"Young sir, if you think it is easy to produce even illusory fire, I suggest you try. My old master, who is well-known in the arts, always said that a fine, convincing illusion was far more difficult—because reality carries its own conviction, and saves its own appearances. If you make a flame, it is a real flame, and you don't have to worry, once you've got it. But an illusory flame can go wrong in many subtle ways—even such a thing as forgetting which way the wind is blowing, so that it flickers the wrong direction."
"Sorry," said Ambros, staring at the table. Paks thought he didn't sound sorry at all. She smiled at Zinthys.
"I don't know anything about it," she said, "But could you make something to scare them out—something to make them think a large force was coming at them?"
"I might do," said Zinthys, still obviously ruffled. He twitched his shoulders and glanced at Sir Felis. "It would be easier if I had a small matrix to work on, as a pattern."
"A what?"
"A form—a framework—or, in plain terms, if I had a few real men-at-arms, that I could simply multiply in illusion, rather than creating the whole thing out of my head. It's easier to keep them in step, you see."
Paks didn't see, but nodded anyway. Sir Felis made a steeple of his hands. "How many, Zinthys?"
The mage looked at him, considering. "Oh—a half dozen, say?"
"Four." Sir Felis set down his mug. "Four is plenty to save your hide if it doesn't work, and I can't waste the time of more."
"Four," repeated Zinthys cheerfully. "You'll see, Lady Paksenarrion—I'll do you an illusion that'll have them running out the back door for cover—by the way, how do you know there is a back door?"
"Never saw a keep without one," said Paks cheerfully, thinking of Siniava's many tricks. "Gods grant we choose the right place."
"That," said Zinthys with satisfaction, "is up to you soldiers. Just tell me when and where you want them frightened—I'll take care of that."
Chapter Fourteen
Mal, when Ambros explained the plan, seemed shrewder than Paks had expected. He spoke quietly enough, with a rumbling chuckle when amused. Paks began to think he might be an asset after all.
"So we're to find the place first, and find sign—then she'll lead a troop?" He gave Paks a sharp look. "Have you led troops before, lady? I don't mean to be like Doryan, but—"
"I was acting corporal in one of the cohorts," said Paks.
"That means yes, I take it." He turned back to Ambros. "And what if their place is fortified? Do we try to take it?"
"No. There's a plan to get them out—if it's the place we think it might be, or one like it. Have you been out near the old Seriyan ruins lately?"
"Gird, no! I told the Marshal a few years ago that was a bad place—unlucky, that is. Is that where you think they are?"
"It could well be—considering the sign Paks saw a few days ago."
"Then they're a brave bunch, that's all I can say. I wouldn't stay there for a silver a day. Not even for a cask of ale."
"And for you, that's saying a lot. All right, Mal—I know you don't like it. But if they're wicked enough, it might not bother them."
"What is it?" asked Paks. "Why are the ruins so bad?"
Mal and Ambros looked at each other. Ambros broke the silence. "It's from before my time—I was just a boy, living over near the Lyonyan border. But there was a wizard who settled in there—built a stronghold all in one year, by magic, some said. Like most wizards, didn't care more for bad and good than a deaf man cares for music."
"I don't know as that's fair," Mal broke in. "Master Zinthys is a nice enough fellow."
"Who buys you ale every quarterday. But would you trust him, Mal, at your back in a fight?"
Mal considered. "Well—yes. If Sir Felis or the Marshal were there, at least."
"I like him myself," said Ambros. "I think he's as honest as any wizard, but they care more for magic and money than anything else—it's their nature. But this other wizard, Seriyan, wasn't much like Zinthys. No. He came here, so I was told, because he wanted to rule. That's not what he said; he said he had come to study. But he had a small horde of magical creatures that he let loose, and then he threatened worse if people didn't pay "taxes" for protection from them. Brewersbridge had no keep then, just the grange."
"It wasn't Marshal Cedfer here then," Mal put in, grinning at Paks. "Nor yet Deordtya, but the one before her. I don't recall his name."
"It doesn't matter," said Ambros shortly. "He made the mistake of believing the wizard harmless when he came, and it ended with a lot of lives lost when the yeomen had to storm the place. He blew himself up, at the end, rather than be taken."
"I hope he blew himself up," said Mal darkly. "The way that place feels, I'm not so sure."
"He may have left spells," said Ambros. Paks found herself hoping that the brigands were hiding somewhere else. She did not want to meet a wizard who had only pretended to blow himself up. But she had to agree that Seriyan's old keep was the closest of the known ruins to the blaze she'd found, and Mal agreed to go out with her the next day to take a look at the trail sign.
Mal arrived at the inn driving a sturdy two-wheeled cart with a large shaggy pony between the shafts. His big axe stood head-down in the corner beside him. Two more wheels filled the bed of the cart.
"This way," he said quietly, downing the tankard of ale which Hebbinford brought him without being told. "This way I'm just hunting a good straight bole of limber pine for the Town Hall extension. With these extra wheels, I can haul anything we find." Paks wondered how; she had never seen foresters at work. Mal saw her confusion and laughed loudly. Paks noticed others watching and listening. "See, lady, you don't know everything yet." Now his voice was louder, and more accented. "What I do is cut a short heavy piece for the axle, to bind these wheels together, and then tie them near the end of the bole. With the front end resting in the cart, and the other held by the wheels—now do you see?" Paks nodded. She started to ask why the second set of wheels didn't fall out from under the tree trunk, and then realized that he could tie it securely to the wood that held the wheels together.
"Ride along with me," said Mal, as if she had planned something else, "and I'll show you some more things you don't know about."
"I should find Ambros—" she said doubtfully, as they had arranged. Mal laughed again.
"Oh, Ambros! By Gird, you don't want to spend every day with him, do you? He's a yeoman-marshal, after all. Come on, now—" He gave her an enormous wink, and swaggered back to his cart after handing one of the serving wenches his tankard. Someone laughed. Paks grinned.
"You go on ahead; I'll catch up when I've got my horse ready. Which way are you going?"
"Oh, west again. I remember a few years ago, out that way, there was a straight, tall, limbless bole right near the road. Not so hard, you see, if the trees I want are next to the road."
"Good," said Paks. "That way I can tell Ambros I won't be riding with him this morning." Mal waved and went on, and she ducked into the stable to saddle the black horse. She hoped their act had gone off well. She hated to think of a spy in the village, but the evidence for such was persuasive.
* * *
She caught up with Mal before he was well into the forest on the far side of Brewersbridge; he had stopped to chat with the woman at the last roadside farm. He waved her to a stop.
"Paks, do you know Eris here?" It was the same woman Paks had met in Council. Paks began to think Mal was even smarter than she'd thought.
"Yes, I remember you," said Paks, swinging down from the saddle. She was no longer afraid to mount and dismount in front of witnesses; the black was learning manners. "I didn't know this was your farm."
"It wasn't, a few years ago," said Eris, with a slow smile. "We used to be out there—" She pointed southwest. "But raiders—bandits—something—kept breaking our fences, and running off stock. Finally after my husband died, and the boys married, I bought this farm from a cousin, just to be closer to town."
> "It looks good," said Paks. The small farmhouse looked in good repair, and the orchard next to it was obviously flourishing.
"Oh, it's a good farm," said Eris. "I miss the spring we had before—the best water I ever had, and only a few steps from the door. But when you find dead animals in it, day after day—"
"Ugh—" Paks shuddered.
"Do you like apples?" she went on. "The good ones are coming ripe now—I'd be glad for you to have some."
"Between me and the horses," said Paks, "we'd eat half your orchard full. I'll buy a measure of good ones for me, and a double measure of bruised ones for the horses."
"I would have given—"
"Eris," said Paks, wondering as she said it whether she should have given her the Council title, "I grew up on a farm myself. Right now I have the money, and you have apples to sell."
"Very well," said Eris. "When you come back by this evening—or whenever—I'll have them near the gate, under the hedge."
"And you know I want some, Eris," said Mal.
"You! I thought you lived on ale, Mal!" But she was laughing as she said it.
They continued down the road, chatting freely. Paks continued to lead the black horse, since Mal was walking beside the cart. He pointed out different trees, but Paks quickly grew confused with it: colors and patterns of bark, and shapes of leaves, and the form of the tree meant little to her. She could tell a star-shaped leaf from a lance-shaped one, and both those from the ferny-looking compounds, but that was her limit. Mal teased her gently. In the meantime, they both watched the road for the signs of the caravan—the fresh wheel ruts and narrow mule hoofmarks. These they did not mention.
Paks wondered what would be left at the ambush site, since Sir Felis had sent a troop of his soldiers out to retrieve the bodies. Would she even notice it? As the sun neared its height, she began to worry that they'd missed it. But it was clear, when they came to it. Deeper tracks, round-hoofed, of ridden horses, and the mules' tracks veering from side to side. Bloodstains on the fallen leaves, and on the rocks that edged the road. A few spent arrows, mostly broken. Mal pointed out the traces she missed, chatting the while about trees. In the end, Paks found the way the wagons had been taken. Freshly cut boughs, the leaves hardly withered, disguised the wagons' track into the woods; the brigands had chosen a stony outcrop for the turn off the road. It led, or so Paks thought, the wrong direction—north—but Mal looked grim when he saw it.
"There's a farm to the northwest," he said. "Or was, until it burned. If they're using it, they may be using the old farm lane to bring the wagons back, and cross this road farther along. As I remember, that other farm lane hits this road in about the same place."
"Well, do we follow this?" asked Paks.
"No. Not with horses. We'd make a noise like an army in there, with a third of the leaves down as they are. If you'll take my advice, we'll go along the road and look for that other place, where the lane comes in."
Paks could just see the lane coming in ahead when Mal stopped abruptly. "Ha," he said loudly. "There's the tree I come for." She stared at him, surprised, and he winked. "You'd best go on up the road a ways," he went on. "I want to drop it right here in the road. Tell you what. You take these two wheels along with you, eh? Go on—yes—right along up there, at least as far as that lane. This'un'll fall long, I tell you." Paks finally caught on, and wandered slowly up the road as he bade her. Behind her, the axe rang on the tree. She wondered if it really was a "limber pine" or whatever.
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 s
olemn 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."
Divided Allegiance Page 23