The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Ambros gave Paks a quick look; she could not tell his meaning. But something made her speak up. “How badly are you hurt, can you tell?”

  The man looked at her gratefully. “They poked me some, lady, and I fell hard before that. I wrapped my own shirt on it—this is off a guard—” He indicated his blood-stained shirt.

  “Well, you’d best let us see. Yeoman-marshal, is there a surgeon in town?” She hoped she was right to use his title.

  “Yes,” said Ambros. “At the keep, with Sir Felis.” He looked aside. “We’ll need clean cloths, and water—it’s too bad the Marshal is gone.”

  “That’s what they counted on, no doubt,” said the driver. Paks, meanwhile, had unwrapped the rag he had bound to his head; underneath was an ugly gash. She thought it looked bone-deep.

  “It’s no wonder they thought you dead with that head wound,” she commented. “What’s your name?”

  “Jeris, lady. Jeris Angarn, of Dapplevale in Lyonya. Do you know it?”

  “No. Be steady, now.” Paks helped Ambros uncover the man’s other injuries—mostly bruises but for two shallow gashes in side and back. “You’re lucky, Jeris. They could easily have killed you.”

  “I know it.” He shifted uneasily as they began to clean the wounds. “It—ouch!—sorry. If that mule hadn’t bucked, they might have got me sure; they had horses. I don’t deserve it, that’s the truth, but that’s luck. It comes as Simyits pleases—”

  “You think Simyits has more power than the High Lord?” asked Ambros. “Is that what you learned in Lyonya?”

  “Oh, sir—in Lyonya, I was a boy, and had a boy’s faith. But I’ve been on the roads near twenty years, now, and I’ve seen good luck and bad come to all. As for the High Lord, he made the whole world, so I hear, if it wasn’t Sertig instead, but what does he have to do with a mule driver? The good men, you might say, died today—they that was brave, and tried to fight. And here I am, alive a bit longer, and able to give you word, because a mule bucked me off on my hard head. Does the High Lord extend his power to make a mule buck?”

  Paks stifled a laugh. She had heard of Simyits only as the thieves’ god, and the gambler’s patron, but the muleteer seemed honest if not brave. Ambros, however, was sober, and crouched down to meet the man’s eyes.

  “If the High Lord wanted your mule to buck, Jeris, be sure he could do it. But there is one more near us than that—Gird Strongarm, a man once, like you. He had a hard head himself, and it’s said he knows how to convince another. I would not call it luck alone, if I found myself alive, when my companions were all dead—and a mule nearby to ride on, despite the blood-smell. Does your mule love you so, to buck you off, escape capture, and then return for you?”

  Jeris’s face furrowed as he tried to think. “Well—now—I see what you mean. To be honest, I wouldn’t have thought that donkey-spawn would stay near new dead like that. But why would Gird, if he wanted me alive, dump me on my head first? Why not save the whole caravan and set fire to the brigands?”

  “Why is there winter? Why does water flow downhill only?” Ambros sounded even more like a Marshal. “The High Lord lets men deal with men, as often as not. As for you, perhaps Gird knew your mule could not outrun their horses—or perhaps he was seeking an entrance into your hard head, and tried knocking first.”

  “Peace, Ambros,” said Sir Felis from the doorway. “You can convert the man later, but for now I’d like to know what happened.” Behind him a surgeon carried a cloth bag of gear; Master Zinthys, in still another robe, followed him, and smiled at Paks.

  When the man had told his tale again, and the surgeon had settled him in one of the inn’s rooms, Sir Felis, Zinthys, Ambros, and Paks conferred in a small room opening off the kitchen.

  “Hundreds of brigands I simply do not believe,” said Sir Felis. “They haven’t stolen enough food and forage for anything like that number. In this case they killed twenty, and captured several—we aren’t sure how many. But out of ambush, that wouldn’t take more than a score of well-armed, disciplined troops. Perhaps fewer. Certainly I don’t think they can have more than—” he paused, looked up at the lamp, and thought a moment. “Thirty, I’d say. And fewer horses than that. Most of the caravans they’ve hit have been carrying dry goods, weapons, that sort of thing—not food.”

  “Yes, but now what?” asked Ambros. “You know Marshal Cedfer said I couldn’t go—what do we do now?”

  Sir Felis looked at Paks. “It’s your choice, since you accepted the task—but if you want advice—”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I would say let me take a troop out there, as everyone expects, and pick up the bodies. Contrive some reason for riding that way yourself tomorrow—not just riding, something else—and see if you can find a trace of the wagons’ movement. I won’t even look; it’ll be dark by the time I get out there with my men. If you find it, don’t be in too much hurry to follow it up. They’ll be watching the road pretty closely for a day or so, I expect. Give them time to relax. Then—if it’s where we think—go after them.”

  Paks shook her head. “By your leave, sir, I have another thought. An assault on a keep—even a ruined keep—is no easy matter. We tried that once in Aarenis. Why not try to frighten them out—catch them at their bolthole?”

  “The game trail you’re thinking of?”

  “Yes, but close by the keep. If a show of frontal assault—”

  “With what?” asked Sir Felis. “I can’t give you a troop.”

  “No, but Master Zinthys might have some magical means.” She glanced at him. “Macenion—the part-elf I was traveling with—had some illusions. I thought perhaps—”

  Zinthys looked pleased, though Ambros frowned. “In fact, Lady Paksenarrion, illusions are a specialty of mine. Far less dangerous to the onlooker than, say, real firebolts.”

  “And easier to do,” muttered Ambros softly. Zinthys glared at him.

  “Young sir, if you think it is easy to produce even illusory fire, I suggest you try. My old master, who is well-known in the arts, always said that a fine, convincing illusion was far more difficult—because reality carries its own conviction, and saves its own appearances. If you make a flame, it is a real flame, and you don’t have to worry, once you’ve got it. But an illusory flame can go wrong in many subtle ways—even such a thing as forgetting which way the wind is blowing, so that it flickers the wrong direction.”

  “Sorry,” said Ambros, staring at the table. Paks thought he didn’t sound sorry at all. She smiled at Zinthys.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” she said, “But could you make something to scare them out—something to make them think a large force was coming at them?”

  “I might do,” said Zinthys, still obviously ruffled. He twitched his shoulders and glanced at Sir Felis. “It would be easier if I had a small matrix to work on, as a pattern.”

  “A what?”

  “A form—a framework—or, in plain terms, if I had a few real men-at-arms, that I could simply multiply in illusion, rather than creating the whole thing out of my head. It’s easier to keep them in step, you see.”

  Paks didn’t see, but nodded anyway. Sir Felis made a steeple of his hands. “How many, Zinthys?”

  The mage looked at him, considering. “Oh—a half dozen, say?”

  “Four.” Sir Felis set down his mug. “Four is plenty to save your hide if it doesn’t work, and I can’t waste the time of more.”

  “Four,” repeated Zinthys cheerfully. “You’ll see, Lady Paksenarrion—I’ll do you an illusion that’ll have them running out the back door for cover—by the way, how do you know there is a back door?”

  “Never saw a keep without one,” said Paks cheerfully, thinking of Siniava’s many tricks. “Gods grant we choose the right place.”

  “That,” said Zinthys with satisfaction, “is up to you soldiers. Just tell me when and where you want them frightened—I’ll take care of that.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mal, when
Ambros explained the plan, seemed shrewder than Paks had expected. He spoke quietly enough, with a rumbling chuckle when amused. Paks began to think he might be an asset after all.

  “So we’re to find the place first, and find sign—then she’ll lead a troop?” He gave Paks a sharp look. “Have you led troops before, lady? I don’t mean to be like Doryan, but—”

  “I was acting corporal in one of the cohorts,” said Paks.

  “That means yes, I take it.” He turned back to Ambros. “And what if their place is fortified? Do we try to take it?”

  “No. There’s a plan to get them out—if it’s the place we think it might be, or one like it. Have you been out near the old Seriyan ruins lately?”

  “Gird, no! I told the Marshal a few years ago that was a bad place—unlucky, that is. Is that where you think they are?”

  “It could well be—considering the sign Paks saw a few days ago.”

  “Then they’re a brave bunch, that’s all I can say. I wouldn’t stay there for a silver a day. Not even for a cask of ale.”

  “And for you, that’s saying a lot. All right, Mal—I know you don’t like it. But if they’re wicked enough, it might not bother them.”

  “What is it?” asked Paks. “Why are the ruins so bad?”

  Mal and Ambros looked at each other. Ambros broke the silence. “It’s from before my time—I was just a boy, living over near the Lyonyan border. But there was a wizard who settled in there—built a stronghold all in one year, by magic, some said. Like most wizards, didn’t care more for bad and good than a deaf man cares for music.”

  “I don’t know as that’s fair,” Mal broke in. “Master Zinthys is a nice enough fellow.”

  “Who buys you ale every quarterday. But would you trust him, Mal, at your back in a fight?”

  Mal considered. “Well—yes. If Sir Felis or the Marshal were there, at least.”

  “I like him myself,” said Ambros. “I think he’s as honest as any wizard, but they care more for magic and money than anything else—it’s their nature. But this other wizard, Seriyan, wasn’t much like Zinthys. No. He came here, so I was told, because he wanted to rule. That’s not what he said; he said he had come to study. But he had a small horde of magical creatures that he let loose, and then he threatened worse if people didn’t pay “taxes” for protection from them. Brewersbridge had no keep then, just the grange.”

  “It wasn’t Marshal Cedfer here then,” Mal put in, grinning at Paks. “Nor yet Deordtya, but the one before her. I don’t recall his name.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Ambros shortly. “He made the mistake of believing the wizard harmless when he came, and it ended with a lot of lives lost when the yeomen had to storm the place. He blew himself up, at the end, rather than be taken.”

  “I hope he blew himself up,” said Mal darkly. “The way that place feels, I’m not so sure.”

  “He may have left spells,” said Ambros. Paks found herself hoping that the brigands were hiding somewhere else. She did not want to meet a wizard who had only pretended to blow himself up. But she had to agree that Seriyan’s old keep was the closest of the known ruins to the blaze she’d found, and Mal agreed to go out with her the next day to take a look at the trail sign.

  Mal arrived at the inn driving a sturdy two-wheeled cart with a large shaggy pony between the shafts. His big axe stood head-down in the corner beside him. Two more wheels filled the bed of the cart.

  “This way,” he said quietly, downing the tankard of ale which Hebbinford brought him without being told. “This way I’m just hunting a good straight bole of limber pine for the Town Hall extension. With these extra wheels, I can haul anything we find.” Paks wondered how; she had never seen foresters at work. Mal saw her confusion and laughed loudly. Paks noticed others watching and listening. “See, lady, you don’t know everything yet.” Now his voice was louder, and more accented. “What I do is cut a short heavy piece for the axle, to bind these wheels together, and then tie them near the end of the bole. With the front end resting in the cart, and the other held by the wheels—now do you see?” Paks nodded. She started to ask why the second set of wheels didn’t fall out from under the tree trunk, and then realized that he could tie it securely to the wood that held the wheels together.

  “Ride along with me,” said Mal, as if she had planned something else, “and I’ll show you some more things you don’t know about.”

  “I should find Ambros—” she said doubtfully, as they had arranged. Mal laughed again.

  “Oh, Ambros! By Gird, you don’t want to spend every day with him, do you? He’s a yeoman-marshal, after all. Come on, now—” He gave her an enormous wink, and swaggered back to his cart after handing one of the serving wenches his tankard. Someone laughed. Paks grinned.

  “You go on ahead; I’ll catch up when I’ve got my horse ready. Which way are you going?”

  “Oh, west again. I remember a few years ago, out that way, there was a straight, tall, limbless bole right near the road. Not so hard, you see, if the trees I want are next to the road.”

  “Good,” said Paks. “That way I can tell Ambros I won’t be riding with him this morning.” Mal waved and went on, and she ducked into the stable to saddle the black horse. She hoped their act had gone off well. She hated to think of a spy in the village, but the evidence for such was persuasive.

  * * *

  She caught up with Mal before he was well into the forest on the far side of Brewersbridge; he had stopped to chat with the woman at the last roadside farm. He waved her to a stop.

  “Paks, do you know Eris here?” It was the same woman Paks had met in Council. Paks began to think Mal was even smarter than she’d thought.

  “Yes, I remember you,” said Paks, swinging down from the saddle. She was no longer afraid to mount and dismount in front of witnesses; the black was learning manners. “I didn’t know this was your farm.”

  “It wasn’t, a few years ago,” said Eris, with a slow smile. “We used to be out there—” She pointed southwest. “But raiders—bandits—something—kept breaking our fences, and running off stock. Finally after my husband died, and the boys married, I bought this farm from a cousin, just to be closer to town.”

  “It looks good,” said Paks. The small farmhouse looked in good repair, and the orchard next to it was obviously flourishing.

  “Oh, it’s a good farm,” said Eris. “I miss the spring we had before—the best water I ever had, and only a few steps from the door. But when you find dead animals in it, day after day—”

  “Ugh—” Paks shuddered.

  “Do you like apples?” she went on. “The good ones are coming ripe now—I’d be glad for you to have some.”

  “Between me and the horses,” said Paks, “we’d eat half your orchard full. I’ll buy a measure of good ones for me, and a double measure of bruised ones for the horses.”

  “I would have given—”

  “Eris,” said Paks, wondering as she said it whether she should have given her the Council title, “I grew up on a farm myself. Right now I have the money, and you have apples to sell.”

  “Very well,” said Eris. “When you come back by this evening—or whenever—I’ll have them near the gate, under the hedge.”

  “And you know I want some, Eris,” said Mal.

  “You! I thought you lived on ale, Mal!” But she was laughing as she said it.

  They continued down the road, chatting freely. Paks continued to lead the black horse, since Mal was walking beside the cart. He pointed out different trees, but Paks quickly grew confused with it: colors and patterns of bark, and shapes of leaves, and the form of the tree meant little to her. She could tell a star-shaped leaf from a lance-shaped one, and both those from the ferny-looking compounds, but that was her limit. Mal teased her gently. In the meantime, they both watched the road for the signs of the caravan—the fresh wheel ruts and narrow mule hoofmarks. These they did not mention.

  Paks wondered what would be left at th
e ambush site, since Sir Felis had sent a troop of his soldiers out to retrieve the bodies. Would she even notice it? As the sun neared its height, she began to worry that they’d missed it. But it was clear, when they came to it. Deeper tracks, round-hoofed, of ridden horses, and the mules’ tracks veering from side to side. Bloodstains on the fallen leaves, and on the rocks that edged the road. A few spent arrows, mostly broken. Mal pointed out the traces she missed, chatting the while about trees. In the end, Paks found the way the wagons had been taken. Freshly cut boughs, the leaves hardly withered, disguised the wagons’ track into the woods; the brigands had chosen a stony outcrop for the turn off the road. It led, or so Paks thought, the wrong direction—north—but Mal looked grim when he saw it.

  “There’s a farm to the northwest,” he said. “Or was, until it burned. If they’re using it, they may be using the old farm lane to bring the wagons back, and cross this road farther along. As I remember, that other farm lane hits this road in about the same place.”

  “Well, do we follow this?” asked Paks.

  “No. Not with horses. We’d make a noise like an army in there, with a third of the leaves down as they are. If you’ll take my advice, we’ll go along the road and look for that other place, where the lane comes in.”

  Paks could just see the lane coming in ahead when Mal stopped abruptly. “Ha,” he said loudly. “There’s the tree I come for.” She stared at him, surprised, and he winked. “You’d best go on up the road a ways,” he went on. “I want to drop it right here in the road. Tell you what. You take these two wheels along with you, eh? Go on—yes—right along up there, at least as far as that lane. This’un’ll fall long, I tell you.” Paks finally caught on, and wandered slowly up the road as he bade her. Behind her, the axe rang on the tree. She wondered if it really was a “limber pine” or whatever.