The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  It was hard to roll the wheels along with one hand and lead the black horse with the other. Several times a wheel got loose, and she had to bend to pick it back up. When she got both wheels as far as the lane crossing, she dropped them with a grunt and wiped her hands on the fallen leaves. The black horse nudged her, and she scratched his chin idly. She could just see Mal bending to his work.

  “How long will you be?” she called back to him. The rhythmic axe blows stopped, and he stood up.

  “Eh?”

  “How long will you be?” She made it loud and distinct. “I thought I’d ride on and find water for my horse.”

  “Oh—say—a finger or two of sun. Not longer. There’s a spring up that lane—used to be a farm there, some years back. You could bring me some—my can’s back here; this fellow won’t fall till I drop him.”

  Paks mounted and rode back, to another of Mal’s winks, and he handed her a tall can with a wire bail. “It’s good water, or used to be,” he said. “Look out for wild animals, though. I’ve heard of wolves using it.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Paks, and drew along the black horse’s neck the tracks she’d seen: wagons and teams both. Mal nodded and waved her away.

  Paks made no attempt at silence as she rode along the lane that led south. She found a thread of water beside the lane, and then a cobble-walled springhouse. Beyond was a half-overgrown clearing with the ruins of a farmhouse and outbuildings. She didn’t look at it, but dipped the can in the spring, and let the black horse drink afterwards. It was not really thirsty, and wanted to sniff at fresh droppings a few feet away. Paks reined it around slowly, and rode back, glad of her helmet and mail shirt.

  Mal had the tree down by the time she got back, and loudly directed her in placing the wheels under one end of it. He had trimmed the ends of the axle log into rough rounds, and once the wheels were in place split the ends and placed cross-wedges in them.

  “Thing is,” he said, “the wheels have to turn on the axle, not with it—else it’d walk right off the end of the tree.” Paks hadn’t thought of that problem. Nor had she noticed the can of grease he’d brought to put on the axle. She did wonder how he’d gotten the large end of the tree into the cart. Surely he wasn’t that strong. She glanced overhead for something he might have slung a line from.

  “Don’t look up,” he warned quietly. Paks froze. “If you want to know how I lifted that monster,” he said more loudly, “I used its own limbs for levers. Trimmed ‘em after, that’s how I do it. Some men use lines, but then they have to have a taller tree nearby. Not always handy. By Gird, I’m thirsty!” He drained the can at one swallow.

  The journey back was slower; Mal’s pony moved the tree at an easy footpace. The black horse fretted. Paks got off again and walked alongside. When they reached Eris’s, they picked up the apples; Mal told Paks what the current price was, and she left it wrapped in the cloth Eris had put over the baskets. From there into town they talked softly of what Paks had seen. Mal said he had spotted a watcher in the trees. They agreed it would be too dangerous to scout the game trail if the brigands were still so alert.

  It was nearly dark when they passed the grange; Ambros and several other yeomen were talking in the barton gateway, and called greetings.

  “You can come help me on the bridge,” Mal yelled back. “Paks here isn’t much of a teamster.”

  “That’s not a team,” Paks retorted, sure by now that such joking was acceptable.

  “I’d be glad to hitch your black up and let him do some work,” said Mal.

  “I doubt that.” Ambros came up to them. “You weren’t there the first time she saddled him. He’d be impossible in harness. Come on Jori, give us a hand here.” Ambros and the other yeoman helped Mal get the wheels aligned on the bridge. Still talking, they followed along. Mal untied the log beside the Council Hall, and drove it off the back wheels. Then he let the weight drag it out of the Cart. His pony gave a heavy sigh as the log fell, and the men laughed.

  “Come on to the inn,” said Mal. “I’ll buy a mug for you.”

  They nodded and walked along; Jori and Ambros returned to some grange matter; Paks did not know what grange-set was, or what it had to do with a farm’s sale. She hardly listened, intent instead on figuring out just what Mal Argonist really was—not a simple forester, that was clear. She was beginning to wonder if anyone was actually a simple anything. Until Brewersbridge, she had not considered that an innkeeper might be a council member as well—that many people had more than one role, and considered them all important.

  The common room was moderately busy, but quiet. News of the attack made solemn faces. Paks stabled the black horse, and went back in to find that the others expected her at their table. She shook her head at Mal’s offer of ale, and asked Hebbinford for supper instead.

  “I eat before I drink,” she said in answer to Mal’s question. “I don’t have your—” She paused and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as the others laughed. “—capacity,” she said finally. Mal shook the table with his laughter.

  “You didn’t start young enough,” he said. “When I was scarce knee high, my old dad had me down tankards at a time.”

  “Of ale?” asked Ambros.

  “No—ale costs too much. Water. But it’s the habit, Ambros, of an open throat. The feel of it sliding down—”

  “Then why didn’t you stick with water?”

  “Oh, that was my brother.” His face grew solemn, but Paks thought she could sense the laughter underneath. “He said a yeoman of Gird must learn to drink like a man. So I did.”

  “If that’s your reason,” said Ambros, “you should be a kuakgannir—you don’t drink like a man, you drink like a tree.”

  They all laughed. Hebbinford brought Paks her platter of sliced meat and gravy. Mal grabbed a slice and stuffed it in his mouth. She looked at him.

  “It’s luck,” he said. “It’s your good luck if someone else eats the first bite.”

  Paks shook her head, and began eating. By the time she was through, the room had almost emptied. Ambros and Mal had gone out together. Sir Felis, Paks knew, would be coming in later for her report. She asked Hebbinford for another of the apple tarts, and settled back comfortably. The black-clad man was still in the room, and met her eyes. She had not talked to him since the afternoon before the Council’s summons; now he came to her table.

  “May I sit?”

  Paks nodded, her mouth full of apple tart. She reached for her mug to wash it down.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” he said. “You seem in good favor now; I hope for your sake that is true. But if anything is going to be done about that attack on the caravan—and if you are going to be part of it—I wish you’d consider my offer to come along. You might well want someone who was not—let’s say—from here.”

  Paks looked at him a moment before answering. “Sir—Arvid, didn’t you say?—” He nodded, smiling slightly. “You seem to be telling me that these people can’t be trusted. Is that so?”

  “I don’t think I’d put it like that. I do think that those who live in small villages are more trustworthy to others of the village than to strangers. Haven’t you found that to be true, in your travels? That these village folk stick together?”

  “I suppose.” Paks took another swallow from her mug, and prodded the remains of the tart. “It might be a reason not to trust them fully, but—pardon me—why should I trust you?”

  He gave her a suggestion of a wink. “Ah—I knew you knew more than you showed at first. That mountain traveling is enough to scramble anyone’s wits. Now I don’t have anything to say about their character—everyone knows how honest the Girdsmen are—at least to Girdsmen.” When Paks didn’t rise to this, he smiled a little and went on. “But you aren’t Girdish. Or of this village. I don’t think they’d lie, exactly, but they might shade the truth. And if it came to your skin or theirs—?”

  “I see your point,” said Paks quietly. “But you have still to answer mine.”


  “My dear,” he began, as he drew his dagger and carefully trimmed his fingernails with it. “You should trust me only because it is in your interest, as well as mine. I am neither Girdish nor a native here—therefore I am unlikely to sacrifice you for a brother’s reputation or a friend’s life. I don’t expect you to trust me as you trusted your companions in Duke Phelan’s company—of course not. But I have no good reason to kill you—and several to keep you alive.”

  “And they are?” asked Paks curiously. She picked up the rest of her tart and ate it, waiting for his answer. His eyes narrowed. He resheathed his dagger.

  “I told you before that our interests might march together. I think they do. I wish the brigands no luck; I would be glad to see them dead. You need not know why. Obviously, no one official is going to encourage me to go after them—I’m not an experienced soldier, and that’s what it takes. But if that is the charge they gave you, then I would be glad to assist. Perhaps to make sure it is done thoroughly.”

  “Have you a grudge against them?” asked Paks, honestly curious now. “Have they done you or your family an injury?”

  “I will not tell you that at this time.” Arvid turned a little, and signalled Hebbinford, who came over with a sharp glance for both of them. “Wine, sir, if you please.” Paks shook her head, and the innkeeper moved away. “I perceive, lady, that you are of sufficient experience to have caution—but insufficient to recognize an honest offer. Nonetheless it stands. My word you would have no reason to trust—but I will tell you honestly that I will not kill you, and I will defend you within reason, if you accept me as one of your company. If you were wise enough to know what I am, you would know what that is worth.”

  Paks frowned, not liking the bantering tone or the subtle insults. It reminded her too much of Macenion. She looked up at him again. “If such a command is offered me, and if I accept you—what other suggestions would you have?”

  His brows arched. “You ask much, with nothing given.”

  “I do? What of you—you ask my trust, with no evidence of your character. I have had such chances, sir, as make me distrust most strangers.”

  “But Girdsmen.” His tone was sour.

  “Most soldiers have found Girdsmen to be honest, at the least, and usually brave as well. I don’t know your allegiance, either to gods or lords.”

  Arvid sighed. “I am a guild member in good standing. As such I obey my guildmaster, in Vérella. It is an old guild, long established there—”

  “What craft?” asked Paks.

  He laughed. “What—do you think the Master Moneychanger here tells everyone when he travels what his guild affiliation is? Don’t you know that some guilds bind their traveling members to secrecy? Do you want to bring down on me that very plague of thieves you think I represent?”

  “No—” Paks flushed, confused.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have laughed. I understand your suspicion—and it does you credit. Any experienced adventurer is suspicious. But I cannot tell you my guild—at least not without asking—at this time. I cannot tell anyone here. I can only tell you what I have told you. In my judgment—and I am not without experience in the world myself—it is in both our interests to cooperate. I have an interest in those brigands—I want to see them removed. Does that sound like a thief or worse? You, I believe, have the Council’s permission to mount an attack on them. And you could use someone at your back who has no reason to wish an honest witness dead. Suppose they are actually living in town—related to one of the Council members. Do you honestly think they’ll thank you for capturing such as that? Let you take the risk, yes. Let you kill and capture them, yes—perhaps. But let you live to take the credit, when it’s their own? I doubt that much. If the brigands really are strangers, then you have no problem. But otherwise—”

  Paks nodded slowly. She was not truly convinced, but she had worried that the spy the Council wanted her to find might turn out to be someone they liked. And, as well, they had asked her to involve the other adventurers in town if she could. Surely this Arvid Semminson was an adventurer.

  * * *

  From the hill west of the keep, the crooked path down the moat was clearly visible, as were the signs of age and decay: stones from the outer wall tumbled into the moat, leaving ragged gaps in the wall through which the battered interior could be seen. Paks, concealed behind a thick-leaved but prickly shrub, stared down at the broken walls and waited for the diversion Sir Felis had promised. She had a motley group: Mal and several other yeomen of Gird, including Doryan, the two traders she’d met some days before, who said they wanted to avenge the attack on the caravan, a servant of theirs whom they said was a good bowman, one of Eris’s sons (a Falkian, Mal had reported sadly, but a good man), and Arvid. The sun rose higher, burning off the last of the mist from the moat and swamp around. Paks insisted that her group stay well back in cover, and refused to let them talk or light pipes. A subdued grumble followed these commands.

  “Stands to reason,” muttered the heavy-set bowman, “that if they could see us, we could see them. We can’t see a thing, through these leaves. We could smoke, at least.”

  Paks shook her head fiercely. “Sun’s in our eyes. They’ve got the better light. Think: how far can you see a shepherd’s breakfast firesmoke? There could be a dozen eyes looking out of that gap, from the shadow, and we’d never know it. Be still.”

  Someone cursed, but softly, and they rested as best they could in the positions Paks had chosen for them. The sun rose higher. Paks had to force herself to stay still. She wanted to walk back and forth, from post to post. Was this why the captains had so often walked the line before battle? She could hardly believe that she, the same old Paks, was commanding a group like this—a group of strangers.

  She looked again at the keep, which seemed a different shape as the shadows shifted with the sun, and wondered if the magician who built it had, indeed, left a curse. A light wind sifted through the trees, shuffling the leaves and making the shadows dance. She wondered if the militia had left Brewersbridge on time. They were supposed to have left just enough time for her to get her group into position. It had been too long. She squinted at the sun, feeling the sweat spring out on her neck, chill as it was. She swallowed against the fear, and glared around at the others. Someone had shifted carelessly, and a rock clattered. She turned back to the keep. Nothing moved there but a cloud of midges over the moat, a shimmer in the sun.

  At last she heard the rhythmic noise of marching men and horses. She eased forward to the edge of the wood, trying to see the north side of the keep, where the forest left a wider opening. The sound came louder, eddying in the uncertain wind. Now she could hear it distinctly. A movement in the distance caught her eye. A horn call swam through the air, mellow and long. She looked back at the keep. There: a flicker, quick as a lizard’s tail, on the highest part of the ruin. The horn call came again, louder. She could hear a bellowed command from the oncoming force. She looked back at her group; they were all alert. Mal grinned at her, shifting his broad shoulders. She realized that he had moved forward, coming between her and the others. But she had no time to think of that.

  The front of the captain’s “show of force” was out of the trees now. She could not tell from this distance how many of them were illusion. Nor could she tell which was Zinthys. None of them wore the kind of robes she had seen on him so far.

  “There’s one,” said Mal, so softly she almost missed hearing it. Then she, too, saw the brown-clad man peering from a low gap in the keep wall. He passed through, carrying a plank, and laid it on the edge of the moat. It extended to one of the fallen blocks farther out. He moved out onto the plank, and at once another came, this one in a heavy mailed shirt, dragging another plank. The second plank bridged the moat from the stone to the near shore. A third man appeared, carrying bows, and the three slipped across the bridge and spread to cover it. After a glance upslope, they concentrated on the corners of the keep.

  Noise
from the north side increased. Paks could not tell if it was a fight, or just noise. Suddenly a gout of flame rose up, and a thunderous boom echoed across the woods. Birds flew up screaming. The bowmen below did not flee, though one of them half-stood, to be pulled back by the others. Another gout of flame, and another, followed. The noise was appalling, even though Zinthys had warned them. A deer broke cover and bounded through the woods, crashing and snorting. A hurrying file of men slipped from the gap and teetered across the bridge. Paks saw the glint of mail on most of them; they had their swords out, and bows slung to their backs. She counted as they came, hoping that Sir Felis’s estimate was right.

  She knew the last had come when the bowmen moved. The entire group—just over a score—started up the hill, as she had expected. The archers stayed in the rear, and two swordsmen took the lead, several strides ahead of the rest. Paks frowned. With that spread, some of them could escape, if they were quick. She thought they would be quick.

  She turned to the stocky bowman. “Shoot low. Just in front of ‘em.”

  “Why?” But he complied. Two arrows thudded into the ground, and the two brigands in front slowed and peered up the slope.

  “So they’ll bunch up,” said Paks. “As they are now.”

  He gave her a quick look. “Hunh. That’s quite a trick. Where’d you learn—?” But they were all together now, and Paks called for another volley, from this man and the Girdish archers as well. Four of the brigands fell; Paks saw one of them struggle up and begin to crawl away along the slope. The others, furious and frightened, charged up the slope.

  The bowmen shot as fast as they could, hitting seven more of the brigands before Paks led the rest of her group to break the charge. Some of those fell; others turned aside, limping, or jerked the arrows free and kept with the main group. She hardly noticed; in the lead, full of the old excitement, she met the first brigand with a sweeping blow that broke his sword at the hilt. He jerked out his dagger and thrust, but she was past him, the sword carving into another man’s side. A blade she didn’t see caught her in the ribs; she felt the blow, but rolled off it to take another brigand in the neck. She heard the yeomen of Gird call on their patron as they followed her. But compared to the battles she’d been in with the Duke’s Company, this was short and easy. Almost before she knew it, the clash of weapons ceased.