The Deed of Paksenarrion (81 page)

“No? Are you sure? The simple answer, child, is that they can’t fit you into a known pattern. You aren’t one of the Count’s Guard at the new Keep. You aren’t an ordinary soldier on leave. You aren’t a Girdsman, which would put you under command of Marshal Cedfer, or a kuakgannir, which would put you under mine. You have no skill but war, isn’t that so?” Paks nodded. “And you come from war, from Aarenis, where I hear the whole land is one great bubbling stew of fighting. Where an army might come over the pass, the short way, and be on us before we could send for aid. Can you imagine a southern army up here?” Paks thought of it and nodded. “And you come with treasure—how much, only you and Master Senneth know, but I can guess. Agents carry such treasure, Paksenarrion. Agents hiring troops, or buying loyalty ahead of invasion.”

Paks stared at him, shocked. She couldn’t speak. Finally she choked out: “Agent? But—but I never thought—”

“No,” said the Kuakgan grimly. “You didn’t think. That much is obvious. An agent would think, would have acted very differently. But the Council can’t know what I know. They are concerned. So they should be. Your tale of the elfane taig, and elves’ aid, and having to see me and Marshal Cedfer, and treasure—well, it would be stupider men than our Council that could see where that might come from.” He went back to his meal. Paks sat frozen, her appetite gone, the food she had already eaten a cold lump in her belly. She watched him eat. Finally he pushed his plate away. “And on top of all,” he said, “a green shirt. With gold embroidery. I suppose you don’t know what that means?” She shook her head. “Hmmph. You must have gone straight from your sheepfarm into the Company, and straight into Aarenis from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, child, Brewersbridge is near the border of Tsaia and Lyonya. Our local Count, such as he is, is a vassal of Tsaia. His colors are blue and rose. Green and gold are the colors of the royal house of Lyonya.”

“Oh.” Paks thought suddenly of the Halveric colors: dark green and gold. She did not even consider asking.

“I told them you didn’t mean anything by it. I assume you just like the colors? Yes. They’ll be asking you anyway. There’s a Council meeting tonight, and you’re summoned. I’ll be there, and Marshal Cedfer. You met our Master Mason the other night. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, the Count’s military representative, and commander at the new Keep. Probably his mage, Master Zinthys. Jos Hebbinford you know, and Master Senneth. Our mayor is Master Ceddrin, the Brewmaster. You’ll be asked for a clear account of yourself, and for news of what’s happened this past year in Aarenis.” He stopped again. Paks nodded, and he went on.

“I thought you might give a clearer account, if you had the afternoon to think about it. If there’s anything you haven’t told the truth about, you’d better be prepared to, tonight. You’ll probably be asked to submit to an Examination of Truth—”

“What’s that?” asked Paks.

“A spell. Under its influence, you cannot lie. You can refuse to answer questions, however, should you wish. The Council consented to my telling you this, because of my judgment of you. I think you have nothing to fear from the Examination or the Council, but you must expect sharp questioning: don’t get angry. If you are unwilling to come before the Council, you must leave Brewersbridge at once. You can’t go north, deeper into the Count’s lands, without Sir Felis’s permission, which you won’t get. You could go west, if you went swiftly, and were beyond the bounds by sundown. East, as you know, has its own hazards, and south is back up the mountains. And if you go, they’ll assume you’ve lied. I advise you to stay.”

“I wouldn’t have run away,” said Paks.

“Good. Jos Hebbinford will tell you what time to come. After supper. You might want to dress for it, if you can.” He stood, and Paks scrambled to her feet. “You are, you know, as welcome at the grove as at the grange.” He turned away. Paks thought of the snowcat again. Should she tell him? She wondered what he would say; she was half-afraid she knew.

By midafternoon, Paks had bathed and washed her hair. Her good shirt, mended, dripped from a line in the stableyard; she wore the ragged one in her room. She had oiled her boots, and was working on her sword belt while her hair dried in the breeze from the window. She heard boots coming down the passage, stopping before her door. She froze, and reached for the sword, where she’d laid it on the bed. Someone knocked, and called her name softly.

Paks glanced around the room, then at the door, conscious of her loose hair, the mail shirt hanging on a peg. She shrugged, and answered.

“Yes?”

“I’m Arvid Semminson, lady, a traveler also staying here. You’ve see me in the common room, in black tunic and trousers. I heard you were staying in this afternoon, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you. May I come in, or could we meet downstairs shortly?”

Paks thought of the man in dark clothes. She had no idea what his profession was, which itself made thief most likely. She thought of the Council meeting that night, and decided that she didn’t want to meet anyone privately. “I’ll be downstairs a little later, if that will suit.”

“Very good,” came the voice through the door, a mellow and pleasant voice. “I shall be honored to buy you a tankard of Hebbinford’s best ale, or wine, whichever you prefer.” The footsteps went away, back toward the stairs. Paks ran her hands through her hair, which was almost dry, and began to comb it. Somehow she did not feel like a fighter with hair down her back and wisping into her face. She braided it tightly, then finished her work on the sword belt. Her sword was clean and sharp, as always. She took off her trousers and looked them over. The previous mending still held. She could do nothing more for the shirt she had on. She had patched the worst rents, but the other holes and scorches remained. She had brushed and aired her cloak, but it, too, was stained and worn. The leather tunic, though bloodmarked, looked better over her shirt than nothing. She slipped it over her head, decided against the mail, and felt her boots. Still damp and oily. It would be another hour or so before they were dry. She pulled out the thin leather liners she’d worn in the high mountains, and put them on. More respectable than socks or bare feet. She strapped her sword belt on over the tunic, made sure she could get her dagger easily, and went downstairs.

Arvid Semminson had chosen a table with a good view of the stairs. He smiled as he saw her, and waved. Paks came to his table. Only one other person was in the common room, a great cheerful youth she had seen before, happily downing a tankard of ale at a swallow. He leaned on the wall behind his table, and looked half asleep.

Semminson’s clothes, Paks noticed as she came closer, were, if not new, at least unpatched and whole. By the drape of the shoulder and sleeve, the cloth was of fine quality. The belt at his waist was polished black leather, new enough that the edges had not curled; his dagger’s sheath was well-oiled and unscarred. He himself had neatly trimmed dark hair, a smooth-shaven face, and bright black eyes. His mouth quirked in amusement.

“Do I pass your inspection, lady?” he asked pleasantly.

Paks thought of her own ragged shirt and patched trousers, and reddened. “I’ve no right to inspect,” she muttered.

“No, but you were. Everyone does. I expect that. See here, lady, I’ll be straight with you—no secrets. I’m no merchant, nor mercenary fighter. Our esteemed innkeeper thinks I’m a thief, though I haven’t robbed him. That’s neither here nor there. But you, either you’re—how shall I say?—in a related business to mine, or you’re simply unaware of the situation. Either way, I can’t let such an attractive young woman wander into a trap without warning. Do you follow me?”

Paks shook her head. She felt a certain distaste for his attempt at flattery. After the tailor’s wife’s comments, she had no illusions about being “an attractive young woman” by local standards.

“Well—” he looked her up and down. “It might be that our interests would lie together. Or if not, a favor done might earn a favor later, who knows? But you know there’s a Council meeting set for tonight?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you’ve agreed to go.”

“Yes.” She wondered how he knew that. She could not imagine Master Oakhallow telling him.

He snorted. “Then either you’re a great deal more knowing that you act, or you know nothing at all.” He leaned closer to her. “You can’t hope to come out of that easily, you know. They’ll get you one way or the other.”

“What do you mean?”

He ticked off the points on his fingers. “A stranger in town, with plenty of money, and no liege to worry about angering, and under no protection that they know of? Don’t be silly. They’ll find some excuse, and then pfft! You’re in trouble.”

“But I haven’t—”

“—done anything,” he finished for her, and laughed again. “And just what do you think that has to do with it, eh? No, let me give you some advice. It’s too late to escape, if you would. But be very careful. After they back you in a corner, they’ll probably offer you some sort of deal, if they can’t find anything to imprison you for at once. Consider it very carefully, whatever it is. Very carefully. Make no promises you can avoid. Beware of that wizard, if he’s there: he’ll try to bind you with some sort of spell, if you aren’t careful.”

“But why are you telling me all this?” asked Paks, thinking hard.

“As I told you. A favor. I may need one from you someday. You can’t do me any good if you’re in a cell, or dead. And if they do offer you a deal, I’d like to know about it. Before I came here, I’d heard the Council had hired outsiders for some kind of interesting work. Since I arrived, no one will tell me anything. Maybe they’ll tell you, if they think they have a hold on you. And if you end up taking a job—well, you might want someone with you who wasn’t one of theirs, if you know what I mean.”

Paks was both fascinated and repelled. What he said almost made sense, almost fit with the Kuakgan’s words. She still could not understand what sort of hold anyone could have on her, or why they would want to find her guilty of something. In Aarenis, they might have wanted an excuse to seize her for the slave market, but not in Tsaia. She wondered if Semminson was the kind of agent that the Kuakgan had been talking about. Would anyone, ever, try to help a southern army invade the north? She was sure not, until she remembered that Sofi Ganarrion was planning to come north to fight for his throne. She said nothing, rubbing her toe against the top of the other foot. Semminson was watching her.

“Well,” she said finally. “Whatever comes, I’ll be meeting with the Council tonight.”

“Just keep what I said in mind,” he urged.

“Mmm. I will.” She noticed Hebbinford watching her from the kitchen door. She looked away and stood.

“Good luck to you,” said Semminson softly. “I fear you’ll need it.” Paks went on out to the stableyard to gather her clean clothes from the line.

All in all, she had little appetite for supper that night. Her clean shirt had only the one tear, which she had mended, and everything was as neat as she could make it, but she still felt shabby. She wondered whether to wear her mail. If Semminson was a thief, she hated to leave it behind, but she didn’t want them to think she was looking for trouble, either. She thought it over, and finally cornered Hebbinford to ask him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s valuable, and you’re a fighter—wear it if you wish. You can’t carry a sword into Council, but the guards will keep it for you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She wasn’t comfortable at all, but decided to go upstairs and put on the mail. Semminson was coming out of a room farther along the hall, and he gave her a knowing look. She put on the heavy jingling shirt, buffed her helmet on the blanket, and put that on as well. With a captain of soldiers coming, she might as well look like a soldier.

Hebbinford sent one of the girls to her room to call her; she came down the stairs with a sort of muddled determination to do the right thing and not be trapped. He was waiting at the door, dressed in a long blue gown under a fur-collared cloak, instead of his usual tunic and apron. He smiled and they set off for the Hall together. Paks heard horses behind them, and moved to the edge of the street automatically. Hebbinford turned to look, and waved to the lead rider.

“Ah, Sir Felis. You haven’t been in town these past few days.”

“No. There’s enough to do at the keep.” Paks looked up at the mounted figure, his face lit by his escorts’ torches. He wore chainmail and helmet, and she could tell nothing about him except that he sat his horse like a soldier. He looked down at her and spoke to Hebbinford. “Is this the person I’ve heard of?”

“Yes, Sir Felis. This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter.”

“Hmmph.” She saw the glitter of his eyes as they scanned her. “You look more like a soldier than a free blade, young woman. You were with Duke Phelan’s company?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What rank?”

“As a private, sir. File leader, my last year.”

“I see. What—? No, I’ll wait until we’re in session.” He gave a causal wave of the hand to Hebbinford, and rode on past them.

The Hall, when they reached it, was lighted by torches in brackets along the front, as well as inside. Two of the captain’s escort stood guard at the door. Paks felt sweat spring cold on her forehead; she wanted to yawn for no reason. Semminson’s veiled warnings seemed suddenly appropriate. She heard voices inside. Hebbinford nudged her, and she surrendered her sword to the guard on the right, and went on through the door.

At the far end of a large room, much larger than the common room at the inn, a knot of people clustered around the one table. Paks recognized Marshal Cedfer, now in mail, and looking much more like the Marshal she’d seen in Aarenis. His surcoat bore the crescent of Gird on a dark blue field. Master Oakhallow, in the same long robe he had worn in the afternoon, was already seated, and talking to one of the other men. Another man in mail—Paks assumed it was Sir Felis—stood at the end of the table, lips folded tightly as he listened.

Paks heard someone come in behind her, and turned to see the stonemason, Master Feddith. He gave her a cold look and stumped over to the table at once. Hebbinford, too, moved to that side of the room, and Paks followed slowly. A man she had not seen in town before, tall, with a generous belly, sat behind the table and looked up as the master mason and Hebbinford approached.