The Deed of Paksenarrion (16 page)

She had to slow again; she and the other file leaders began a marching song to keep everyone in step, and that seemed to help. When some ran out of breath, or stumbled, others took it up. The downhill grade eased, but the mud was deeper still. It dragged at their boots; Paks felt her thighs begin to ache from jerking against that pull with every step. Around another turn of road, Paks saw that they’d gained half the distance to the unit in front of them. Then she saw why: it was floundering in a section of road that seemed to have no bottom.

“Tir’s brass boots!” growled Captain Pont. “I told them that the next time I mired a troop in this place, I’d fix it myself, then and there.” She looked up at him; he was scowling. “Very well—Paks—”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to put some stepping stones in that mess. See those walls?” He pointed to the drystone walls that bordered the road. Paks nodded. “Get your unit off the road; when they get to the bad spot, take those stones and pile ‘em in until you can walk across. Those Tir-damned farmers have made enough pulling wagons out of this hole—we all pay toll on this road anyway, and some of it is supposed to go for repairs.”

The edge of the bad patch was obvious: the gaping hole where a mule had gone in belly deep. Already the mired unit was beginning to tear up the wall for stones. The first stones sank at once, but eventually they began to fill the hole. Finally Paks had her unit lay the flat topping stones from the wall over all, and they walked across without sinking.

Beyond that hole, they were back in ankle-deep mud, but the change of pace had rested them. Now they slogged on together, all three units chanting one song after another. “Cedars of the Valley” gave way to “The Herdsman’s Daughter” after many verses. On the left, trees thinned to pasture, and across the fields Paks could see a river as gray as the sky. The road edged toward it. Soon she could see a cluster of cottages huddled near the road. As they neared them, the road firmed. Paks could feel gravel through her sodden boots. They came to a paved square, streaming in the rain. Around it were larger buildings: an inn, a tall building with wide doors painted blue and red, several large houses. Stammel halted the column. Paks shifted her shoulders under her wet cloak and wondered if they would get anything from the inn. She looked around. The square was empty but for them; their mules were caked in mud to the belly, and the other units looked as muddy as she was. Her legs ached. She tried to see out the other side of the square, where the road humped itself up—a bridge, she thought. This must be Littlebridge.

A short time later, they marched out, having seen the inside of the inn very briefly, while downing fresh rolls and mugs of hot soup. That interval of warmth and dryness helped, but all too soon Paks was back out in the rain, lining up behind Vona’s unit, with Kefer’s behind her.

They started briskly across the square and over the narrow humped bridge beyond it. On the other side were more houses, some large, and craftshops. Then the houses dwindled to cottages flanked by gardens, and the gravelled road softened to mud.

The rest of that day was a matter of endurance. At times the rain slackened, but mostly they marched before a chill, wind-driven rain. Mud was always with them: now thicker, and clinging to their boots with every step, now thinner and splashing like water. They passed sodden little villages, too small for an inn, and wet farms that seemed half-melted into the ground. Every two hours they halted for a brief rest and change of position. By midafternoon, they were numb with fatigue, stumbling along the road like drunks. Paks ached from head to heel. She no longer worried about her sword rusting, or where they would sleep. She put one foot ahead of the other with dogged intensity. As the light faded, her unit shifted again from last to middle, this time with no pause for rest.

“We’ve got to get them to Fiveway,” she heard Stammel say, but she did not look up to see who else was nearby. They started again, lurching in the mud. Soon it was too dark to see anything but the nearest ranks and the road beneath. Then that faded. They marched on in the darkness more by feel than sight. The last singers lost heart and the marching songs died away. Paks could not have said how long they’d marched—it seemed like half the night—when a line of dim orange lights broke the darkness ahead. She could not tell how far away they were, nor how big—they were merely blurs that brightened step by step. After awhile, she realized that they were square: windows, she thought suddenly, with lights behind them. At once she felt even colder and stiffer than before.

Soon she could see light reflected on the wet road outside the windows. The road firmed under her feet: gravel again. She heard the crisp hoof-beats of the captain’s horse passing on the right. Torches flared ahead, wavering in the wind. By their light she could see wet pavement, the fronts of buildings, the gleam of steel. An abrupt challenge rang out before them. Stammel called a halt. She heard voices, but could not distinguish the words. She shivered. The torches came nearer; now she could see the men holding them, and the armed men behind. She slid a hand to her sword hilt. Stammel appeared, carrying a torch now. In its dancing light his face was strange; she could not read its expression.

“We’ve got shelter near here,” he said. “Vona’s unit will pick up food at the inn. Paks, yours will unpack the mules. Follow Devlin; he knows where to go.”

Paks did not think she could follow anyone anywhere, but when Devlin came with a torch, she found she could still pick up her feet. They turned down a lane beside a high stone wall, and came out in a field, onto short wet grass. Not far away Paks sensed a large structure looming against the sky. Devlin led them to it: a barn, stone below and wood above, easily large enough for all of them. The mules were already tied along one end, and the skinner had lighted other torches; a warm glow spilled out to meet them.

Once inside, the relief of being out of the wind and rain was enormous. The barn was almost empty, but for hay in one corner. Paks wanted to fall headlong in that hay and sleep, but Devlin prodded her to come unload the mules. She and the others stumbled over and pulled off the packs. Kefer’s unit, meanwhile, began placing torches high in wall brackets away from the hay. Then they laid out sleeping areas. Their final chore was setting up lines for drying their wet clothes; the barn had hooks built in, and Devlin handed out rolls of thin cord. By this time, Vona’s unit had brought the food, plentiful and hot despite the trek from the inn.

Long loaves of bread that steamed when they were broken—crocks of butter—kettles of savory stew—Paks ate at first hardly noticing what she put in her mouth, but as she warmed up she realized how good it was. Mug after mug of a strange hot drink not so bitter as sib. Bowl after bowl of stew. Suddenly she was nearly asleep, nodding as she sat. She glanced around. Devlin and Bosk were gathering empty platters and pots; she wondered if they would make the trip back tonight to the inn. She met Stammel’s eye and braced herself for the order to go back—but he smiled and told her to get some sleep. When she tried to get up, she found she had stiffened from that brief rest. She barely made it to a heap of hay and an empty blanket, falling into a deep sleep before she could review any part of the day.

The next morning rain still fell in curtains. Captain Pont decided to delay at least a day, and the barn filled with drying clothes. Everyone felt stiff and grumpy at first, but by noon they were all awake enough to be restless. Paks even welcomed a walk through the rain to the inn for food. A caravan bound for Vérella had come in; great wagons blocked the streets, and the inn was full of wet and disgruntled merchants.

“Camped!” she heard one exclaim to the landlord, as she led her file toward the kitchen. “By Simyits, we weren’t camped. We were stuck—flat stuck! Gods blast your count or whatever you’ve got down here! I pay toll on this passage every year, and he hasn’t set stone on the road since my father died.” Paks glanced at the speaker, a tall, powerful man in mud-stained leather with a gold chain around his neck and a ring in each ear. The landlord, shorter and plumper, had a fixed smile on his face. “You can tell him for me,” the big man went on, “that the Guild League can find another way north, if it comes to that.” Then Paks was in the kitchen, dodging a squad of agitated cooks to the table where their food was laid ready. She noticed on her way back out that the landlord had escaped from the tall man, and was leading a party of velvet-clad ladies up the stairs.

When she mentioned the incident to Stammel, he laughed. “That’d be the wagonmaster,” he said. “Let’s see—it might be the Manin family caravan, or maybe Foss Council. Did you notice what they carried?”

“No, sir. What’s the Guild League he mentioned?”

“Guild League cities, that is. Those on the north caravan route, not the Immer route.” Paks felt that this explained nothing. Stammel noticed her blank look. “Don’t you know anything about the south, about Aarenis?”

“It’s where some spice comes from, and fancy embroidery,” said Paks.

“Umm. That’s not enough. We have time for better. Have you heard of the Immerhoft Sea, that lies south of the land?” Paks nodded. Jornoth had mentioned it. “Across the Immerhoft was Aare, the old kingdom. Those people settled islands in the Immerhoft, then sailed on to find a great land they called Aarenis, the daughter of Aare. They settled it, and spread, and the land was divided among great lords and their children. In time they spread to the Dwarfmounts, driving the elves ahead of them, and found passes to the north. That’s what we call the south—Aarenis is what it’s called when you’re in the south—from the Immerhoft to the Dwarfmounts. These same folk settled the western kingdoms of the north.”

Paks frowned. “I thought the Eight Kingdoms were settled by seafolk and nomads from the north. My grandfather—”

“Was probably a horse nomad. In part, they were. But all these groups met in the Honnorgat valley. The eastern kingdoms, those below the great falls, have more seafolk. Tsaia and Fintha have more nomads. And Lyonya and Prealith have elves. But most of the folk in Tsaia and Fintha came from Aarenis long ago.” Paks nodded, and Stammel went on. “There’s a great trade between Aarenis and the Eight Kingdoms and most of it comes through the pass we’ll use, up the Vale of Valdaire. Long ago it came by water, up the Immer and its tributaries. Southbound trade sailed from Immer ports to Aare itself. But Aare is a wasteland now, and the sea trade goes to other lands—I don’t know where myself, and the tales are strange enough. Anyhow, for one reason and another, a group of cities agreed to build a new trade route, a land route. Some say the river trade was taxed too heavily by the lords and cities along it, and some that river pirates made it too dangerous. I think myself that these cities traded more with the north, and for that a land route was needed anyway. So their merchant guilds joined in the Guild League, and they built the road and maintain it, and they send their caravans north each year, and we send ours south. The wars in Aarenis come partly from rivalry between the Guild League cities and the river cities and old lords.”

“Which side are we on?” Effa had come near to listen, with several others.

“Whoever hires us,” said Bosk, leaning on the wall nearby.

Stammel nodded. “He’s right. The Duke makes a contract with someone—a city or a lord, whoever will pay his price—and that’s who we fight for.”

Effa looked shocked. “But—surely the Duke wouldn’t make a contract with just anyone.”

“Well—no. We’re a northern company, after all: an honorable company. He has his standards. But we’ve fought for one city against another, and for a lord against a city, and the reverse. It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, we’re an honorable company?” asked Barra. “Aren’t all companies much alike?”

“Tir, no! I wish they were. The good ones—mostly northern—agree on some things—we won’t harbor each other’s criminals or traitors, we won’t torture prisoners, we treat prisoners fairly, and so forth. We don’t steal supplies from peasants, or destroy crops if we can avoid it. We compete, but we know there’s wars enough to keep us all employed; we don’t try to kill each other off, except in battle. And that’s our business. But there are some others—” Stammel paused, and looked around the group; more recruits had come to listen to him, and Captain Pont lounged nearby. “Captain Pont will bear me out—”

Pont nodded, his long face splitting in a grin. “Surely. The south is full of so-called mercenaries. Most of ‘em are robbers that blackmail some poor town into hiring them to keep order. Some are fairly honest hired blades in summer, and robbers in winter. A few are fairly well-organized and independent, but downright nasty—”

“The Wolf Prince—” muttered Stammel.

“Yes—the Wolf Prince. He’s definitely a bad one. Uses poison, assassins, and anything else he can think of. Tortures prisoners and sells ‘em to the searovers. Takes ransom only in coins or hard jewels, and only within three days. We broke into his stockade one year—were you there, Stammel?”

“Yes, sir.” Stammel picked up the tale. “He’d captured a patrol of the Sier of Westland’s light cavalry, and chained them all in the open, without food or water. Three were alive when we broke in, and only one lived to make it back to Westland, with all we could do.”

“But didn’t you kill him?” Effa broke in.

“No. He’d gotten away a few days before; we never did know how he got through the lines.” Stammel paused, his face grim. “Then there’s the Honeycat. Calls himself Count of the South Marches, I think it is, and runs four companies or so along the coast and up the Immer valleys. There’s a bad one. We’ll probably come against him again this campaign. He’s not exactly a mercenary, in the usual sense. He stirs up wars; they say he has factions in every city, and has even bought out some of the guilds. He hates the northern companies, because he can’t scare us or bribe us.”

“Why is he called Honeycat?”

“It’s what he’s like, they say—sweet words, soft voice, and then claws in your belly.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Barra suddenly. “Isn’t he the one that hung the witwards of Pliuni upside down from the city gates?”