The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  Afterwards, Ambros, Paks, Mal, Sir Felis, and Arvid all gathered at the grange. Arvid lagged behind them, and when they were all sitting down in the chairs Ambros fetched from the Marshal’s study, he lounged against the door.

  “I have endured quite a bit of your suspicion,” he said calmly. “I think perhaps I should tell you precisely what I’m doing here—though I should prefer that you don’t tell everyone else.”

  “Why not?” asked Sir Felis, looking grim.

  “Because I can be a great help to you,” said Arvid. “If you choose to spread my fame too widely, I’ll simply leave.”

  “Well, then?”

  Arvid looked pointedly at Ambros. “The yeoman-marshal is the one I’d like to speak to. Will you, young sir, swear to say nothing of my guild or mission?”

  “I—I don’t know.” His hand was on his medallion. “If you’re evil—”

  “Evil!” Arvid laughed. “Sir, I am not what you would call good, but I serve no evil deity—that I will swear, and on your Relic, if you demand it.” He looked at Paks. “I am no more evil than this warrior—she is not Girdish, nor am I, but we have both spilled robbers’ blood today alongside your yeomen.”

  Ambros flushed. “I will keep your secrets, sir, as long as they do not dishonor Gird. But as to that, I will be the judge.”

  “Fair enough. I trust the honor of the Fellowship of Gird.” Arvid glanced around, gathering all their eyes on him. “Now: some of you—and many others—have thought I was a thief. I am not. I am, however, acquainted with the Thieves Guild.” He paused, and the silence thickened. “I am, in fact, on a mission for them at this time.”

  “And you ask me, a yeoman-marshal of Gird, to keep silence?” Ambros jumped up. Arvid’s hand rested on his sword.

  “Wait, sir. Hear me out. Your own yeoman will tell you I was happy enough to attack robbers this morning; I am no thief myself. The situation is more complicated than that.” He waited until Ambros was seated again, and then pulled a chair near the door for himself. “Now, be attentive. The Thieves Guild, however little you like its craft, is like any guild designed to keep the craftsmen in order. As far as its power runs, and that is far, it controls not merely the theft but also the sale of stolen goods. Some time ago, the Guild Headquarters in Vérella realized that caravans were being robbed near here—and their goods appeared distantly, sold without Guild authority. Or taxation.” He looked around to be sure they were all listening. “You see the problem. It could not be permitted to continue. A renegade thief is a danger not only to you, but to other thieves. The Guild Council determined to find out who was responsible. They sent—investigators, I suppose you could call them. Your amiable Marshal, young sir, being a most diligent worker for good, caught one and scared another two out of town. Yet another disappeared entirely. So at last,” he smiled at them all, “they sent me.”

  “And you are?” asked Sir Felis in a low growl.

  “I am, as I said, Arvid Semminson. A man hired to find the false thief in charge of this operation, and either force him into the Guild, with full payment of dues and fines owed, or kill him.”

  “But you’re not a thief.”

  “Oh, no. Never. Or at least, let’s say that I am not presently in need of anything which it would be worth my while to steal. And I have no joy in theft, as some of our weaker members have. I have stolen a few items in my time—I suppose most people have—but does it make this lady a thief that she stole a ham in Aarenis while in flight from Siniava?”

  Paks was amazed that he knew about that—then remembered that she had mentioned “uncle’s” establishment to the Marshal and Ambros. The others looked at her for a moment, a little confused by the change of emphasis.

  “Of course not,” barked Sir Felis. “But—”

  “What I am saying, Sir Felis, is that I want this ringleader dead as much, if not more, than you do. It was obvious at once to me that the robbers we captured were not in charge. They had not been fencing caravans of goods anywhere—they were poorly dressed and dull of wit. Whoever has been running this operation is not stupid. So we all have an enemy still at large—an enemy, moreover, who knows that we know where he’s hiding—and who is responsible for his defeat. I think he’s powerful, and probably either a magician or something worse—he probably spelled those poor men to keep them in his power.”

  “How would you know about that?”

  “Please—I am a man of experience in the world. All kinds of experience. Why should I not know of wizardry, and the greed of those who live by it? And, for that matter, something of the evil ones, as well. I judge we must move quickly against the ringleader, before he can gather new forces. I can help you—I am a skilled fighter, and I have other skills that you will find helpful. Underground in that old keep, for instance, you would find me a good tracker, and wary of traps. If you choose to let him go, you will shortly find that he is more powerful and dangerous—even deadly—to this whole community.”

  “I thought of that,” said Ambros suddenly. “I was telling Paks—if it’s a priest of Achrya, say, then we must move quickly. Every day may be important.”

  “Well, we can’t do anything until the Marshal comes back,” said Sir Felis. “You can’t hope to go against anything like that by yourself, Ambros.”

  “I don’t know when he’ll be back, Sir Felis. He said I wasn’t to go chasing robbers, that’s true—but this is different.”

  “I don’t see that. Orders are orders.”

  Ambros sat up straight. “Sir Felis, with all respect, my orders come from Gird, as well as Marshal Cedfer.”

  Paks saw a gleam of satisfaction in Arvid’s eyes. Sir Felis shook his head stubbornly.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a junior officer thought he had divine guidance when he was simply aching for an adventure. I tell you, Ambros, that you’re a fool if you tackle Achrya with a thief and a mercenary for aid.” He gave Paks a hard look. “Assuming you’re thinking of going with him. I think you’re honest, but—”

  Paks felt a burst of anger. “Sir Felis, if you have cause for that—”

  “No. All right, I’ll admit you’ve done well so far—I said it earlier. But you’re all young, and like any young fighters, you’ve got the sense of a clatter of colts. Wait for the Marshal, Ambros. Don’t drag others into your romantic dream.” Sir Felis pushed himself up and made for the door, pausing beside Arvid. “And you, master thief-not-a-thief, if you push that boy into rash action, I’ll not forget who started it.”

  “Sir Felis,” said Arvid coolly, “I’ll not forget who was unwilling to root out the deepest evil.” He moved aside from the door, as Sir Felis spat where his feet had been and went out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Arvid’s black-clothed form seemed to melt into the shadows as they moved farther away from the stairway, where dim light came from above. Paks felt a tightness in her chest. She did not like dark underground places, and wondered for a moment why she had agreed to come. Ambros nudged her in the back. She waved a hand at him, and took another careful step. Another. Surely it was ridiculous to come on something like this with only six, one of them an untried junior yeoman, an eager girl who would be all too likely to do something silly trying to prove herself. Arvid signalled, a wave of his arm, and Paks moved lightly toward him. He was the scout, accustomed, he said, to noticing traps. Paks, the most experienced sword fighter, came second.

  After her, Suli and Ambros together. Paks hoped the yeoman-marshal would be steadied by steadying the junior yeoman. Mal brought up the rear with Jori, a friend of his.

  “Door,” said Arvid quietly in her ear. “I’ll try it. Hinges right. Swings out.” Paks flattened herself to the left of the door; she saw a gleam of teeth as Arvid smiled. He ran his hands over the door for a moment, then did something Paks could not see to the lock. A nod of satisfaction; he drew his own blade and slowly pulled the door open. Paks waited, ready to strike. Nothing happened. She craned her neck and looked. Even deeper blackness. A
sour smell wafted out, a stench like old rotting leaves and bones. Arvid put his sword through the door. Nothing. With a shrug, he leaned around the frame, poking at the darkness as if it were a pillow.

  “Light?” asked Ambros softly. He had come quite close.

  “Not yet. It makes a target of us.”

  “Yes, but we aren’t cats—”

  “Quiet. Wait.” Arvid had told them their main danger would be haste. Make a noise, he had said, clatter around like a horse fair, and our quarry will be ready for us. Paks waited, trying to see into the darkness by force of will. Spots danced before her eyes. Gradually she found she could see a little better. The room ahead was clearly a room—all shades of darkness, but smaller than the banquet hall above them. She tried to see if anything lurked in it. It seemed as if something—a pile of something—obscured the floor, but without light she could not tell.

  “Go now,” said Arvid, in Paks’s ear. Together they moved under the lintel, separating at once on the inside to flatten against the inner wall. The others waited outside.

  In here the smell was stronger. Paks wrinkled her nose, trying to decide what it was. It smelled—meatier, she decided. Rotting straw, bones, meat, and something like the inside of a dirty boot. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the smell seemed stronger every second. Arvid sniffed, a tiny sound she could hear clearly.

  “That smell—” she heard from outside. She thought it was Mal.

  “Quiet,” said Ambros. Paks stood still, trying to hear anything past the pulse in her ears.

  “We’ll go forward five paces,” said Arvid quietly, “and then if nothing happens, we’ll try a light.”

  Paks heard the scrape of his boot on the stone flags as he took the first step, and moved with him. One step. Two, three—and she stumbled over something, staggering on soft, springy, uneven footing. A yelp got out before she closed her throat; Ambros behind her scraped flint on steel at once. As the spark caught, that little light showed that she’d caught her foot on the edge of a pile of garbage. Dirty straw, old clothes, bones chewed not-quite-clean, a broken pot—she started to laugh with relief. Ambros’s candle seemed brighter than she’d expected. She turned to Arvid; his eyes were wide with surprise.

  “Just trash,” she said, waving her sword at the heap. It was half her height, and easily three times her length. “They must have—”

  Part of the pile heaved up—and up—a vast hairy shoulder topped by an equally vast hairy face. A rheumy eye glared at her from under shaggy brows. Then the mouth opened on a double row of very sharp teeth. By reflex, Paks struck at the arm that swiped down from the darkness. Her sword bit into it, slicing deep, but the arm’s strength nearly cost her the grip. A deep bellow split the air, and the entire pile shuddered. Paks nearly lost her footing as the creature trampled its bed and attacked.

  She had no time to wonder what it was. Taller, broader, than any human, it had a roughly human shape. Heavy pelt over thick skin—it turned Ambros’s first stroke—long arms ending in clawed hands, and a surpassingly ugly face—Paks noticed these without trying to classify them. Its deep-voiced bellows shook the air around them.

  “Get back, Ambros!” cried Arvid. “Keep the light—this thing can see in the dark.”

  Ambros made a noise, but moved back. Suli had come up beside Paks, and was doing a creditable job with her sword—except that she couldn’t penetrate the thick hide. Paks had wounded the creature several times, while dodging raking blows from its claws, but it was still strong. Arvid, she saw in a quick glance, was trying to attack its flank, but it moved too fast—he couldn’t seem to get a killing blow in. Paks had just begun to wonder where Mal and his friend were, when she saw him working his way around the creature to its back. Once there, he swung his big axe in a mighty arc and sank it into the creature’s back. It screamed, a hoarse, high-pitched sound, deafening in that space.

  “The axe does it,” he yelled. “It’s got—” But the creature heaved backwards; Paks heard the axe-haft smack into something, and Mal grunted. She jumped forward, unsteady on the piled trash, and sank her sword deep in its belly. Now it lurched forward, bending. She dodged. Arvid got a stroke in on its left arm. Mal pulled the axe out of its back and swung again, this time higher. It went to its knees, moaning. Paks aimed a blow at the neck, and blood spurted out, drenching her arm. Still writhing, it sank to a heap, its eyes filming.

  “So much for silence and caution,” said Arvid tartly, when they had caught their breath. Mal and Suli had lit candles now as well, and they all took a close look at what they had killed. Half again as tall as Paks, and heavily built, it was like nothing she had ever seen.

  “What is it?” she asked, wiping the blood off her hands and face. The blood had an odd smell, and tasted terrible. Ambros shook his head. Arvid looked at her.

  “I’m not sure, Paks, but it might be a hool. I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve heard.”

  “A hool?”

  “Big, tough, stupid, dirty, likes to lair underground. If you can imagine a solitary giant orc—”

  “I thought hools were water giants,” said Ambros.

  Arvid shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Whatever it is, it’s dead. And we have just announced ourselves to the entire underground.”

  “I never did think trying to sneak in was a good idea,” said Ambros. “Gird is not subtle.”

  Arvid raised one brow, and smiled. “No. That’s why I’m not a Girdsman. But don’t worry—now you’ll have every chance for a suicidal frontal assault.”

  Paks had been poking gingerly through the trash heap that the creature had laired on. A copper armband gleamed; she picked it up. “Look. This is human-size.”

  “Hmm. Not worth much,” said Arvid.

  “No, but—I wouldn’t have thought the robbers would throw it away.”

  “That’s true. I—” Suddenly he stopped. They had all heard the sound: a rhythmic pounding, not loud, but distinct. Paks looked around. In flickering candlelight, she could just see a doorway across from the way they’d come in, and another door, closed and barred, centered the right-hand wall. Otherwise the room seemed empty.

  “It’s that door—the closed one,” said Mal. He wrenched his axe free of the creature’s backbone and started for it. Paks got there first, sword drawn. Arvid and Mal levered the heavy bars up and threw them aside. Then they pulled the door open.

  Candlelight showed a small room, hardly more than a cell. A gnome, one shoe off, stood poised by the door; his shoe was in his hand, where he’d been pounding the door. Another gnome lay on the bare stone floor, covered in cloaks.

  The standing gnome nodded stiffly and put his shoe back on. Then he addressed Paks in gnomish. She shook her head, and he frowned, then spoke in clipped accented Common.

  “It is that you lead this rescue? Or do you claim us prisoners?”

  “I—” Paks looked sideways at Arvid. He spoke.

  “Lady Paksenarrion commanded us for the capture of the robbers, and now we have come to see what else hides in this keep.”

  The gnome bowed from the waist, and met Paks’s eyes as he stood upright. “It shall be that you have the reward of the Aldonfulk, lady. For this indeed shall value be given. It is that our partner of Lyonya is eaten by that monster, true?”

  “We haven’t seen him,” said Paks, thinking of the arm-ring with a shudder. “Is that what you think happened?”

  “It took him. It seemed hungry. We heard cries. We could see nothing; I will not say what happened when I have not knowledge, but that is logical.”

  “Is your friend hurt?” The gnome on the floor had not moved.

  “Only slightly—he was hit by arrow of robbers. He sleeps to gain strength.”

  Paks was surprised by the gnome’s composure. Despite days of imprisonment in a dark cell, the death of one companion and the wounds of another, the gnome showed no distress. He turned to the other gnome, and spoke loudly in gnomish. Paks could not understand a word of it. She looked around to s
ee if the others did, but they looked as blank as she felt. The gnome on the floor stirred, and opened his eyes.

  “Surely you are hungry or thirsty,” said Paks, counting how many days they’d been imprisoned. “We have water and food.”

  The response was less than she’d expected; the unwounded gnome nodded and came forward. “It is not so bad as you thought. The robbers brought food the first day or so. They fed the creature something too. Then they were gone. Then we had nothing. You will take us back to Brewersbridge?”

  Paks handed him her water flask; the gnome uncapped it carefully and carried it to the other, who drank a few swallows. Then the first gnome drank. “We need not so much food as you,” he said, returning the flask. “If you take us now—”

  “But we haven’t found the priest,” said Ambros.

  “Priest?” asked the gnome, with no change of expression.

  “We believe that a servant of Achrya is nearby—perhaps deep in this place—and directed the robbers.”

  “Oh.” The gnomes looked at each other. “It is a matter for humans. We are not daskdusky, to search after the webspinner’s lair. If return to Brewersbridge, the return of your favor will be granted.”

  “We might as well,” said Arvid. “We’ve lost all chance of surprise.”

  “And we can’t leave these behind us,” said Paks. “They can’t defend themselves, with one of them wounded, and weakened as they are. We should get them to safety.”