel the tension above her, and glanced up to see the horse watching, ears stiffly turned back. “No—come on, now—” She pinched the tendons as she’d been taught, wondering briefly if she should have done this outside a stall, just in case. But the hoof came up, at last, and she cleaned around the frog with her pick. The other front hoof went as well, but as she bent to touch the near hind, the horse squealed and slammed a kick into the stall wall, narrowly missing her. Paks thought a loud NO through the ring, and the horse froze, trembling. She could see the cracked board where the hoof struck, and heard a murmur of voices at the stable door. Sevri urged the watchers away.
Slowly, concentrating on the ring, Paks slid her hand down the hind leg, over slick black hide to the white feather below the hock, and through that heavy hair felt along to the fetlock. The scar was hidden by the thick hair above it—a deep scar, and still sensitive, for the horse blew a rattling breath, despite the ring’s compulsion, as she touched it. Paks straightened. “Easy—I’d warrant you have another on the offside as well. No wonder you don’t like having your legs handled. I wonder what did that? Nothing good. Well, perhaps we can leave that a day, until you trust me more.” She came back to the horse’s head, and scratched under his jaw until the strained look left his eyes. “Surely the smith didn’t do that, holding you to shoe you?” The horse relaxed enough to stretch its neck. Paks slipped out of the stall, shaking a little with the strain of using the ring for so long.
“Will you ride today?” asked Sevri, who was waiting by the door.
“He needs exercise,” said Paks. “But he’s got some injury to his back legs—that’s why he’s so touchy, I think. I hate to ride him out until I can handle those legs, but he’s had as much as he can take, for now. Maybe later.”
Paks went in to breakfast, trying to ignore the curious looks of the others. If she was going to lead a group out against brigands, and train a horse, she needed several things from the shops. She made a list during breakfast, and asked Hebbinford where she could find some of the items. When she returned, everyone seemed to be out of the way but Sevri.
“If you want me to leave, as well—” she said shyly.
“No, but don’t get too close. I don’t know what he’ll do. Tir’s bones, I don’t even know how to rig that saddle.” She went into the stable. The black horse nosed over the stall wall; she had not yet touched the ring. Perhaps it was not a true outlaw. Sevri brought the bridle, red leather decorated with copper rings tarnished green. The reins were broad and heavy, and the bit—Paks shook her head.
“I can’t use that! Look at those spikes, Sevri.”
“The warhorses we see here all have bits like that,” said Sevri. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure of this—I won’t use that bit. The Duke didn’t use anything like that. Where can I buy another one?”
“You can use my father’s old one, if it’ll do. He had a hauling team once, before he sold it to a caravaner that was short. Try this—” Sevri brought out an old, rusty-linked bit like those Paks had seen on cart horses. While Sevri shook it in a sandbag to get the rust off, Paks worked at the stiff lacings of the bridle. At last she had the old bit off, and the smooth one in place.
“If he’s used to that mess in his mouth, he won’t take the bit easily,” said Paks. “Let’s see—” And as she walked up with the bridle, the black horse threw up its head, snorting. Again she thumbed the ring, which quieted the noise. Sevri darted off for an apple.
“Will this work?”
“It might.” Paks was glad of anything that would conceal the action of the ring. She offered it, concentrating on the ring, and in a moment slid the bit in place, and the crownpiece over the horse’s ears as its teeth crunched the apple. She waited to fasten the noseband and throatlatch until the apple was finished, and the last lumps passed down the black throat.
“I hope you can hold him with that,” said Sevri doubtfully.
“With what?” came a brisk voice from the door, and they all jumped. Paks clenched her left hand on the ring and turned. Marshal Cedfer stood there, with Ambros just behind him.
“She changed bits,” said Sevri, before Paks could think what to say. “She wouldn’t use that old one—” She nudged it with her toe, where it lay in the aisle.
“That’s a mouthful indeed,” said the Marshal, picking it up. “But what are you using instead, Paksenarrion? That ‘magic’ Doggal mentioned?”
“No,” said Sevri again. “It’s one of my father’s old bits, a smooth one that he used when he had a team. But I thought warhorses had to have spiked bits.”
The Marshal’s face relaxed. “Good, Paksenarrion, very good. No, Sevri, a horse can be trained to any bit, but the smooth ones are better. Hasty warriors try to use rough bits instead of train
ing to get their horses’ attention. A good horseman uses as smooth a bit as he may.” He took a step forward to look at the horse more closely. “As I recall, Duke Phelan’s troops use horses for transport only. I’m sure you ride—perhaps well—but I thought I could help you with the commands peculiar to warhorses.”
“Thank you, Marshal,” said Paks. “I realized this morning that even the saddles we used are not like this one—” she gestured at the heavy saddle with its tangle of rigging, on a peg nearby.
“You haven’t cleaned it yet,” said the Marshal, frowning.
“No, sir.” Paks flushed as if Stammel had found her with dirty equipment.
“Hmm. Clean tack, Paksenarrion, is very important. Sevri, bring us a fresh pad, at least. Lead him out to the yard, Paksenarrion.”
With her hand clenched around the ring, Paks led the black horse out. He followed as calmly as Star, for which she was grateful. Her neck prickled as she placed the sheepskin pad. The Marshal handed her the saddle.
“I see you know how to work with a bridled horse—see, Ambros. She’s got her arm in the rein, just as I keep telling you. Now, Paksenarrion, let me explain all those extra straps.” Paks needed the help, but wished it were someone else. “That—yes, that one—is the foregirth. Fasten it first. Good. Now the breastband—see those hooks on the saddle? Yes. Not tight—just lying smoothly. That’s so the saddle cannot slip back under any strain. Now the rest of that—by Gird himself! That fellow didn’t know how to stow his gear. Roll that mess slowly out over his rump—be careful, girl! Yes. Now see that loop on top? The tail goes through that. Wait, though—” The Marshal moved to the horse’s rump and felt of the loop. “Heh. I might have known. Feel this. It’s too stiff; it’s probably rubbed him raw already. We’ll take all this off—” and he began to work at fastenings on the back of the saddle as he talked. “You don’t really need it yet. Oil and clean it—get it all soft—and I’ll show you how to put it back on. In a fight, or traveling in rough country, it keeps the saddle from slipping forward, just like the breeching strap on a pack animal.” He went to the other side, and finished there. “Here, Sevri, take these away.” He watched as Paks checked the stirrup length; she left it unchanged. “Do you want me to hold him while you mount?”
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 67