The Deed of Paksenarrion (83 page)

“I’m sure she’ll have no objection; it’s an honorable request. Isn’t that right, Paksenarrion?”

Paks felt the tensions in the room, and wondered what to do. She wished they’d agreed with the mage to let her alone. What was this truth spell like? Even with the Kuakgan’s assurance, in the afternoon, she feared to be involved in more magic.

“Sirs,” she began cautiously, “the only time I’ve been spelled, it was by that elf lord. Could I ask what the spell is, that Master Zinthys would use? I have no wish to put myself in another’s power for anything but the truth alone.”

“Well said,” murmured the Kuakgan. The others nodded, and Master Zinthys smiled at her.

“It’s not like that at all—or rather, it may be a bit like that, but this spell is quite limited. You’re absolutely right, not to let yourself be spelled without safeguards. I’ll explain it to you. The power of this spell is that you cannot lie while it is active. Nor, for that matter, can anyone standing very close to you. I could, of course, cast it so that no one in the room could lie, but that takes a great deal of power. The limit of the spell is that while you cannot lie, you are not compelled to say anything at all. Nor does it affect acts other than speech—either compulsion or prevention. And when the spell wears off, you can lie at will. As a practical matter, the spell will wear off fairly soon; I see no reason to expend the power for a longer duration. Is all that clear?” He seemed quite proud of his explanation.

“Yes,” said Paks slowly. “But—” she looked around at them all. All strangers. “Forgive me, sirs and lady,” she said, trying to be very polite, but aware that no one could say what she intended politely, “but I know none of you well, and at most have known you for a few days only. How do I know that you—?” Her voice trailed off as they reacted. Some of the faces went red at once. The mason began to sputter, but the smith laughed out loud.

“She’s got you there,” he chuckled. “Ah, lady, you have hit on it. I should have known that anyone who could lead that black devil away would think in the end. You don’t trust us to say truth, and no wonder.”

“That’s right,” said Master Zinthys quickly. “I hold no rancor, lady, for your doubts. Nonetheless, the Council has a reason to make sure of you, and your tale.”

“Is it that thief, Paks?” asked Hebbinford. “I saw him talking to you this afternoon.”

“Sir, I don’t know. I didn’t believe much that he said, no. But—Master Oakhallow said I had caused so much talk—I’ve been foolish, it seems. It may be late in the day, but I think I should be careful now, however I’ve acted. I never traveled alone before, as I told you. I never thought how it would seem, coming alone from the mountains with a load of treasure. I can understand your suspicions. But still—I don’t want to be magicked into anything.”

The mayor, still red-faced, nodded. “I see. You don’t know me at all; no use to tell you how my family founded this town, generations back. You’ve no call to trust me. Are there any here you could trust? Did you know any Girdsmen before? Or were you kuakgannir?”

Paks thought about it. “Sir, I didn’t mean to insult you, but I did, didn’t I? Yes, I have known Girdsmen, and the elves sent me to both the Marshal and the Kuakgan. If they say it is all right, I am willing.”

The mayor looked at her shrewdly. “You may simply be as inexperienced as you seem. We’ll see. Well, Master Oakhallow? Marshal Cedfer?”

“To my knowledge,” said the Kuakgan, “Master Zinthys is an honest mage, and the spell he speaks of works just as he said it did. Certainly I pledge that we are not planning any other magic on you.”

“And I the same,” said the Marshal. “I assure you that Master Oakhallow and I are quite competent to prevent anything else, too.”

“Yes, sir,” said Paks miserably. “I just wanted to ask.” She looked at Master Zinthys, fighting a hollow feeling in her belly. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“You’d best sit down,” said the mage. He rose and dragged a chair over for her. “It might make you dizzy for a moment. Now, try to relax.” Paks had the feeling that he enjoyed showing his skill before the others, as he gestured fluidly with his long graceful hands.

Once she was seated, the mage took from his robe a small pouch and from that a pinch of colored dust, which he tossed at Paks. It spread in the air, and seemed to hang a long time before settling. Then he took four wands from up one sleeve, and set them on the floor around her chair. Finally he stood back and began to chant in a language Paks had never heard before, while gesturing with one hand in front of her face. Behind him, the faces of the others at the Council table were intent. Only the Kuakgan’s showed amusement in the quirk of his mouth. She wondered why. At last the mage finished, and said in the common tongue: “Speak truth, or be silent, until the spell is done.” Paks was surprised to feel nothing. No tingles, no pain, nothing at all different from before. She did not plan to lie, but what would happen if she did? Had the spell worked?

The mayor began the questioning, asking much the same things as before: her name, background, reasons for leaving the Duke, reasons for coming to Brewersbridge. He asked little about the conflicts she’d described, and no details she had not already given. She answered, as before, honestly. It went more quickly, since no one interrupted. When he was done, the mayor sat back and looked at the others.

“She’s not lied. Her story’s unusual, but true.”

“Then why did she resist being spelled?” asked the mason, still hostile. “And how do we know the spell is working?”

The mage flushed and sat up straight, but Master Oakhallow’s deep voice forestalled what he might have said. “Master Mason, Zinthys is a competent wizard. The spell is good.”

“If you say so,” muttered the mason.

“I wonder myself,” said the Marshal, “that a soldier of her experience would show fear of a simple spell. But if the sorcery she suffered before were severe enough—”

The Kuakgan looked at him sharply. “Come, Marshal, you know as well as I the power in that place. Only a witless fool would want to risk that again.”

“True—true.”

“How long, Master Zinthys, will the spell last?” the Kuakgan asked.

“Not long. Another quarter-glass, perhaps, though I can counteract it now, if you wish.”

“It would be more courteous,” he murmured, and the rest of the Council nodded.

Paks watched as the mage came near. He picked up the wands and stowed them up his sleeve, then began another incantation. When he finished, he grinned at her.

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, sir.” Paks still felt nothing. Foolish, maybe. She wished she’d agreed at once to the spell, since it had done her no harm. The mayor cleared his throat.

“We’ve been here for some time, and there’s more to come.” Paks tensed again. “Let’s take a short break now, and ease our throats with a bit of ale. Is that all right with you, Paksenarrion?”

“Yes, sir.” Paks wondered what was coming next, and thought of Semminson’s warnings. What might they want her to do? Meanwhile, she stood when the others did, and followed them out to the yard before the building. The mayor spoke to a man in servants’ clothes standing there, and told him to fetch ale. It was quite dark out, and cool; Paks shivered. Sir Felis came up to her.

“I’m more than glad to know Siniava’s dead,” he began. “One reason the count had me down here is in case an army came over the pass. It will be a year or more before the keep is finished. But you haven’t seen that, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s my command. When it’s finished, we’ll have a place to fight from, if it’s necessary. The last time there was a battle near here, we had no fortified position. No place to store arms, or haven for those who couldn’t fight—nothing.”

“We’ve built the grange since then,” put in the Marshal.

“Oh, yes. But then, it’s not designed as a keep, though it is stone. You couldn’t hold it against assault.”

“No, you’re right. Not against a trained force. It would hold against bandits, though—we’ve used it for that.”

“Before my time, Marshal—and wasn’t it before yours?”

“Oh, yes. That was Deordtya’s doing, not mine, years back. I suppose I shouldn’t say ‘we’ when I mean Gird’s grange; it’s just habit.”

The servant appeared at their side with a tray of tankards; each took one.

“This will be Ceddrin’s private brew,” commented the Marshal. “I doubt you’ve tasted as good, Paksenarrion.”

Paks blew away the foam and sipped. It was rich and hearty. “It’s very good,” she said.

“Just what sort of training did Duke Phelan suggest you look for?” asked Sir Felis. “I’d have thought he could offer anything you or he might need.”

“He thought, sir, that I might learn mounted warfare, and something of fortifications and defense—”

“Huh. Sounds as if he were planning the education of a squire, not a man-at-arms. Had he suggested you work toward a knighthood, or something like that?” His voice hinted at the unlikeliness of this.

Paks nodded. “He said, sir, that nothing was certain, but that I might have the ability to become a cohort captain, or some such, years from now.”

Sir Felis frowned. “The land’s full of captains; I wonder that he’d risk losing a good soldier. Had he ever given you any command?”

“I was temporary corporal for awhile, sir, when one of ours was injured. And at the end of the campaign, when Siniava was trapped in—Cortes Immer, was it?—I led those who watched the bolthole.”

“Did Siniava come that way?”

“Yes, sir.” Paks offered no details.

“I see. Phelan obviously thought well of you. I must tell you that there’s not much chance my count would hire you, if you were hoping for that. He’s done no recruiting this past year. You could, of course, go and ask him directly.”

“I hadn’t thought of it, sir. I know little of this country, or who holds which keep.”

“Mmmm. I’ll show you a map—can you read maps? Good. I’ve one of the kingdom, showing the principal fiefs. It may give you some idea where you could hope to hire on. Marshal Cedfer can tell you of opportunities of the grange and Hall. The Fellowship of Gird, you know, maintains several training centers for fighting men at every level. For that matter, they have fighting orders, as do followers of Falk and Camwyn.”

“Is that where paladins come from?” asked Paks. “We saw a paladin in Aarenis.”

Sir Felis choked on his ale. “Is that what you—!? Sorry. No, not exactly. The Marshal can tell you more than I, if you’re interested in that. There’s an order of knights, the Knights of Gird, just as there are Knights of the Dragon’s Breath, followers of Camwyn Dragonmaster.”

Paks was confused. “I thought knights were all the same. Noblemen born, or those knighted for service.”

Sir Felis stared. “Oh, no. Whatever gave you that idea? Oh dear, no. Where did you say you were from? A small border village, wasn’t it? Now let me try to explain.” His explanation hardly enlightened Paks, since she knew few of the places and none of the rulers he mentioned. He finished his lecture with a gesture to the small gold device on his collar, shaped like a peal of bells. “For instance, I was knighted in the Order of the Bells, one of the three orders created by the royal house of Tsaia. The oldest, I might add.” He paused for a swallow of ale; his glance expected a reaction. Paks was acutely aware of how little she knew, and how important he thought it.

“Now,” he went on, after wiping his mustache, “members of my order may be followers of any honorable god or hero. I myself am a Girdsman, but my father’s brother is Falkian, and so are my cousins. Our loyalty is to the crown of Tsaia—or, more accurately, to the heir of the House of Mahierian. But Knights of Gird swear their loyalty to the Marshal-General of Gird, through their Knight Commander. The—er—rules governing admission to each order depend—er—on the order, and the circumstances.” He looked her up and down, doubtfully, as if she were an unpedigreed horse at a sale.

“I see,” said Paks, more to stop him than because she did. She was still confused. She was actually relieved when the mayor tapped her arm.

“Let’s get back; we have yet a good bit of business to talk over.”

This time they asked her to sit down at the beginning of the session, and the rest spread themselves around the table on all sides. Only the master mason still seemed hostile.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” began the mayor. “Now that we know something of your background, let me explain how things stand in Brewersbridge. We’re on a major trade route from the west to the sea. We have a lot of traffic through, and want it—we depend on it. Nonetheless, I hope you won’t be insulted when I say that the Council is opposed to having free blades around town. Some of them, like you, are honorable folk, and cause no trouble intentionally. Others, like the fellow who died, pick quarrels everywhere. We’ve learned it’s best to insist that soldiers and warriors either find a local lord or commander, to be responsible for their behavior, or move on.” He smiled, as he said this. Paks wondered what was coming next.

“Now you,” he said, “are perhaps a special case. While Master Senneth, even for the Council’s peace of mind, won’t divulge how much treasure you deposited with him, he has assured us that you will not need to rob anyone for the price of a meal before Midwinter Feast.” A chuckle went around the table. Even the mason smiled. “So, since you’ve given honest account of yourself, we have less to worry about. Nonetheless, our tradition is clear: since Sir Felis has no employment for you, we would not willingly have you stay too long idling about. That would mean more than a few weeks, in your case: I understand that you’ve ordered goods from some of our local tradesmen. Certainly you may stay until they’re completed, as long as nothing happens. On the other hand, we are prepared to offer you certain employment—the Council is, I mean. If you took it, we would not consider you in the same class as an adventurer.”

Paks remembered Semminson’s warning. “What sort of employment, sir, did you have in mind?”

“Work suitable for your abilities and training, I believe. And so says Marshal Cedfer. I think Sir Felis would now concur, would you not?” Sir Felis nodded. “We have been plagued, hereabouts, with brigands preying on caravans in the region. You can understand why that is critical for us; we depend on their trade. Sir Felis has swept the area several times, finding nothing. He has direct orders from the count to concentrate his time and men on the building of the keep north of town. We need someone to search out the brigands’ hiding place, and lead a force against them. None of us have the training—or, to be frank, the time to take away from our trades. Would you be willing to take this commission?”