“Yeomen of Gird,” said the Marshal with emphasis. “It is not my tale to tell. I can tell you that the Marshal-General has commended her to every grange—every grange, do you hear?—and to all the Fellowship of Gird. I daresay she travels where she does, and as she does, by the will of the High Lord and Gird his servant. I will not ask more—and you would be wise to heed me.”
“Well,” said the big man, undeflated, “if you ask me, she looks more like a runaway apprentice than a warrior of Gird. No offense meant—” he said with a glance at Paks. “If so be I’m wrong, then—well—you know how to take satisfaction.” With that he flexed his massive arms, and grinned.
“You’re wrong indeed, Arbad,” said the Marshal. “And I’ll take the satisfaction for your discourtesy to a guest of the grange, on next drill night, or hear your apology now.”
Evidently the Marshal’s right arm was well respected, for Arbad rose and muttered an apology to Paks. The meeting broke up shortly after that. A few had come to speak to Paks, but most huddled together in the corners, looking at her and speaking quietly to each other. The Marshal stayed near her, stern and quiet.
* * *
At Highgate Paks delivered the Marshal’s letter to the Highgate Marshal, and shared a hot meal at the grange. He introduced her to a trader, in town on his way south and east, and Paks hired on as common labor. The rest of that day she unloaded and loaded wagons, and harnessed the stolid draft-oxen. With the other laborers, she slept under one of the wagons, and the next day they started on the road.
Keris Sabensson, the trader, rode a round-bellied horse at the head of the wagons; he had a drover for each wagon, five guards, and two common laborers. Paks was expected to do most of the camp-work, load and unload the wagons at each stop, and help care for the animals. She found the work within her strength, but was terrified of the guards, who tried to joke with her.
“Come on, Paks,” said one of them one night when she jumped back from a playful thrust of his sword. “With those scars you’ve got, you’ve been closer than this to a sword. You know I’m not serious. Here—let’s see what you can do.” He tossed the sword to her. Paks threw out her hand, and knocked it away; it fell to the ground. “Hey! Stupid, don’t do that! You’ll nick it!” He glared at her.
“You can’t tell me you haven’t fought—what happened, lose your nerve?” Another one had her by the arm.
“Let her alone, Cam—suppose you ended up—”
“Like her? Never. I’ll be a captain someday, with my own troop. Who’d you fight with, Paks—tell us.”
“Phelan,” she muttered. She could not break free, and was afraid to try.
“What? I don’t believe it.” Cam dropped her arm. “You were in the Red Duke’s Company? When?”
“A—a couple of years ago.” They were all watching now, eyes bright in the firelight. She swallowed, looking for a way out of their circle.
“What happened? Get thrown out?” Cam’s grin faded as he watched her.
“No, I—” She looked into the fire.
“Tir’s gut, Paks, you make a short tale long by breathing on it. What happened?”
“I left.” She said that much, and her throat closed.
“You left.” The senior, a lean dark man who claimed to have fought with the Tsaian royal guard, confronted her. He looked her up and down. “Hmm. You don’t get scars like that from not fighting, and you’re too old to have been thrown out as a recruit, and not old enough to be a veteran. But you’re scared, aren’t you?”
Paks nodded, unable to speak.
“Is that why you left Phelan?” She shook her head. “When did you—no, those scars are too new. Something happened—by the look of it, within the past few weeks.” She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze, but felt it through her skin. No one spoke; she could hear the flames sputtering against a sleety wind, and the hiss of sleet on the wagons.
“All right,” he said finally. She opened her eyes; he had turned, and faced the others. “I think she’s told the truth; no one lies about serving with Phelan and lives long to tell it. She’s got the marks of a warrior; something’s broken her. I wouldn’t want to carry that collection myself. Let her alone.”
“But Jori—”
“Let her alone, Cam. She has enough to live with. Don’t add to it.” With that he led them away to one side of the fire. Paks went on with her work, but spent most of that night awake. She began to realize that she could not pass as a laborer; her scars would always betray her past. People she met would expect things—things she no longer had—and each meeting would be like this.
Two days later, a band of brigands struck the wagons. They were deep in a belt of forest, where the guards could not see far, and they had dragged Keris Sabensson from his horse and cut the traces of the first team before the guards got into action. The drovers reacted quickly, defending their teams and wagons with the long staves they carried; the other laborer ran forward and caught Sabensson’s horse. Paks froze where she was, terrified. She could not move, could not help or run. And when the fight was over, and the trader, head bandaged, was settled in the first wagon, he fired her.
“I’m not having any damned fools here,” he said angrily. “Stupid, cowardly—by all the gods I’d rather have a drunken swineherd to depend on. Get out! Take your pay—not that you’ve earned it!” He threw a few coins out of the wagon; one hit Paks in the face. “Go on—move!” He poked the drover, who prodded the oxen into motion. Paks stepped back, ignoring the coins at her feet. On the second wagon Cam smirked at her, but she hardly noticed. She stared blankly ahead as one wagon after another passed her, and the oxen blew clouds of steam.
At the last, Jori, now riding the trader’s horse, stopped. “Paks, here.” He handed her a small leather bag. “It isn’t much—what we—I mean—” He touched her head. “I know what kind of soldiers Phelan has. You be careful, hear?”
She stood a long time in the track, holding the bag, until she finally thought to tuck it into her belt and start walking.
At the next town, they had heard of her from the trader, still angry. She trudged past the grange without looking at it, and went on, going the way that the trader had not gone. She had not dared enter an inn, but had bought bread from a baker. At the town beyond that, after a night spent in a ruined barn, she found work in a large inn.
“Not inside,” said the innkeeper after a look at her face. “No. You won’t do inside. But if you’re not afraid of work, I can use someone in the yard. Haul dung, feed, clean stalls—you can do that?” Paks nodded. “Sleep in the shed—in the barn if it’s not full. You get board and a copper crown a week.” Paks thought dully that she must be back in Tsaia—Finthan coins were crescents and bits, not crowns. “Can you work with big horses?” She shook her head, remembering the disaster in Fin Panir when she had been unable to groom Socks, let alone ride him. Somehow her fear transmitted itself to horses, and made them skittish. “Too bad; it’s a chance for tips. Well, then, stay out of the way. The grooms’ll be glad to have the dirty work taken off them.”
So they were. Paks hauled dung from the barns twice a day, pitched straw, bedded stalls, carried feed. Work began before daylight, and continued as late as the last person came to the inn. The shed she slept in was by the kitchen door, and half-full of firewood; it backed on the great fireplace, and she thought she could feel a little warmth in the stones, but that was all. She had no place to wash, and no reason to—the innkeeper was clearly surprised when she asked. She did not mention it again. As for board, the innkeeper was more generous than many: bread, soup and porridge, and a chance at the scraps. Not that much was left after the kitchen help, indoor help, and the rest of the stable help took their share. She hid her own pack behind the firewood, and half-forgot it was there or what was in it.
She noticed that her scars from Kolobia had begun to fade again, as mysteriously as they darkened. This time, however, the pain did not fade with the color. It continued as a bitter bone-deep ache that sa
pped her strength. She did not think about it; she didn’t think of anything much, but whether she could lift another shovel-full. Winter’s grip strengthened; even within the courtyard there were days when the wind blew snow into a white mass that made it hard to breathe. She wore all her clothes, and still woke stiff in the mornings. Trade slowed, in the bitter cold, and the innkeeper told her she could sleep in the barn, now half-empty. It was warmer there, burrowing in straw, with animals heating the air.
She hoped to stay there all winter, but one night two drunken thieves drove her away. It began when they arrived, and handed their mule’s lead-rope to one of the grooms. The tall one caught sight of Paks and nudged the other. She saw this, and ducked behind a partition, but heard their comments. Late that night, they came out to the barn, “to look at our mule,” as they said. The grooms were gone; one to the kitchen, where he had a lover, and one to a tavern down the street. Paks had gone to sleep in a far stall, carefully away from the mule. They found her.
“Well, well—here’s a pretty lass. Hello, yellow-hair—like a little present?” She woke to find them standing over her. The tall one whirled something shiny on a ribbon; the other one carried a branched candlestick with two candles. She looked around wildly. She was trapped in a corner stall; they stood in the door, chuckling. She scrambled up, backing away from them.
“By Simyits, I think she’s scared. Surely you aren’t a virgin, sweetling—why so frightened?” The shorter man came nearer. “Kevis, are you sure of her? It’s easy to tell she works in the stables.”
“Oh, I think so. It’s the ugly ones and poor ones that appreciate presents. See this, sweetheart? It’s a nice shiny ring. All for you, if you just—”
Paks jumped for the gap that had opened between them, trying to scream. As in a dream, little sound came out; the tall man grunted as she bumped into him, and grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth. “Now that’s not nice, pretty lass—behave yourself.” She struggled wildly, but the other man had set the candlestick on the stall partition grabbed her as well. “Quiet down, girl; you’re not going anywh—Damn you, you stinking—” Paks had managed to get a finger between her teeth, but his other hand gripped her throat. She choked; the shorter man twisted her arms behind her.
“What, Cal?”
“She bit me, the stupid slut.” Paks heard this through the roaring of her ears as he kept the pressure on her throat. “If we didn’t need her, I’d—”
“Let up, Cal. I’ve got her.” The tall man gave a final squeeze, and loosed her throat. Paks gasped for air; it seemed to scrape her throat as it went in. She could not stand upright with the pressure on her arms. The shorter man increased it, and forced her to her knees. The tall man bent near her; she could smell the ale on his breath.
“Listen to me, sweetheart—you’re going to help us, and you’re going to give us a good time. If you do it right, you’ll get a little reward out of it—maybe this ring. If you act stupid, like you just did, you’ll die hurting. Now—do you understand?”
Paks could not speak for terror and pain. She was shaking all over, and tears sprang from her eyes.
“I asked you a question.” A knife had appeared in the tall man’s hand; it pricked her throat. Paks heard herself moan, a terrible sound that she did not know she could make.
“Simyits save us all,” muttered the shorter man, behind her. “It’s no wonder they have this one in the stable. No wits at all.”
“No wits, the better lay.”
“Kevis—”
“Well, Cal, you know the saying. It tames wild mares and witches. Why not a stable hand?”
“What about time?”
“So how long does it take?”
“You may be right.” Paks heard the grin in the voice behind her, and saw the man in front fumble with his trousers.
“I’ll go first.”
“Greedy—you always go first.” The man behind her let go her arms, and Paks fell face-down in the straw. She rolled away, trying again to escape, but they caught her. The tall man backhanded her across the face, knocking her into the back of the stall.
“That’s for the bite, slut. Now don’t cause trouble.” He grabbed her shirt, and ripped it open. “What a beauty!” His voice was cold. “Where’d you get those scars—somebody whip you once?”
“More than once,” said the other one. “By the dark goddess, I never saw anything like that outside of Liart’s temples in Aarenis. Kevis—”
“Don’t bother me, Cal.” The tall man tugged at her belt. “I’m busy.”
“Kevis, wait. If this is Liart’s bait—”
“Cal, I don’t care if it’s the crown princess of Tsaia—”
“But Kevis—” The shorter man pulled at his companion’s arm. “Listen to me. I know what I mean—Liart won’t like it if that’s one of his.”
“Liart can go—” He had broken the belt, and forced his hands between her thighs. Paks tried to struggle, but he had her wedged against the wall where she could not move.
“Don’t say that!” The shorter man used enough force to pull the other’s arm away. “Kevis, it’s serious. Liart is a jealous god; he’ll kill—and I know how he kills—”
“Don’t bother me!” The taller man turned away from Paks and pulled his knife. “Hells blast you, Cal, you’re as craven as she is. Get back—”
“No! I’m not having any part of this if she’s Liart’s—”
“Then go away. Don’t—I don’t care—but don’t—” He swayed a little on his feet, and the shorter man took his chance to pull him away from Paks. She watched through a fog of fear as they began to fight. They stumbled into her and away; she took stray blows and kicks, feeling each of them as a shattering force that left her still less will to move, to escape. Finally they staggered into the partition, and knocked over the candlestick. Light flared up from the neighboring stall; the men stopped short, staring.
“Hells below! See what you’ve done?” The shorter man, breathing heavily, glowered at the other.
“Me! It was you, pighead! Come on—run for it!”
“What about her?”
“Leave the stupid slut.” Paks heard their feet on the passage floor, heard the crackling flames in the next stall. She could not move, she felt; her body was a mass of pain. She heard more yelling, and more, in the distance, but was hardly aware when someone grabbed her legs and dragged her out of the burning barn. By the time she had realized what had happened, she was already being blamed for it.
“I let you sleep there, out of the kindness of my heart, and what do you do? You not only whore around in the stalls, but you take candles—candles, open flames, Gird blast you!—into the stable and start a fire! If it hadn’t been for Arvid coming back in, we’d have lost five horses. We did lose all that hay. He should have left you there.”
“It wasn’t—I didn’t—” Paks could hardly speak, with her bruised throat, but she tried to defend herself. “They—they tried to rape me.”
The innkeeper snorted. “I don’t believe that! No one would pick you—gods above, I have comely girls in the house they’d likelier try. You’ve been using my barn—my barn!—for your tricks. Now get out! Where do you think you’re going?”
“My pack—” said Paks faintly.
“I ought to take it for the damage you’ve done. All right, take the damn thing—it’s probably full of lice anyway, dirty as you are.” He hit her hard as she tried to leave, and drove her out of the gates with another blow and a kick. She fell heavily into the street, but managed to clamber up as he came toward her, and limped away.
It was dark and bitter cold. She followed the street by touching the walls along it, stumbling into them, choking down sobs. She felt as if a great vise were squeezing her body, twisting it to shapes of pain she had never imagined. When she thought of the past—of last winter—it seemed to recede, racing away into a distance she could never span. A last little bright image of herself at Fin Panir, happy and secure, gleamed for a moment in
her mind and disappeared. She stopped, confused. She had no wall to touch, and all around was a howling dark, cold and windy. It was one with the void inside.
Chapter Thirty-one
Marshal-General Arianya
High Lord’s Hall
Fin Panir
To all Marshals of Gird,
Greetings:
In the matter of Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, recently a member of Gird’s Company here, I request the courtesy and charity of your grange. Paksenarrion was a member of Gird’s quest to the stronghold of Luap; without her defense the quest would have failed more than once. Through the malice of Achrya, she has been left unfit for battle, and has chosen to work her own way in the world rather than accept grange gift, which she was offered freely. Marshals, this is not weakness; she was assailed with such power as even you or I might fall before. Give her any aid she needs; report any contact to me in Fin Panir for reimbursement; defend her as you can against malice and evil, for she can no longer defend herself. On my honor as commander of the Fellowship of Gird, she has no taint of evil herself, and Gird’s grace is on her.
She is tall, yellow-haired and gray-eyed, and has many fighter’s scars, including some that look recent, still inflamed. She carries a safe-conduct from me, but I fear she may be too shy to present it. Look for her. She is under our protection.
Marshal Keris
Shaleford Grange
To Marshal-General Arianya,
Greetings:
As you requested, I am writing to report that Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter has been here. I was away when she came, but yeoman-marshal Edsen took her in overnight. She seemed in good health; she seems to me a pleasant young woman, very willing to please, though not steady of nerve. She spoke to our yeomen about the quest to Kolobia, which they had not heard. I sent her with a message to old Leward at Highgate Grange; I know there is much traffic along the way there, even in winter, and thought she might find work. No one is hiring here.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 102