The Deed of Paksenarrion (41 page)

“Do I have to talk about it?”

Stammel took a great breath and blew it out, a pale frosty plume against the sky. “No. No, you don’t. Not even to me, if you don’t want to. But you may find it hard: they’ll be asking, you see. I know what you mean. Some things you don’t want to make light of, by too much talk. But they’ll be looking to you, Paks, whether you tell them or not. I thought you should know.”

“I wish they wouldn’t,” muttered Paks. She could feel her ears glowing.

“You would have yourself,” said Stammel reasonably. “I remember you with Kolya, and Canna: it’s natural. The youngsters always want to hear the stories and dream. And it will help get them ready fast, for them to think of all you veterans as heroes: song fodder.” Paks was glad they still had a distance to go; she knew she was red. “We have some old veterans back, too,” Stammel went on. “They’ll have their own problems—may be a bit touchy at first. Don’t pay any mind if they go on about how things have changed. Once we’re fighting, they’ll be a big help.”

“I met one tonight,” said Paks. “Piter—?”

“Yes, old Piter. He’s a good man. We started together, but he took a bad wound and fever, one year, and decided to retire. He joined one of his brothers running barges on the Honnorgat. Claims he’s kept his sword skill against river pirates: I don’t know about that, but he’s kept it. He’s good with a curved blade, too; knows every trick. How did you get along?”

“Fine. He wanted to know—but it was more like one of us. He asked what we’d done about food—it seemed natural, talking to him.”

“Good. Oh! I nearly forgot. Kolya sent you her greetings and a bag of apples. It’s somewhere in the baggage; I’ll find it tomorrow.”

“That was nice of her.” And a surprise; she heard it in her own voice.

“She had a good harvest this year. She wanted to come, but the Duke had other plans.”

“Is it true the Duke left the stronghold empty?”

“How did you know that?”

“I heard the captains say something—”

“Well, don’t you say anything. Gods above! I hope no one else mentions it. It’s true—except for those in the villages—and I hope the Regency Council doesn’t hear about it.”

“But what if something breaks out in the north?”

“We’ll just hope it doesn’t. Nothing’s happened for years.” Stammel sighed and changed the subject. “What did you get from the sack of Rotengre? Wasn’t that your first?”

“Yes,” said Paks slowly. “It was.”

“Didn’t like it, eh? What about it?”

“It was—everyone shoving and yelling and breaking things. I—I can’t see breaking up good furniture for the fun of it, and tearing things and spilling wine all over.”

Stammel chuckled. “No—I suppose you wouldn’t. But surely you found something for yourself.”

“Oh, yes. Some unset jewels, coins, a jeweled dagger, and a length of embroidered silk. I’m keeping that for my mother. I was thinking of keeping the dagger, but it looks silly with these clothes.”

“Couldn’t you have found some finery to go with it?”

Paks snorted, then laughed, remembering the militia primped up in velvets and laces. “Well, sir—I looked at some of the others—and it just looked silly. And besides, where would I keep the things?”

“It’s not impossible. You’re a veteran now; you’re entitled to some space in the Company wagons and stores.”

“I suppose. I didn’t think of that then.” They were nearly at the inn, and Stammel led the way to the door. Once inside they found the usual assortment of customers: mercenaries of half-a-dozen companies, a scattering of merchants, and a few professional gamblers (or thieves) who tossed their ivory dice whenever conversation and business lagged. Stammel looked at the crowded common room and crooked his finger at the landlord.

“Yes?” Rumor said the landlord was a veteran of Sobanai Company.

“A quiet corner anywhere?” asked Stammel.

“Sergeant Stammel, isn’t it? Yes, I think we can find you a quiet spot. Just follow me.” He led the way down a passage to a tiny room which had a bench built against either wall and a table close between them; it might have been possible to squeeze in four people. Two fat candles in a wall sconce gave bright unsteady light. Stammel took the bench on one side, and Paks took the other.

“Bring us some ale,” said Stammel, and the landlord withdrew. Paks threw her cloak back and pushed up her sleeves. Stammel looked at her critically.

“You’ve been keeping fit, I can see that. You may have strengthened that left arm even since last year. How’s your unarmed combat coming?”

“Better. At least, when I needed it on the way, it worked.”

“Ah. Now that’s what I’d like to—” The door opened, and the landlord put a jug and two mugs on the table, then waited while Stammel fished out some coins. When he was gone, Stammel poured a mug of ale before speaking. “Go on,” he said to Paks. “I won’t drink all of this myself. Now—if you don’t mind telling me about it, I’d like to hear it from you.”

Paks sipped the ale before replying. “I don’t mind telling you, sir. In fact, I wished you were there, right after, to talk to. But—but it still—” her voice faltered.

“You still feel it when you tell it,” said Stammel. “No wonder.”

Paks nodded, staring at the scarred tabletop. When she began to speak again, the story came out in fits and starts. Stammel did not interrupt, and asked few questions. By the time she came to the incident with the mounted sentry, the story seemed to be rolling out of her, almost as if she were telling a tale that had happened to someone else. Then she came to that last afternoon, and the memory bit deep. She stopped, drained her mug, and started to pour another; her hands shook.

Stammel took the jug and poured for her. “Take it easy,” he said. “Do you want something to eat?” Paks shook her head. “It’s amazing you made it so far without losing someone,” he went on. “You took more precautions than I would have, I think. I’m not sure I would have thought of a sentry at the first crossroad. With food so short—I might have tried a village; hunger’s hard to ignore. You knew that place was risky; you got out of it with the food you needed. And on the last day, so close to the Duke, so far ahead of the enemy—I’d have felt fairly safe myself.”

Paks wrapped her hands around the mug and stared into it. “I heard one of the squires talking to the Duke. He said we should have been more careful.”

“The Duke?”

“No—the squire.”

Stammel snorted. “As if he’d ever done anything like that! I’ll warrant the Duke didn’t back him up.”

“Well—no. He didn’t. But—”

“Then don’t fret about a squire’s opinion. Which was it, anyway?”

“The youngest one. Jostin, I think his name was. I haven’t seen him today.”

“You won’t. The Duke sent him home. He’s got Selfer, Jori, and Kessim now.”

“What about Rassamir?”

“Oh, he went back to Vladi. He’s a nephew, or something like that. Well, then: what happened in the forest?”

Paks had relaxed; now she hunched her shoulders again. “We were moving fast; the light was fading . . .” She told it as it lived in her mind: the brigands suddenly around them, Canna down before she could string the bow, Saben fending off three, her own fall into the stream, the grinning man who ran down after her, sword in hand. “So—so I turned and—and ran.” Paks was trembling as she finished.

“Best thing you could have done,” said Stammel firmly. “Did they come after you?”

Paks nodded. “For awhile. They had bows—they shot. But the trees were thick, and it was getting dark—” There wasn’t much to tell about that long wet run in the dark, no way to describe what she’d felt, leaving her friends behind. “It took a long time, with the mud and all,” she said. “The sentry didn’t believe I was in the Duke’s Company at first. No wonder, really, dirty as I was. But Canna and Saben—” Paks could not go on.

“If you’d stayed,” said Stammel, “there’d have been three dead right there, besides all the prisoners, and those in Dwarfwatch as well. You didn’t kill them, Paks; the brigands did. Save your anger for them.” He leaned back against the wall and gave her a long look. “Do you really think their shades are angry with you? Canna left you her Girdish medallion, didn’t she?”

“How did you know that?”

“The Duke, of course. He was curious about that—asked me about you two. But think, Paks—if she’d been angry, she wouldn’t have left it for you.”

“I—I suppose not.”

“Of course not.” Stammel reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. “Paks, the Duke thinks you did well—and by Tir, he should! So did Canna. So does everyone I’ve heard speak of it. It was a hard choice; you chose well. Sometimes there’s no way—”

“I know that!” interrupted Paks, fighting tears. “But—”

Stammel sighed. “They were your best friends—and after that—Paks, you may hate me for this, but—did you ever bed Saben?”

Paks shook her head, unable to speak.

“That’s part of it, then.” He held up a hand as she looked up, angry. “No, hear me out. I’m not arguing about whether you did or didn’t: that’s your choice. But you two were closer than friends; it’s natural in friends to want to have given everything. I’d wager part of your sorrow now is that you didn’t give him that, when he wanted it. Isn’t it?”

Paks nodded, staring at the table. “Yes,” she whispered, “And yet, I—”

“You truly don’t want to—that’s obvious. You know, Paks, you really have chosen the most difficult way—or it’s chosen you, I’m not sure which. Remember, though, that Saben respected your choice. I know, because he told me that back when you were a recruit, in that trouble with Korryn.”

Paks felt herself blushing. She had never imagined Saben and Stammel discussing her that way.

Stammel chuckled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Anyway, if it’s not your nature—and I think it’s not—you have nothing to reproach yourself for. Saben liked you, and respected you, and even loved you. Grieve for him, of course—but don’t hamper yourself with guilt.”

Paks shook her head. She felt hollow inside, as if she had cried for a long time; yet she felt eased, too. She realized how silly it was to think of Saben’s shade hanging around unsatisfied because of her. Such a man, after such a death, would surely have gone straight to the Afterfields, to ride one of the Windsteed’s foals forever. She let a last few tears leak past her eyelids, took a long breath, and sipped her ale.

“Better?” asked Stammel. She nodded. “Good. Now,” he said briskly, “I’m still curious about that Girdish medallion. You never listened to Effa—had Canna been talking to you? Had you handled it?”

Paks leaned back, staring at her mug. “Well—I did handle it, once.”

“Well?” prompted Stammel.

“It was—well, I don’t know. It was strange.”

“So you didn’t tell the Duke’s scribe about it?” suggested Stammel.

“No. No, I didn’t. It wasn’t anything that concerned the Company, like the rest of it. And I don’t know what happened. If anything happened.”

“Were you thinking of becoming a Girdsman?”

“No. Nothing like that. I suppose it started the first night, when Canna asked us to pray with her. She knew we weren’t Girdsmen, but said it would be all right. The next day we could tell that she was having a lot of trouble with her wound. It was swollen and hot, very red. When Saben and I woke up the next morning, I remembered hearing that St. Gird healed warriors sometimes. Canna was a Girdsman; I thought he might heal her.” Paks paused for a sip of ale. Stammel watched her, brows furrowed.

“I asked her; she said it had to be a Marshal or paladin. But I thought if we could pray to Gird to help our friends, why not for healing?” Stammel made a noncommittal sound, and Paks hurried on. “Canna said to hold the medallion, and then ask for what I wanted. I put it on her shoulder, where the wound was, and asked for it to be healed.”

“Then?”

“It didn’t work. It just hurt her; she said it felt like a cramp. It didn’t get worse, and she could walk fast all that day, and from then on. But we found that pot of ointment, too. I don’t know—”

Stammel heaved a gusty sigh. “That’s—quite a story, Paks. Have you told anyone else?”

“No, sir. I don’t truly think I did anything. But it might be why Canna left the medallion to me. Maybe she hoped I’d become a Girdsman.”

“Maybe. They encourage converts. But that healing, now—”

“But it didn’t work,” said Paks. “Not like that magical healing, my first year. Some the mage touched, and some got a potion, but it didn’t hurt, and the wounds were healed right away.”

“Yes, but that was a wizard, someone whose job it was. You aren’t a Marshal or paladin; I wouldn’t have expected anything at all to happen. Or if it angered Gird, or the High Lord, it should have hurt you, not Canna. Did you feel anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

“And she did get better, well enough to draw a bow only five days later.”

“That might have been the ointment,” said Paks.

“Yes. It could have been. Or else—Tir’s bones, Paks, this makes my hair crawl. If you did do something—maybe you ought to find a Gird’s Marshal, and tell him about it.” Paks shook her head, and Stammel sighed again. “Well. Has anything strange happened since you’ve been wearing it? You are wearing it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And nothing’s happened—really.”

“No mysterious cramps that healed anyone, or saved lives?”

“No. Well—it’s not the same thing at all, but—it was a cramp in my back that saved me from a crossbow bolt in Rotengre.”

“What!”

“But it’s nothing to do with the medallion, Stammel. I’m sure of it. We’d been loading plunder all day; we were all tired. I was stooping over this slave we’d found, trying to talk her into getting up and coming along—she was so frightened, I didn’t want to drag her—and I got a kind of cramp in my back, and had to straighten up.”

“Yes?”

“And the crossbow bolt went where I’d been. There was a second concealed room behind the niche where we’d found the slave, and Captain Dorrin said the man in it was a priest of the Webmistress, Achrya.”

Stammel made a warding sign Paks knew. “One of
her
priests! And you—you just happened to get a cramp. What did Dorrin say?”

“That I was pushing my luck.”