The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Besides, we may be getting something from all the orcs around.” Devlin reached across her for another hunk of bread. “Tir knows there’s enough of them, the filthy beasts.”

  “Where are they coming from?”

  “Out of the very stone, for all we can tell.” Stammel frowned. “You won’t know about this, Paks, but off to the northeast is a mess of caves and passages that were full of orcs when the Duke took this grant. The Lairs, it was called, and that’s where the trouble started. Thing is, it’d take five Companies the size of this one to find and clear all the caves. And they’ve been striking west of here—we wonder if they have another complex of caves somewhere west.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Everything the captains can think of. Random patrols? Fine, but some of them are out three days without spotting an orc, and others run into bunches too big to tangle with. Pursuit of each band spotted? The last ones we tried that with took off straight north up onto the moors and kept going. Setting ambushes in likely spots? Again, sometimes a patrol’s out for days without any orcs, and another time it’s nearly wiped out. Perimeter control? We haven’t enough for that, if we’re going to hold the two villages, the stronghold, and protect the road at all.”

  Paks couldn’t think of anything else herself.

  “So far, they’re under control—despite some losses, the crops are still going in and being harvested, and the villages haven’t been burned. But they’re keeping us busy, day after day. We can’t tell exactly what they’re after, either. Sometimes it seems they’re just asking for a fight. They haven’t tried a full-scale assault on the stronghold or the villages—of course that would be stupid of them.”

  “What I think—” Stammel stopped, and looked around. Most of the others had left, and he glared at Vik until the redhead shrugged and went out. That left Devlin, Paks, and Stammel at that table. “What I think,” Stammel began again in a quiet voice, “is the Duke’s not keeping his mind on it. That sister of Venner’s—”

  “I don’t believe he’ll marry her,” said Devlin. “I can’t—”

  Stammel shook his head. “He’s thinking of heirs, now. At his age, if he’s to sire his own, it’s time he was at it. I don’t like her any more than you do, Dev, but she’s the only woman around who—”

  “I don’t understand,” said Paks. “You say the Duke is planning to marry? I thought Kolya said he never would, after—” She stopped before saying the name.

  “That’s what I would have said. But these past two years, staying up here—he’s started thinking, you see, what will happen when he’s old. I know he’s thought of naming one of the Halveric sons his heir. But that might not sit well with the court, they being Lyonyan. He’s not one to take a young wife, not now. And this sister of Venner’s—she’s handsome enough, and knows her way with men—”

  “She’s a widow,” put in Devlin. “So it’s said. She came up here to get Venner’s help with the estate.”

  “What does she look like?” asked Paks. “Does she ever come out of his courtyard?”

  “She’s—well, as I said, handsome. Reddish hair. She rides out with Venner every now and then—”

  “Goes to the Red Fox with him,” added Devlin. “Piter’s told me that. They take a private room and have dinner.”

  Paks thought back to the woman and man she’d seen the first night. She could not imagine the Duke marrying someone like that.

  “It’s not our business,” said Stammel, but he sounded unconvinced. “If the Duke wants her—”

  “It’s more whether she wants him. Any woman like that would: he’s rich, well-known, with large landholdings—”

  “I still can’t believe it,” said Paks.

  “Well, we can hope. I only wish he’d either do it or not, and pay more attention to these orcs. I can’t believe they’re causing all this trouble after years of peace without something else going on.”

  “If we had a paladin here—” began Devlin, then looked quickly at Paks and flushed. “Sorry, Paks. I didn’t think—”

  She shook her head. “That’s all right.” She wasn’t ready to claim or demonstrate her gifts. “You’re thinking of being able to find a source of evil?”

  “Yes. I agree with Stammel that something must have stirred the tribes. What if it’s a cover for something else? You had to do with greater evils in Kolobia—what if something like that is out there?”

  * * *

  As the days passed, Paks had her own encounters with orcs, as frustrating and inconclusive as the others had described. What, she wondered to herself, was a paladin supposed to do in a situation like this? It wasn’t that the soldiers were unwilling to fight, or were badly commanded. She could think of nothing to do that had not been tried. She knew that Stammel, at least, expected more of her, some miraculous intervention that would solve the mystery of the orcs’ interest in the Duke’s lands that year, and eliminate them. She prodded her mind, trying to force the vague feeling she assumed came from the gods into something more direct and definite. If she was supposed to be there, why? For what purpose? What sort of danger or evil should she be looking for? But all she found inside was the certainty that she should be where she was, doing what she was doing. And that seemed to accomplish nothing.

  Chapter Nine

  Paks had hardly seen the Duke in the days since her first interview. Now, preparing to enter the Duke’s Court, she had time to wonder what she would find. Would it be like dinner with the Marshal-General? Or the candidates’ hall in Fin Panir? She found she had no idea what the Duke and his captains did: what they wore, what they ate, how they talked. Did he have a minstrel? And it seemed even stranger to be coming to his table in her uniform—she shook that feeling away. Simple nervousness, no doubt.

  At the door, the sentry nodded. She knew him: a veteran in Cracolnya’s cohort. She had another attack of nervousness inside the hall, as she wondered which way to turn.

  “Paks? Over here.” Dorrin beckoned from the left, a wide passage. Paks turned that way, and came into an oblong room with a large table in the center. “We eat here, and it’s also a conference room.” Now that Paks knew what to look for, the emblem of Falk that Dorrin wore was plain to see: the tiny ruby glittered in the lamplight. “You’re early,” Dorrin went on. “Cracolnya’s still out on a patrol. Pont won’t be here tonight. Arcolin’s upstairs with the Duke, and Val’s settling the recruits.” She looked closely at Paks. “How do you like being back?”

  “Very much, Captain.” Paks had never had much to do with Dorrin. She was next in seniority after Arcolin; Paks wondered if she had known Tamar. She looked around the room. The table was already set: plates and the two-pronged forks she’d learned to use in Fin Panir were laid before each chair. Goblets of pale blue swirled glass—tall flagons to match—squat mugs for the ale that would follow the meal. Loaves of bread were already on the table, too, as were dishes of salt and the condiments the Duke had grown used to in Aarenis. On one wall were weapons: a gilded battle-ax (Paks wondered at that—she had never seen the Duke use one), a slender sword with a green jewel in the hilt, two curved blades with inlaid runes, in blue sea-stone, on the broad blades, and a notched black blade that made Paks shudder to look at it.

  “You should know who else may be at dinner with us. The Duke’s surgeons sometimes—you may remember Visanior and Simmitt. Master Vetrifuge, the mage, would be with us, but he’s visiting another mage down near Vérella for a few weeks. Kessim, of course. And the Duke’s steward: did you know Venneristimon when you were here before?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Not surprising. He has nothing to do with the recruits. Well, he sits with us, many times. His sister, too, has been visiting here: she’s a widow, and he’s helping her with her estates. So it’s been explained.” By a slight chill in this last phrase, Paks guessed that Dorrin didn’t like the steward’s sister. She wondered if anyone did, remembering Stammel and Devlin.

  “Paks. Good, you’re here
.” Arcolin and Valichi came in together. Paks realized suddenly that none of the captains were wearing swords. Arcolin must have noticed her quick look at each hip. “We don’t wear swords in the hall,” he said quietly. “The Duke sometimes has visitors he would not wish armed at his table.”

  “But you—” began Paks.

  “They cannot object if we do not wear them.”

  “I see.”

  “We have nothing to fear from each other,” he went on. Paks felt a sudden surge of unease, as if the floor dipped slightly. She almost shook her head to clear it, then looked around. At the door, the Duke stood beside a red-haired woman in a blue gown. She had her hand on his arm, and her body seemed to lean toward him. Paks recognized her at once: the woman she had seen in the inn the first night she returned. Behind them was the slight form of Kessim, the Duke’s squire on duty. Arcolin murmured, “That’s Venner’s sister—Lady Arvys Terrostin.”

  The Duke led the lady in. She smiled and spoke to all the captains, and to Paks when she was introduced.

  “Paksenarrion? What an unusual name, my dear. Kieri has told me so much about you—I could be jealous, if I had any right to be—” She extended a soft hand, and Paks took it, aware of her own rough palm. More than that, she was shaken with revulsion. She fought to conceal it. However much she disliked this woman, she was the Duke’s guest. But Dorrin turned the conversation, speaking to Paks.

  “Is it a family name, Paks? I remember wondering about that—”

  “My great-aunt was named Paksenarrion. I don’t know for whom, but I was named for her.” Paks wiped her hand on her tunic; she felt dirty.

  “Ah. And I was named for my father’s grandmother. It was supposed to honor her, but when I turned soldier the family was furious and changed her name in the family records.” Dorrin smiled. “They sent me the one letter, to be sure I knew it, and that’s all I’ve ever heard.” Paks had never thought of any of the captains starting out.

  “Eh, my lord—sorry I’m late—” Cracolnya, in the doorway, unwrapped his swordbelt and tossed it at a servant in the passage outside.

  “What did you find?” asked the Duke.

  “What we’ve found so far.” Cracolnya stumped over to the table, obviously stiff from the saddle, and poured himself a glass of wine. His mail jingled faintly as he moved. He drank the wine down. “They made for the Lairs again—a band of forty or so. We killed fifteen, and wounded a few, but we couldn’t catch them before they went underground.”

  “I’m sure you tried very hard,” put in Lady Arvys. For the barest instant everyone looked at her. Then they all moved to find a seat at the table.

  “We’re not formal,” said Valichi, the recruit captain. “Not unless we have visitors from outside. Just find a place somewhere—” Paks waited until the others had sorted themselves, and took a seat at the far end of the table from the Duke. She noted that Lady Arvys sat on the Duke’s left, and Master Simmitt, one of the dark-robed surgeons, was on his right. Cracolnya, Valichi, and Visanior, the other surgeon, took the left side of the table, while Arcolin, Dorrin, and the Duke’s steward (who entered at the last minute) took the right side. Kessim sat beside Paks. Servants brought in platters of food, and the meal began. Paks ate quietly, sharply aware of something wrong, but unable to locate it. She remembered feeling like this in the inn; she wondered if it was the red-haired woman. She looked at the faces, trying to pick out the woman’s escort that night. Around her the talk was of orcs and their raids.

  “After so many quiet years, I simply can’t understand it.” Valichi gestured with his wine glass. “I must have missed something, staying up here with recruits—somehow I let them build up—but I swear to you, my lord, we had no trouble. No trouble at all.”

  “I believe you.” The Duke’s eyes were hooded. “I can only imagine that they are moved by some power—” He paused as Lady Arvys’s hand rested lightly on his arm for a moment. She murmured something low into his ear. His face relaxed into a smile, and he shook his head. “Well,” he said in a milder tone, “we need not mar our meal with such talk. Tir knows we’ve covered the same ground before. Has anyone a lighter tale, to sweeten the evening?” Paks saw the others’ eyes shift sideways from face to face. She herself had never imagined the Duke being deflected from a serious concern by anyone, let alone someone like Lady Arvys. Meanwhile Simmitt had begun talking of rumors from Lyonya: the king’s illness, and turmoil among the heirs. The lady listened eagerly.

  “Did you hear anything about Lord Penninalt?” she asked, when Simmitt paused.

  “No, lady, not then. Did you know him?”

  “Yes, indeed. A fine man. My late husband held his lands from Lord Penninalt, and we went every year to the Firsting Feast.” She turned to the Duke. “He is not so tall as you, my lord, or as famous in battle, but a brave man nonetheless.”

  “You need not flatter me,” said the Duke, but he seemed not displeased.

  Paks shivered. She looked up to find Venneristimon, diagonally across the table, staring at her.

  “Are you quite well, Paks?” he asked. His tone was gentle and concerned, but it rasped on her like a file on bare flesh.

  “Yes,” she said shortly. Something moved behind his eyes, and he passed a flagon of a different wine down the table.

  “Here—try this. Perhaps it will help.” Now the others were looking at her, curious. Paks poured the wine—white this time—into her glass. She didn’t want it, but did not want to make a fuss, either.

  “I’m fine,” she said. She passed the flagon back, and speared another sliver of roast mutton. She drenched it in gravy, and stuffed it quickly in her mouth. The others turned back to their own plates. When she glanced up again, Venner was still watching her sideways. His mouth stiffened when she met his eyes. She felt her heart begin to pound; her skin tingled. The lady and Simmitt talked on, idle gossip of court society and politics. Paks looked back at her plate. She had nearly cleaned it, and the dishes on the table were almost empty. She reached for the last redroots on the platter.

  “Still hungry, Paks?” The lady’s voice, though warm and friendly, had the same effect on Paks as Venner’s. “I suppose you work so much harder—”

  Paks felt her face go hot. She had not realized the others were through. Her stomach clenched, but Val was answering.

  “All soldiers learn to eat when they can, lady.” She glanced over to find him cutting himself another slice of mutton. “Paks is not one to talk when she has nothing to say.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” said the lady, smiling down the table. “Paks, do say you forgive me--”

  Paks’s mouth was dry as dust. She took a deliberate sip of the white wine, and said, “It’s not for me to forgive, lady; you meant no offense.” The wine seemed to go straight to her head; her vision blurred. As if she looked through smoke, she peered up the table and met Lady Arvys’s eyes. They changed from green to flat black as she looked. Paks felt the jolt in her head; she looked toward Venner as if someone pulled her head on a string. He was watching her, lips folded under at the corners, like someone satisfied but wary. Her sense of wrong seemed to grab her whole body and shake it. Half-stupefied by the wine (how could one swallow be so strong?) she looked from one face to the other. Of course. Venner had been her escort. Even so, what was happening?

  She might have sat there longer, but Venner spoke. “Ah . . . do you find the wine too strong for you, Paks? Are you still feeling ill?”

  A flicker of anger touched her, and with it a warning. The anger, too, was wrong. It felt alien, as if it came from someone else. She reached deep inside for her own sense of self, and found not only that but a call for guidance. Her tongue felt clumsy, but she formed the words: “In the High Lord’s name—”

  Venner’s face contracted; black malice leaped from his eyes. At once the hall was plunged into darkness. Stinking lamp smoke flavored a cold wind that scoured the room. Without thought Paks asked light, and found herself lined with glowing brilliance.
She leaped up, looking for Venner. She could hear the scrape of chairs on the floor, the exclamations of the others—and a curse from Venner’s sister. The Duke gasped; she knew without looking that he’d been wounded somehow. At Venner’s end of the table, nothing could be seen but a whirl of darkness.

  “You fool,” said his voice out of that darkness. “You merely make yourself a target.” Something struck at her, a force like a thrown javelin. She staggered a little, but the light repelled it. She looked at the captains: they sat sprawled in their chairs, eyes glittering in the spell-light, but unmoving. “They won’t help you,” Venner went on. “They can’t. And you are unarmed, but I—” She saw the darkness move to the wall, saw it engulf the terrible notched blade she’d seen there. “While she takes care of the Duke, I will kill you with this—as I killed before—and again no one will know. When I let these captains free, it will seem that you went wild—as Stephi did before you—and killed the Duke, while I tried to save his life.”

  Paks was already moving, clearing herself of the chair. She had picked up a bronze platter—the largest thing on the table—and looked now to the walls for a weapon of her own. She was nearly too late. Venner had taken more than the notched sword: out of the darkness the battleaxe whirled at her. She flung out the platter, and it folded around the axe, slowing it and spoiling the blow. She had her dagger in hand now—far too short against an unseen opponent. The ragged edge of Venner’s sword caught the dagger and nearly took it out of her hand. She jumped back.

  “You can’t escape,” his voice said, out of the blackness. “You—”

  Paks saw a glow on one wall and leaped for it. The notched blade clattered against the wall just behind her. But she had a sword in her hand—the sword with the green stone. Its blade glowed blue as she took it. Before she could turn, Venner struck again. She felt the black sword open a gash along her side; she tucked and rolled away, and came up ready to fight.