The Deed of Paksenarrion (45 page)

“Huh. If we had that many men, we might find four units easier to move than—” Paks wrinkled her brows, trying to think how many it would be.

“Ten,” said Vik smugly. “I wish we had—then nobody could stand against us.”

“Nobody’s going to.” Paks grunted as they heaved the poles up in their new holes. “I hope we don’t have to raise all the tents for only one night.”

“I don’t think so.” Vik rubbed his sunburnt nose. “I’d like to know how many troops Siniava has—altogether.”

“Not enough to stop us,” said Paks grimly.

“I hope not. But look, Paks—if he could send eight hundred or a thousand up here—and he’s not with them—he must have another army someplace. And his cities garrisoned. He could have a much bigger army than the Duke’s put together.”

“That’s true.” Paks frowned. “Well—if it is—”

“We’ll do like the man with the barrel of ale,” said Vik with a grin.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell me you never heard that! It’s old, Paks.”

“I never did. Tell me.”

“Well, there was a man famous for what he could down at one swallow. At a market fair, he won lots of free ale by betting that he could drink this jug or that, or a skin of wine, at one draught. Soon he was famous for miles around, and no one would bet. Then he went on a journey with a brother of his, and they stopped at an inn. His brother started bragging on what he could do, and the long and short of it is that the innkeeper asked him to wager. Well, he looked around the room, and saw no pot or jug he couldn’t drain. He agreed to take but one swallow to empty any alepot in the room, or give up all his silver.

“But the innkeeper had his own tricks, and pulled aside a curtain by the bar, and there was a barrel half full of ale. Of course the man said it was no pot, but the others around said it was, and there were more of them, and they were armed.

“The man knew he was trapped, and he was angry besides. So he walked over and tried to lift it, and of course it was too heavy. The innkeeper told him to kneel down and drink from the bunghole—actually he said worse than that—laughing all the while, and the man was so angry he could nearly fly. So: No, he said, and I drink my ale standing, as any man may, he said, and he rammed a hole in the bottom and let the ale run out until he could lift it and drink the rest—in one swallow. His brother held the innkeeper off in the meantime with a sword off the wall. And when he had finished, he said: A pot’s what you can lift in your hand, innkeeper, and any fool who can’t tell a pot from a barrel might sell a barrel of ale for the price of a pot. Then the townsmen laughed, and not just because of his strong arm, and made the innkeeper pay up. And he and his brother made their way on the road alive and no poorer. So now, where I grew up, if anyone takes on too much, we say he must be like the man with the barrel of ale: cut the trouble down to his size before swallowing it.”

Paks nodded, laughing, and Vik went on. “This is letting some of the ale out of Siniava’s barrel—he lost more than six hundred men last fall, and he’ll lose these, and the rest in Andressat—say eight hundred or more. You can’t pull that many well-trained troops out of a hat, you know. However many he’s got, this will hurt.”

“I hope so,” said Paks.

For the next three days, the Halverics and the Duke’s Company marched south to Cortes Andres. Rain and rugged country slowed them; the road zigzagged into steep valleys and back up to the sheep pastures. Paks saw carefully terraced slopes set with precise rows of dark sticks.

“Are those young fruit trees?” she asked Stammel.

“Tir, no! Those are grapevines. This is wine country, Paks.”

“Oh. They don’t look like any grapevines I’ve seen.” Paks thought of the little black grapes of the north sprawling over bushes and walls in an untidy tangle.

“They are. Expensive ones, too. If we break off a single twig, the Count’d have our hides.”

They passed through villages nestled in the sides of valleys: stone houses built so close together that the roof of one made the first story of another. Down in the narrow valleys, little plots of spring grain showed green, and a few fruit trees were just starting to bloom. Streams ran clean and clear in rocky beds. Paks saw no cattle, and noticed that the sheep and goats were often spotted in bold patterns of brown and black and white.

The rain which had slowed them covered their approach to Cortes Andres. Clart Cavalry slipped between Siniava’s pickets and the city, and the retreating enemy ran straight into the front of the Duke’s column.

Seen from the high ground on the northern road, Cortes Andres gave Paks an impression of great strength and stubbornness. Its outer walls were built of immense blocks of gray stone, while above the wall all the towers and battlements gleamed white. Two inner walls circled the city as well. The innermost, like the citadel which rose inside it, was built of pale gold stone. Of the buildings within the walls nothing could be seen but red-tiled roofs, which gave color to the stone around them. Paks could well believe that this citadel had never been taken by assault. She could not see anything of the rivers that came together just south of the city wall; she had been told they formed a deep gorge, and cliffs protected the city on that side.

They marched nearer. The rain stopped, and the sky lightened. Aliam Halveric rode up beside the Duke; both had their standard bearers display their colors. As they neared the gates, a blue and gold banner rose above it. Arcolin halted the column. After a short wait, a man rode from a narrow postern to meet the Halveric and the Duke. The Duke turned and waved; Arcolin started them moving again. They marched nearer. Paks noticed that the portcullis did not rise, nor the gates open. She glanced up. Bowmen edged the wall. The column had marched past the commanders in conference, but now the man from Cortes Andres rode forward and shouted up to the gate tower windows. Arcolin halted them again. Paks squinted up at the arrowslits and caught a glint of light. She felt sweat spring out on her neck, and fought the desire to swing her shield up. Suppose these were not Andressat’s men, but Siniava’s? The Duke rode up beside them. With a terrible screech the portcullis lifted from its bed. It moved more slowly than any Paks had seen, crawling up its tracks. Then the gates folded inward.

The gatehouse tower was uncommonly deep; Paks saw the tracks of three portcullises. Between them, when she looked up, were convenient holes for bowmen, and she thought she saw eyes gleaming behind each hole. They came out of the tower into a stone paved area between the first and second walls, bare of cover and easily commanded by either. Part of this had been fenced off for sheep pens, but all of it, Paks realized, would make a fine trap for an army that managed to take the outer gate.

The second wall loomed higher than the first, and its gate was offset to the west. They threaded their way between pens of sheep to halt outside the second gate tower. These gates too were closed, but a cluster of figures in blue and gold waited for them. Paks, marching in the first cohort, could see the deference with which the Duke and Aliam Halveric dismounted and walked up to the gray-haired man in the middle. It startled her to hear them addressed as “Aliam” and “young Phelan.” She expected the Duke to object, but he answered courteously, calling the man “my lord Count.” The captains were introduced, and after more conversation the Count strolled down their column. Paks wished they were not rain-wet and muddy. As he returned, he was chatting with the Duke about border towers and the condition of the vineyards. Paks could not see how they were related.

“Well, then,” he said. “We haven’t enough stabling within the inner walls for all those cavalry—your mount, of course, Phelan, and Aliam’s, and your captains’, will be in the citadel. Your troops can have barracks space in the second ring. Fersin, my aide, will direct them.” One of his retinue bowed. “You’ll dine with me in the citadel, and your captains as well. I expect they’ll want to be housed with their cohorts, yes?” The Duke nodded. “I’ve arranged a suite for you and Aliam, convenient to my quarters; we have much to confer about.” The Count glanced at the column again. “Do you—do you need separate barracks space for the women?”

“No, my lord Count.”

“I see.” He sounded doubtful. “We don’t—meaning no disparagement to your troops, Phelan, but we have not seen so many women active in warfare. A paladin here or there, and occasional knight—but—well, no matter.”

“I assure you, my lord, that they are quite capable.” The Duke’s voice was dry, and Paks suppressed a grin.

“Oh, quite—quite, I’m sure. Meant no disparagement. But one thing, Phelan, your troops can’t wander about armed in the city—”

“Certainly not, my lord. They will stack their arms in barracks, and I had not planned to permit any wandering anyway.”

“I didn’t mean to sound inhospitable—”

“Not at all. No one wants strange troops straying loose. These won’t.”

“No harm if they go to the fountains—or if you need more supplies—but it might be better if they stayed close.”

“Certainly.”

“Very well, then. Fersin will direct my quartermaster to stand ready with any assistance. I know you brought your own surgeons, but if your wounded need special care, you have only to ask. Hobben—” He spoke to one of the gate guards. “Open this thing and let our guests through. Come along, Phelan, and tell me what you found.” He turned away; the Duke and Aliam Halveric followed him through the opening gate.

The column followed Fersin, who turned left inside the gate and led them beside the wall to two-story stone barracks built against it.

“This and the next are empty,” he told Arcolin. “If you need more bedding, just tell me. The baths—” he glanced back at the column, “are in the far end of this one, and the near end of the next; there’s a kitchen in each cellar. By the Count’s order, water’s been heating since noon, for your convenience. If you need food, we can supply it, but it will take a little time, since I must speak to the quartermaster. I’d appreciate a squad of your men—uh, troops—helping me bring it—”

“We’re well supplied,” said Arcolin. “We have what we took from Siniava’s army. But we appreciate the offer. Where shall we take the baggage mules?”

“I’ll have stable boys come help you. Just a moment—” He looked up and caught the eye of one of the soldiers on the wall, then whistled a complicated phrase. The man saluted and turned away.

“We’ll take the far building,” said Arcolin. “The Halverics are behind us, and the Clarts behind them; we don’t want any more confusion than necessary. Now, where are the fountains?”

“Just down that street,” said Fersin, pointing. “There are full waterbutts in each barracks, but if you need more, feel free to get some.”

“Thank you, Fersin. Stammel, two squads for the mules; send the rest in. I’ll check back.”

The Count’s barracks were much like the Duke’s: long clean rooms with wooden bunks. Each room would hold two cohorts if some slept on the floor, and there were plenty of pallets to make that comfortable. Soon the upper room was organized for the night. Paks caught Stammel’s eye when he came upstairs to look.

“Why didn’t that man call the Duke by his title?”

“The Count?” Paks nodded. Stammel shook his head. “Oh, he’s what they call an aristocrat—one of the old kind.”

“So?”

“Well, he doesn’t think the Duke is really a Duke—from what I hear, the only duke he thinks
is
real is the Duke of Fall, over near the Copper Hills.”

Paks frowned. “Is he like those bravos, then that you told me about my first year?”

“Tir, no! Nothing like. He really is a count, the sixteenth in his line, I think.”

“But you told me nobody disputed the Duke’s title.”

“The Count doesn’t dispute it; the Duke doesn’t ask him to acknowledge it. That’s different. Courtesy among allies. And if it doesn’t bother the Duke, why should it bother you?”

“I don’t understand.” Paks felt that it ought to bother the Duke.

Stammel shrugged. “Remember what I told you about Aare—the old country across the sea?” Paks nodded. “Well, these southern nobles trace their titles back to it. They hardly allow that the throne of Tsaia has a king—or a crown prince, as he is—and they don’t recognize Pargun and Kostandan and Dzordanya at all. You can see if they don’t recognize the crown of Tsaia, they wouldn’t acknowledge titles granted by it.”

“I see.” Paks laid out another blanket. “Well, is the Honeycat one of their kind of nobles, or our kind, or just made up?”

“I don’t know. If anyone does, it’ll be this count. They say he’s so proud of his family that he can recite his fathers and mothers and aunts and cousins all the way back to the beginnings, and say who married whom two hundred years ago.”

Paks thought about that, shaking her head. In her own family—she mused over it, coming up blank past grandparents, aunts, uncles, and near cousins. How could the count keep up with more? When she looked up, Stammel had gone on to something else.

Paks drew first shift for a bath, and came to the basement dining hall dry, warm, and comfortable. It would be strange to sleep indoors again. She wondered what it would be like to live in those barracks all the time—then remembered the count’s comments on women, and chuckled to herself. Southerners had strange ideas. She wondered if southern women who wanted to be warriors went north.

The next morning they marched at first light, carrying only their weapons, to attack the besieging force that held the south road. They made their way around the city between the outer and second walls. On the south, the city seemed to tip itself over the edge of high cliffs. Before Paks could see what lay below, they dove into an echoing torchlit passage, steeply pitched, and came out on one landing of a zigzag stair winding down from wall to wall, and ending in a huge gatehouse still some way above the rivers. Here they were joined by some five hundred Andressat troops who had come by a different way. As the gates opened, Paks could see nothing at first but distant slopes, dim in the early light.

Once through the gates, the road ran steeply down to a platform above the confluence of the two branches of the Chaloquay: a wild, tossing whirlpool at this season. Upstream, on the right, a narrow road led down to a high arched stone bridge, guarded by towers at either end. The enemy held both towers.