The Deed of Paksenarrion (182 page)

“A score at least. The crown prince would like to send a cohort, but you know what that means in supplies. The Duke—the king—always said the Tsaian Royal Guard traveled on silk.”

The High Marshal nodded. “It’s court life—I’ve argued again and again about it, but to no avail. They’re good fighters—well trained and disciplined—but any decent mercenary company can march them into the ground.”

“It’s too bad the Company can’t be here,” said Dorrin. “They’d be proud of him.”

“What is it—a week’s march? I agree with Lady Paksenarrion; he must not wait that long to travel. Although his own Company would be a fitting escort.”

“If it didn’t frighten the Lyonyans,” said Dorrin. “They aren’t used to troop movements there.”

Paks looked a question at her, and Dorrin blushed.

“I trained there, you know,” she said. “But I was born a Verrakai.”

“You?”

“Yes. They don’t admit it any more.” Dorrin grinned, shaking her head. “My cousin is furious. I remember getting in fights with him before I left home.”

More messengers and visitors arrived. Someone came to Dorrin with a handful of scrolls and a question; she shrugged helplessly at Paks and moved aside to look at them. Servants carried in trays of food. Paks thought of her own rooms, and wondered if Lieth had packed her things before leaving with Phelan. She wormed her way through a cluster of people to ask Kolya when he’d be back.

“I’m not sure—he said not long, but not to worry if it was a glass or so. Some Company matter. He’d already had to talk to his bankers, and draft messages to Arcolin. Why?”

“I’ll go down to my rooms, then, and pack up. It won’t take long.” Paks worked her way out of the suite, past a row of squires bearing messages, and hurried to her own quarters. Lieth had not packed, but she found two of the palace servants straightening the rooms. In a short time, she had rolled everything neatly into her saddlebags or Lieth’s. She went back along the corridors with the bags slung over her shoulder. It was midafternoon, and most of the outer court was in shadow. The bustle in Phelan’s suite seemed less. A row of corded packs waited in the outer room. Kolya, Dorrin, High Marshal Seklis, and Donag Kirisson sat around a low table near the fire in the sitting room, eating rapidly. Paks joined them, dumping her saddlebags nearby. She reached for the end of a loaf.

“Where is he? Isn’t he back?”

“Not yet,” said Kolya. “Are you worried, Paks? He has four good squires with him.”

“Did he take the sword?” asked Paks without answering Kolya.

“No,” said Dorrin. She pushed back her cloak to show the pommel. “He asked me to keep it here—said he didn’t want it on the street.”

Paks frowned, her worry sharpening. “I wish he’d taken it. I should have said something.”

“Why?”

“If nothing else, it’s a remarkably good weapon. But more than that, in his hands it has great power, and none of us can use it.”

“You can, surely.”

“Not now,” said Paks. “Not after he drew it—it’s sealed to him completely now. I would not dare to draw it.”

Dorrin looked at it. “If I’d known that—”

“Excuse me, Lady—I was given a message for your hand.” Paks looked up to see a page in the rose and silver house livery holding something out. She put out her hand, and took it. The page bowed, and quickly moved away. It was a small object wrapped in parchment. Paks folded the stiff material back carefully. When she saw what it contained, she felt as cold as if she’d been dipped in the ice-crusted river.

There on her hand lay the Duke’s black signet ring, the same ring she had carried from Fin Panir to the Kuakgan’s grove in Brewersbridge, the same ring she had taken back to the Duke that fall. The others had leaned to see what it was; Paks held out her hand, and watched the faces whiten. No one spoke. Paks flattened the parchment, and saw thin, angular writing she knew at once for blood. She shivered; she knew it must be
his
blood.

Alone, or Lyonya will have no king. 
 

This too she showed the others, handing it around.

“By the Tree—” Kolya was the first to find speech. “What can you do, Paks?”

“Find him,” said Paks grimly.

“But how?”

“They will guide me; they intend it.” She was shaken by a storm of rage and grief, and struggled to master it. For what must come she had to be calm. She took the ring from Dorrin, who was staring blankly at it, and slipped it on her own middle left finger. “Kolya—” The one-armed woman met her eyes, blinking back tears. “Find the nearest Kuakgan—is there one near enough Vérella?”

“For what?”

“To aid him when he travels. I want the taigin awakened for him.”

“Great lords above!” muttered the High Marshal.

Paks shot him a quick glance and went on. “Tell the Kuakgan to ask the taigin of Master Oakhallow: and tell him the three woods are fireoak, blackwood, and yellowwood.”

“You want him to raise the highfire for the Duke?”

“For me,” said Paks quietly. She turned quickly to Dorrin. “Make sure they are ready to ride at once. Whatever it takes, Captain Dorrin: the High Marshal will help you.”

“Indeed I will.” The High Marshal’s expression was as grim as she felt. “Every Marshal in Vérella—”

“And on the way. Sir Marshal, I must speak to you alone.” Dorrin and the others left quickly. Paks took a deep breath but before she could speak, the High Marshal asked:

“Do you foresee your own death, paladin of Gird?”

“I see nothing, sir Marshal, but the direction of my quest. It seems likely that this summons means death. But Girdsmen are hard to kill, as you know—” He nodded, with a tight smile. Paks went on. “Sir Marshal, I ask you these favors. Would you ask the Marshal-General to send a sword to my family at Three Firs when she thinks it safe for them, and such word of me as she thinks it wise for them to have?”

“I will,” he said. “You are sure you will never return there?”

“I knew that before now, Sir Marshal. However this ends, I cannot return; I would like the Marshal-General to know my wishes in this.”

“I will tell her,” said Seklis. “Be sure of that. What else?”

“This time I will not have Gird’s symbols defaced,” said Paks. “I will arrange to return my arms and medallion. If you will leave these in the grange at Westbells, on your way east—”

“You expect to follow?” The High Marshal’s voice was completely neutral.

Paks shook her head. “I expect to follow Gird’s directions, Sir Marshal. I hope to follow, but—to be honest—I expect not.”

He lowered his voice. “It is not the way of the Fellowship to sacrifice any Girdsman—let alone a paladin—without a fight.”

Paks managed a smile. “On my honor, Sir Marshal, they will find they have a fight—though not the one they expected, perhaps. And as well—” she found herself grinning at him, “as well, imagine if one paladin can spoil such a long-laid plot. How many years has that black web-spinner been preening herself on the completeness of her webs? And the Master of Torments must have enjoyed what happened to a helpless child. Yet now the rightful king returns, and their attempt to sever Lyonya and Tsaia will fail.”

“If you can find him.” The High Marshal held her gaze. “If you can pay the price.”

“I can find him,” said Paks. “As for the price, what I have is the High Lord’s, and I will return it as he asks.”

“Gird’s grace be with you, paladin,” said the High Marshal formally.

“And Gird’s power rest in your grange,” replied Paks. She bowed and strode quickly from the chamber.

She hardly noticed those who moved out of her way in the passages outside. She was wondering how Phelan had been trapped. Were all the squires dead? Was he himself dead, and this message no more than a trap for her? But she did not believe that—else her quest would lead somewhere else. She would find him easily enough; those who had sent the ring would see to that. She came into the outer court and glanced up to see what light remained. In another glass or so it would be dark. No one questioned her at the outer gate, though the guards greeted her respectfully. She nodded to them and passed into the wide street beyond.

Here she slowed to a stroll, and looked around carefully. The street seemed full enough of hurrying people, hunched against the cold and ducking into one doorway or another. Directly across from the palace gate was a large inn, the Royal Guardsman. On one side was a saddler’s, with a carved wooden horse, gaily decked, over the entrance. Beyond that was a cobbler’s, then a tailor’s shop. On the other side was a scribe-hall, then a narrow alley. Paks walked that way, past the ground floor windows of the inn’s common room. She was aware when someone came out the inn door behind her. She felt the back of her neck prickle with another’s attention. But she walked on, steadily. The footsteps behind quickened. Paks slowed, edging toward the front of the scribe-hall.

“I think,” said a low voice at her shoulder, “that you must be Paksenarrion?”

Paks turned; the follower was a tall redheaded woman, in the garb of a free mercenary. Paks saw the hilt of a dagger in each boot as well as one at her waist.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am Paksenarrion.”

The redhead gave her a scornful look up and down. “You are just as Barra said. Well, and did you get our present?”

Paks raised an eyebrow. “If you mean a certain ring—”

“Don’t play games with me, paladin,” the woman sneered. “If you want to see him alive, follow me and keep your hands off your sword.” She turned away.

“Stop,” said Paks, not loudly but with power. The woman froze, then turned back to her, surprise in her eyes. “Before I go one step, I will have your word on this: is he alive? What of his squires?”

“They are all alive, Phelan and the squires, but they will die if you are not quick.”

“And I should follow so we can all be killed at once, is that it?” Paks forced humor into her tone, and again the woman’s eyes flashed surprise.

“No,” she said sulkily. “The Master would be glad to kill all of you—and will—but you can buy your lord some time, if you dare it.”

“And where do you go?”

“You would not know if I told you. There are places in Vérella that none but the Guild know, and places known only to few of the Guild.” She looked hard at Paks for a moment, and shook her head quickly. “I wonder—perhaps Barra has erred—”

“Is this Barra’s plot?” asked Paks. “Or Verrakai’s?”

“You ask too much. Come.” The woman turned away and walked off quickly. Paks followed, her heart pounding.

To her surprise, they did not enter the alley Paks had seen, but kept to the main streets until they were in the eastern end of Vérella. Then the woman turned into a narrower street, and another. Here was the sort of poverty Paks had seen in every city but Fin Panir and Chaya: crowded narrow houses overhanging filthy cobbles and frozen mud, ragged children huddled together for warmth, stinking effluvium from every doorway. She was aware of the curious glances that estimated her sword’s worth and the strength of her arm rather than a paladin’s honor. The redhead ducked into a narrow passage between two buildings, scarce wide enough for their shoulders. It angled around a broad chimney, and opened into a tiny court. Across that was a double door, painted black with red hinges. On this, the redhead rapped sharply with her dagger hilt; a shutter in the door scraped open.

Paks looked quickly around the open space. It was already draped in shadow, overlooked only by the blank rear walls of the buildings that ended here. Paks wondered at the windowless walls, then saw that there had been windows once—they were blocked up, some by brick and others by heavy shutters. She could hear the redheaded woman muttering at the door, and something small scuttling among the debris across the way. Aside from that, and the distant rumble of street noises, it was ominously quiet.

One leaf of the double doors opened, squealing on its hinges. “Come on,” said the woman sharply. Paks did not move.

“I want to see him.”

“Inside.”

“No. Here. Alive.” Paks called light, and it cast a cool white radiance over the grimy stones, the stinking litter along the walls. Several dark shapes fled squeaking into holes.

The woman turned back to the doorkeeper, and muttered again. Paks waited. The door slammed shut, and the woman turned back to her.

“I told you he was alive. You’re only making it worse.”

“On the contrary,” said Paks. “I do what is necessary.”

“Necessary!” The woman spat. “You’ll learn necessary soon enough.”

“That may be, but I will see him alive and well before then.”

“As the Master answers, you will see.” They waited in heavy silence for some minutes. When the doors opened, both sides gaping wide, two files of armed men emerged. The first were dressed in dark clothes, and carried short swords. Behind them came two priests of Liart, their hideous snouted helms casting weird shadows in Paks’s light. But for one being slightly taller, she could see no difference in them. The redhead bowed deeply. The two faced Paks; one of them raised a spiked club.

“Paladin of Gird, have you come to redeem your master?”

“He is not my master, but the rightful king of Lyonya, as you know.”

“But dear to you.”

“To bring him to his throne was laid on me for my quest,” said Paks. “He is no longer my lord, for I am Gird’s paladin.”

“But you are here because of him.”

“Because of Lyonya’s king, yes.”

“The Master of Torments desires otherwise.”

“The Master of Torments has already found that the High Lord prevails.”

A howl of rage answered that, and a bolt of blue light cast from the second priest. Paks laughed, tossing it aside with her hand. “See,” she said. “You have said that he lives, and that you have some bargain in mind—but I am not without power. State your terms, slaves of a bad master.”

“You will
all
die in torment—” began one, but the other hushed him and stepped forward.

“You killed our Master’s servants in Lyonya,” he said. “You killed them in Aarenis before that. The Master will have your blood for that blood, or take the blood of Lyonya’s king.”

“Death for life?” asked Paks.