The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

“Before?” The Duke’s eyebrows went up. “When? Before dinner—no. Not yet. When we’re secure, then we’ll talk about it. Safe or not, I don’t want this mess in my dining hall—we’ll take them out—clear outside the stronghold, and just in case we’ll behead Venner’s corpse as well. Kessim can lie in the other hall, until morning. We’ll hold his service tomorrow, and display the others to the troops, so they’ll know what’s happened.” Then a commotion at the door—Dorrin with two squads, eyes wide but disciplined.

  “Gather the servants,” the Duke told her. “Don’t tell them what happened, and don’t hurt them—they may well be innocent—but guard them well.”

  Chapter Ten

  By the start of the third watch that night, the stronghold was in a very different mood. The servants Venner had hired over the years were huddled in one of the third floor storage rooms, guarded by Dorrin’s soldiers. They were clearly confused and frightened. Paks, on the pretext of bringing Dorrin messages from the Duke, had wandered among them. None triggered her warnings of evil, and the Duke now believed them to be innocent. But he was taking no chances, and they remained under guard for the next day and a half. Kessim’s shrouded body lay in state in one of the reception rooms, with an honor guard from all three cohorts.

  Arcolin and the oldest veterans prowled the stronghold, looking for any signs of hidden weakness. Some they had already found, in the Duke’s quarters. “I didn’t build it this way,” muttered an old carpenter, as he pried a board loose in the back of a closet in the Duke’s sleeping room. “Look—you can see where these boards are newer, and stained dark. ‘Tis easy to open this—like a door—and come through or listen. It’d take a week to do such a job. Who? Not me, is all I say. But that Venner, now, he’d bring folks up from Vérella—my wife saw them, time and again, on the road, but we thought it was your will, my lord—” In the Duke’s study, again, a hidden panel swung out giving access to the next room, where files had been stored.

  On the walls, the doubled watch peered through the night. They knew from their sergeants’ faces that this was no night to gossip when they met at the corners or ask questions at the change of watch. Many had seen the blanket-wrapped bundles carried out the watch-gate: they didn’t know who, but they knew trouble had already come.

  The Duke seemed to be everywhere, with Paks at his side. He walked the walls himself, midway of the second watch, and strolled through each of the barracks. In the infirmary, he paused by each bed, until the sick had seen and recognized him. He paused to speak to sentries and guards at each post. Gradually the Company settled into watchfulness. The Duke was alive, and obviously well, and very obviously in command. Some of them looked sideways at Paks and wondered why she carried a longsword, but they did not ask.

  Midway of the third watch, Arcolin had found nothing amiss in the front court. “It will take days to search everything, my lord,” he reported. “But Siger and I think we’ve covered the most obvious places for trouble. I’d expect a passage outside, for instance, but there isn’t one. We thought of the jacks pit, but the gratings are still locked in. But in here—”

  “Yes.” The Duke looked tired; he sat heavily in the chair in his study. “We’ve found so many things already. Mostly ways of spying on me, or on you captains. I daresay we’ve hardly said a word, these last years, that he did not know. I think I know now how the regency council found out about that last campaign in Aarenis.”

  “Did you—could you hear what he said as he and Paks fought?”

  “No. After the dagger, I heard and saw nothing.”

  “He did more than that, Kieri. He—”

  “Later. I suspect more. But for now—did he have a way outside, and are we going to be attacked? And when?”

  “More when than if, I think. Has Dorrin checked the lower levels?”

  “Not yet. There’s so much up here—”

  “Did he ask permission for any construction, and changes, in the past year or so?”

  “I don’t—gods above, Jandelir, he did! The new wine cellar—remember?” Arcolin nodded. “He said he wanted to enlarge, if we were all staying here—and I told him to stay within the walls, but—”

  “Let’s go.” Arcolin stood, and stretched his arms. He yawned widely. “Why that rascal couldn’t have started this after I’d had a good night’s sleep—”

  The Duke was no longer sure which cellar had been extended. He, Paks, Arcolin, and a squad from Dorrin’s cohort began the search at the kitchen stairs. A passage ran north, the length of the building. Doors opened off it at intervals. But they found nothing in any of the outside rooms, and no signs of new construction.

  “Would one of the servants know?” asked Paks.

  “They might.” The Duke rubbed his eyes. “Tir’s gut, but I’m tired. It must be near dawn. Let’s go up and see.”

  The cooks knew at once which cellar was meant. “Sir, it’s the third on the right, the last on that side before the corner. He said ‘twas to give room, so’s not to run into the well, there in the court. Can you tell us, sir, what’s wrong? Is Venner angry with us? We done nothing, sir, I swear it—”

  “It’s all right. The third on the right?”

  “Yes, sir, it—” But they went back out, into a cold dawn, and crossed the courtyard again.

  “An inside cellar,” said Arcolin. “What was he up to?”

  “No good,” said the Duke shortly. His shoulders were hunched against the cold. The sentries—four, now—at the door, saluted smartly. One of Dorrin’s squad, following, stumbled on the steps. The Duke frowned. Dorrin waited inside.

  “My lord, I brought food from the Company kitchens.”

  “I don’t need—” He stopped abruptly, and looked at the others. “Maybe I do, indeed. Thank you. I’d forgotten I have the cooks locked up.”

  Sometime during the night, Dorrin had cleared away the mess in the dining hall. A steaming pitcher of sib and a kettle of porridge centered the big table. Bowls and mugs were stacked to one side. Paks sat with the others, unconcerned about order and seniority. After a bowl of porridge and several mugs of sib, she felt more awake. The Duke’s face was less pinched. Dorrin had had a fresh squad ready inside, and sent the first one off to breakfast with the rest of the Company.

  “Well, now,” said the Duke, over his third mug of sib. “We’ll see about that cellar, and then—barring immediate trouble—we’ll get some sleep.”

  “Agreed.” Arcolin stretched and yawned. “Is Pont back, Dorrin?”

  “Yes. I sent him on to sleep when he came; he’s up again and ready to take the day watches. Nothing’s happened outside. Oh yes—my lord, I took the liberty of sending word to the villages—”

  “I should have thought of that. Good for you.”

  “As of this morning, nothing’s happened there, either. The Councils will meet with you at your convenience; they’ve alerted all the veterans. Piter has a list of all the travelers in the Red Fox, and they won’t be going anywhere today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Something’s happened to their horses—or their wagons—and it seems a thief went through last night and stole left shoes.”

  The Duke laughed, and the others joined in. “That Piter! It’s a good thing he’s on my side.” He pushed his chair back. “Let’s get to that cellar, then, and hope to find nothing we need worry about until after rest.”

  The cellar door in question yielded to none of the keys on the ring. Dorrin had searched Venner’s quarters, and had found another ring in a hollow carved into his bedpost. She handed it over. These keys were thinner and newer than the others. One of them slipped into the lock and turned it.

  Inside, it looked like any wine cellar: rows of racks with slender green bottles on one side, and barrels, raised off the floor on chocks, on the other. The new extension, clearly visible, made it almost twice as large as before. Along the far wall were more racks for bottles: most of these were empty. They prowled around the cellar, tapping on walls. All seemed solid. Paks stayed n
ear the Duke. It seemed to her that the room could have held many more racks if they had been arranged differently. Racks and barrels both sat well out from the walls. She asked the Duke about it.

  “I don’t know—” he said, looking surprised. “I suppose—perhaps the air is supposed to move around them—or it’s easier to clean.”

  It was very clean, as if it had been swept recently. Paks bent to look under the racks. Surely there would be dust underneath—they couldn’t move all the racks and barrels every time. She saw something dark and heavy. It didn’t look like dust. She swiped at it with her hand, and teased it out into view. A dried lump of clay—the same sort of clay that clung to their boots in the field.

  “What’s that?” asked Dorrin behind her.

  “I don’t know—clay, I think. But why under there?” As she said it, she thought of mud from boots, falling off, being swept under—

  “Hunh. Not exactly like our clay. Grayer.”

  “Well, it’s dry—”

  “Even so.” Dorrin flattened herself on the floor and looked under the rack. “Is that—can you see that different colored stone, there?”

  Paks lay down and looked. One of the square paving blocks that floored the cellar looked a shade darker than the others, but it was under the rack, after all. She reached out to touch it. It was stone. Dorrin had gotten up. The Duke leaned over to look.

  “We’ll move this rack,” he said. Paks and the others laid hands on it and shoved it aside. The stone in question was slightly darker gray. The space between it and the stones around it was filled tightly with earth.

  “It can’t be a door,” said Arcolin. “Look how the crack’s filled.”

  “The others aren’t.” Dorrin pointed. Between other stones a broom had swept out some of the earth, leaving little grooves. But on this one, the dirt looked unnaturally smooth, filling the crack to the brim. Dorrin drew her dagger and picked at it. It came out in long sections, exactly like dried mud. Beneath that surface of mud the crack was clean and empty.

  They all stared at it a moment. “Let’s use sense,” the Duke said finally. “Without knowing what, who, and how many, we’re fools to open that now. Can we block it for a day?”

  “We can guard it, certainly. As for blocking it, that depends on what’s coming through. But if it’s a mage of some kind, the guards could be overcome.”

  “Two sets,” the Duke said. “Clear this room to the walls, and post some inside and some in the passage out there. I don’t want to open this until I have some idea what’s going on.”

  While the room was being cleared, and guards set, the Duke went to his quarters for sleep, and ordered the others to do likewise. Paks had thought she would not sleep at all, but she was hardly in her bunk before sleep took her, dreamless and deep.

  * * *

  Stammel woke her in the afternoon; heavy clouds darkened the day, and lamps had been lit already. Paks yawned and shook her head to clear it. Stammel looked around the empty barracks before speaking again.

  “The story is that you healed the Duke.” He paused, and Paks tried to think how to say what she must say. He went on. “You remember, we talked once, a long time ago, about you maybe being a paladin someday. I never forgot what you said about Canna, that time. I suppose you did heal her. And then the Duke came back—he never said anything to us, but we heard you’d had some trouble in Fin Panir.” He stopped again, and looked away, then back at her. “I want you to know that I never did believe all I heard. The Duke, now—I’ve been in his Company since I left home, and never found a better man to follow. When you left, I had my doubts—but if this is what you came back to do, well—it’s good enough.” His face relaxed slightly. “But you could have told me, I think, what you could do. We could save the pay of a surgeon, at least.”

  Paks shook her head, smiling. “I’m still finding out what I can do.”

  “You mean you didn’t know you could heal? What about that other? Glowing light and all?”

  “Who told that? No, I knew some of it. It’s come slowly. But I still don’t know what I can do until I try. That’s the second time I’ve made light; the first time it scared me half to death.”

  “I suppose it would.” Stammel sounded thoughtful. “Was that in Kolobia?”

  “No. A month or so ago, in Brewersbridge. With a Kuakgan.”

  “Kolya’s friend?”

  “Yes. Anyway, last night—when the darkness came, from Venner, I just—asked for light, I suppose.”

  “And the healing. You’d healed before—Canna—”

  “And one other, in Lyonya. A ranger. But I’m still learning. The elves said healing was a hard art to learn. It isn’t power alone, like light, but knowledge, as well. The Duke’s wound was a simple stab . . . I’d be afraid to try something like a broken bone.”

  “Well—we’re all glad you did it. I don’t suppose you’ll be here long, now—?”

  Paks shrugged. “Why not? I don’t have any plan to leave. Nothing’s called me.”

  “You had a call to come here, though, didn’t you?” She nodded. “I thought so. I thought it was more than bringing the Duke back his ring. Well, then. Are you a paladin, Paks? Gird’s paladin?”

  She had been waiting for this. “I’m not sure what I am. I have some gifts paladins have. I am a Girdsman. But Gird himself followed the High Lord, and I have had a—” She could not think how to describe her experience at the Kuakgan’s that last night. Vision? Miracle? She stopped, paused, and started again. “I have had a call, which I feel bound to follow. It brought me here, with a feeling that the Duke needed me. I will stay until it takes me somewhere else. The Kuakgan and the elves told me that the gods used to call paladins directly. Perhaps I am one, but it’s not what I expected.”

  “A long way from Three Firs,” said Stammel soberly. “You were—” He shook his head. “You were such a young recruit. I could see the dream in your eyes: songs, magic swords, flying horses I daresay—and yet so practical, too. And the Company wasn’t what you expected either, was it?”

  Paks laughed. “No. Cleaning, repairing walls, mending uniforms—we all hated that at first.”

  “But you stuck it out. And now you’ve saved the Duke’s life—again. I don’t forget what happened in Aarenis. Well, I’ve talked long enough. Too long, it may be. The Duke wants you in conference before dinner tonight.”

  * * *

  The Duke looked much better; rested and alert, he leaned over the maps spread on the table. The captains were all there but Cracolnya, who had the watch. As Paks came in, they looked up. The Duke smiled and waved her over to the table.

  “We’re trying to remember, Paks, the details of something that happened when I first took over this stronghold. You’ve never been to the Lairs, I think. When I first came, we drove the orcs out of there—we hoped for good—and explored some of their tunneling. Unhealthy sport: we lost several men to cave-ins, and I finally forbade any more of it. But Jandelir thinks he remembers one tunnel that led off southwest—toward us.”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Arcolin. “I remember because it was straighter than the rest, and wider. It wasn’t all that long—” He pointed out the spot on the map. “Couldn’t have come past here. You know that swampy area where the springs are? It ended there, in a cave-in. Those stupid orcs had tried to burrow mud. We thought they’d intended to get close enough for a surprise attack. Those old rubble walls weren’t worth much—”

  “The first stronghold,” Dorrin put in. “Built by someone from Vérella.”

  “But now we wonder if that tunnel’s been repaired and brought on in,” said the Duke. “If it ends, for instance, in that wine cellar—”

  “They’ll have a surprise,” said Dorrin grimly.

  “Bad place to fight,” said Pont. “Cramped. The way orcs fight, we’ll have to count on losing some.” He paused for a sip of water. “Better than fighting in their tunnel, though. If they have polearms, that’d be suicide.”

  “Surely we
can trap them.” Dorrin rested both elbows on the table. “If we clear the room, we can have archers ready to pop the first ones through. That hole isn’t big enough to let more than two out at once.”

  “If we knew what they’re planning—” began Arcolin. The Duke interrupted.

  “Exactly. Paksenarrion, you have more experience in this than we have. You recognized the lady as an agent of Achrya, and you have dealt with her agents and clerics before. What can we expect?”

  For an instant, as they all watched her, Paks could say nothing. She was the youngest there, the lowest rank—how could she advise them?

  “My lord, I am not sure what you already know—”

  “Don’t worry about that. Start at the beginning.”

  “Well, then—Achrya, the webmistress, is not high in the citadels of evil, according to my teachers in Fin Panir, but she involves herself directly with men and elves, and is therefore more familiar. She delights in intricate plots, and ensnares men to evil deeds by slow sorceries of years. Where Liart—the Master of Torments—prefers direct assault and torture, Achrya spins web within web, and likes the struggles of the victim as much as the final meal, so they say.” Paks paused for a breath. She hated speaking directly of Achrya or Liart either one. “She hates the elves most, it is said, because they see clearly, and her arts cannot fool them—and Girdsmen and Falkians, because they will not compromise with evil for any immediate good. Her plots cannot prosper in peaceful, well-kept lands, so she is always brewing plots and treacheries. Just so might a normal spider encourage clutter in a house, to make its web-spinning easier, if it could keep the housewife from sweeping.”

  “But what of that shape-changing?”

  “I’m coming to that. Some of her clerics have the power to change shape, both from one human form to another, and from human form to that of her icon: the appearance of a giant spider. I saw that in Kolobia, and heard of it at Fin Panir.”

  “Are all her clerics human, then? I thought you had seen kuaknom in Kolobia—”

  “Yes, that’s true. The elves that turned from the High Lord—some say when the first of the Kuakkganni sang to the First Tree—worship her.”