Divided Allegiance

10

Next morning she woke again at dawn. This time Hebbinford seemed to expect her when she padded down the stairs and out to the stableyard. There she stretched and twisted, working the stiffness out of her shoulder. When Sevri came out, they fed the horses together. Paks stopped to watch the black horse eat. She wondered what would happen to it if its master died. She imagined herself riding away on it—then wondered if she could even mount it.

The tailor, she found after breakfast, was away on a trip. “Buying cloth up at the Count’s fair,” said his wife. “He’s got a commission to make cloaks for the new council members, and has gone to buy cloth. He won’t be home for a sennight or more. But what did you need, lady? Perhaps I could serve?”

“Well—some shirts, at least. I’d wanted a cloak, a heavy traveling cloak for winter.”

“Fur? I couldn’t do fur, nor does he, without it being paid in advance.”

“No, not fur. Just good warm wool, weatherproofed—”

“Plain shirts, or fancy ones?”

Paks thought of her money. “Plain. Maybe one fancy one.”

“The plain shirts I can do. And here—here’s our silks, from the south. They say you’ve been there; you’ll know these are good.”

Paks looked at the goods. The silk slid across her hands like water—she decided on a silk shirt, green, with gold embroidery on the yoke. For that, the woman said, she’d have to await the tailor’s return. In the meantime, a linen shirt—Paks explained the cut she wanted, to free her arms for swordplay. The tailor’s wife took her measurements.

“You’re as big as a man,” she said, a little nervously. “Even in the neck—”

Paks laughed. “It comes of the fighting,” she said. “Wearing a helmet every day would thicken anyone’s neck. Makes it harder to cut through.” But the woman didn’t take the joke, and only looked frightened. Paks sighed, and ordered trousers as well, of the local wool, thicker and softer than she’d found in Aarenis. The tailor’s wife knew someone who knitted for sale, and by noon Paks had ordered new socks and gloves for the coming winter.

As she came back to the inn, well satisfied with her morning’s work, she noticed a crowd round the door. She slowed. A group of men came out, carrying something on a plank. Boots, scuffed and worn, poked out from under a blanket. The tall man. Paks shivered. Marshal Cedfer, walking with the carriers, nodded shortly to Paks as he led the group toward the grange. Paks went on to the door, staring after them.

Just inside the inn door, Hebbinford was talking to Master Oakhallow.

“—doesn’t do the inn any good,” he was saying. “And besides—Oh. Paksenarrion. Master Oakhallow was looking for you.”

Paksenarrion felt a tremor in her gut. The Kuakgan was looking at her without expression. She opened her mouth to say something about lunch, and thought better of it.

“For a simple warrior,” said the Kuakgan, “you certainly have managed to make a stir in our quiet village.” Hebbinford moved away, into the common room. Paks thought of several things to say, and decided against all of them. “You were about to eat?” Oakhallow went on.

“Yes, sir.” Paks tried to judge his expression. “But if you needed—”

“No. I think I’ll join you for lunch, if that’s acceptable.”

Paks wondered what he would say if she said no. Instead she nodded, and followed him into the common room. He murmured something to Hebbinford, and the innkeeper waved them on into the kitchen. The serving wenches were wide-eyed. The Kuakgan moved to a table at the kitchen window, overseeing the courtyard, and sat down. Paks hesitated, then sat opposite him. Hebbinford brought a platter of sliced meat, a loaf of bread, and a round of cheese to the table. One of the girls brought a pitcher of water and two mugs.

“You might as well know,” the Kuakgan began, as he pulled out a dagger and sliced the round of cheese, “that you’re causing a stir. I don’t mean that dead bully, necessarily, though that’s part of it. Not your fault, I agree with the Marshal, but you were involved. Then Master Senneth, after you left his place, has had a—how shall I put it?—a complacent look. And he called you ‘lady,’ I hear. In his vocabulary, that means rich. Folk here know the Halveric Company, and most have heard of your duke. After your comments last night, to the Chaya merchants, no one has much doubt that he’s still your lord. You gave both to me and to the grange a jewel worth a knight’s ransom—apparently without knowing their worth. You walked off with a horse that the smith claimed was an outlaw.” He paused to eat a slice of cheese.

Paks was still staring at her food; she shook herself and speared a slice of meat. Put that way, it almost seemed that she’d tried to show off. She finished that slice, and tore off a hunk of bread. She had no idea what was coming, or what to do.

“Marshal Cedfer says,” the Kuakgan went on, after pouring himself some water, “that you’re uncommonly good with that sword, and also good with the short-sword—which I’d expect, where you’ve been—and also good at instructing in weapons. We didn’t expect that of one so young, a mere private. Sevri tells me you’re good with all the animals, and helpful as well. Fighters aren’t, as a rule. In fact—” Paks looked up and was caught by his dark gaze. “In fact, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you are very different from the usual ex-mercenary. Now Kuakkganni—” He gave a slow smile that changed his whole face. “Kuakkganni have their own ways of learning things. From what I know, I judge that you’re as honest as most youngsters are, and mean no harm—not that no harm comes of it. You have some secrets rankling in your heart which must come out—and soon, I judge—if they’re not to hurt you later. But unless you choose to confide in me, it’s not my business.” Paks thought of the snowcat with a mental wince, and looked down. “Marshal Cedfer thinks you need only join the grange to be a fine addition to our town: that’s a compliment; he’s hard to please. But you’ve come to the notice of our local Guard, and the Council, and it’s best you know the eyes you have on you.”

Paks stirred restlessly. “But, sir—Master Oakhallow—why should they be so interested? I won’t be here long—”

“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.

“Ah,” he said. “We’re all here, then. Have a seat, Councillors, have a seat. Let’s get on with this.” He looked at Paks. “So you’re the young woman I’ve heard so much about? Paks—” He looked down at a sheet before him. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter? Of Three Firs?”

“Yes, sir.” said Paks. The others were all taking seats around the far side and ends of the table.

“Good. Let me introduce you to the Council. I’m the mayor, Brewmaster Ceddrin. You saw my place on your way to the grange. You know Marshal Cedfer, and Master Oakhallow, and Master Hebbinford already. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, our count’s military representative—” Sir Felis nodded shortly; in this light Paks could tell that he was a lean, weather-beaten man somewhat shorter than Duke Phelan. His beard was carefully trimmed. “—and Master Zinthys, the mage—” Paks looked at the slender, handsome young man in a long velvet robe lavishly banded with braid. He had rings on both hands, and a great polished crystal hanging by a silver chain on his chest. Master Zinthys smiled. The mayor went on. “This is Master Feddith, the stonemason, and I believe you also know Master Senneth, the moneychanger.” He looked up and Paks nodded. “Also with us tonight are past Councillors: Master Hostin, our miller, Trader Garin Garinsson, and Master Doggal, the smith. Eris Arvidsdotter is here representing the farmholders.” Trader Garin wore merchants’ robes, and Eris Arvidsdotter wore a wool gown and cloak. She was as tall as Paks, and broad-shouldered; her gray hair was in a braided coil. The mayor paused until Paks had nodded at each of these. Then he picked up a heavy gavel lying on the table and rapped three times; the table boomed.

“The Council of Brewersbridge is in session,” he said loudly. “I ask the protection of all the gods, and the guidance of all good spirits, to be over us in this meeting. May wisdom and truth prevail. In the name of the High Lord, and all the powers of light.” It sounded stilted, as if he didn’t open the Council formally that often.

“May it be,” responded the others.

“We are met,” he said in a lower tone, “to learn what we can of a traveler here, one Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. We have heard disturbing things all this year of trouble in Aarenis. We will examine this person to see what her business is here, and how it may be bound in with what has happened there.” He waited, and Paks noticed that both the mage and the Marshal were taking notes. “Does anyone object to my asking the questions?” asked the mayor. Heads were shaken around the table. “Very well, then. If you have other questions, when I’m through, just say so. Now—is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter your true name?”

“Yes, sir, but I’m called Paks, since I left home.”

“I see. And you come from Three Firs? Where is that? In Tsaia?”

“I—I’m not sure. The closest larger town was Rocky Ford; that’s where I joined Duke Phelan’s company—”

The Marshal cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mayor, but Rocky Ford is just within Tsaia, near the Finthan border in the north.”

“I see. Three Firs was small, then?”

“Yes, sir. Much smaller than Brewersbridge. My father’s land was a half-day’s sheep drive out on the moors. We went to Three Firs rarely.”

“And Rocky Ford?”

“I’d never been there before I—I ran away to join the company.”

“So you went directly from home to Duke Phelan’s company—hmm. And what was your father?”

“A sheepfarmer,” said Paks. Then, anticipating the next question, she added, “I learned about mercenary companies from my cousin Jornoth; he’d left several years before, and came back with a horse, and gold, and said he was in the guard.”

“Where? In Tsaia?”

“He didn’t say, sir. But he said I couldn’t go directly to a job that good. He said I’d have to start somewhere else, and he told me what to do.”

“Hmm. Not common, for a girl from a remote farm to join an army.”

“No, sir. But I’d always wanted to be a warrior—”

“As a mercenary?” put in the Marshal.

Paks blushed. “Not—exactly, sir. But Jornoth said that was the way to start.”

The mayor took control again. “You say you were trained at Duke Phelan’s stronghold, and went from there to the wars in Aarenis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long were you in Aarenis?”

“I was there for three campaign seasons, and in winter quarters in Valdaire.”

“You must have had a short season this year,” he said, looking at her sharply. “Why did you leave your Company?”

Paks hesitated. “The war—Siniava had been killed, and my two years were up.”

“You have told Marshal Cedfer and Master Oakhallow what happened to you; we also would like to know, from your own lips.”

“Yes, sir.” Paks gathered her wits. She hurried over the first part of the trip with Macenion, merely mentioning his half-elf ancestry and the knowledge he claimed of the mountains. Then she described the valley of the elfane taig as they had first seen it, and the dream that came to both of them. The Councillors listened without interrupting as she described the underground passages, and the chamber where they’d found the elf lord. Through the battle with him, the burning, and the running fight with the orcs, and the last struggle that ended, beyond her comprehension, with her alone on the surface, no one spoke or stirred. “Some sickness came on me,” she said finally. “I couldn’t go far along the trail; a snowstorm came down off the mountains, and I fell. Then it was that the elves came. They healed me, and entered the valley to see whether I had told them the truth. When they returned, they told me how to find my way here, and gave me messages to Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya. I was to say that the elfane taig had awaked, and the elf lord was freed.” Paks stopped, and looked up and down the table. The faces were intent, but no longer hostile.

After a moment’s silence, Sir Felis turned to the mayor. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“Paksenarrion, you say you served three campaign seasons. How soon after you joined the regular company were you made private from recruit?”

“The first battle, sir.”

“What was your file position?”

“File second, the first year, sir, and the second. This past year we moved around a lot, but at the end I was file leader.”

“I’m not clear on something. You’ve spoken both of leaving the company, and of being on some sort of long leave. Are you still the Duke’s soldier, or not?”

Paks sighed. “Sir, the Duke had reason to give me a long leave. He and others had suggested that I might leave the company for a year or so. For other training, or experience, they said. But the Duke said I would be welcome back any time. I hadn’t decided yet, sir, how soon to return.”

“But you have no complaints against Duke Phelan, or he against you?”

“I have none against him, sir, and as far as I know he has none against me. And the Company is all I’ve known. I miss them.”

“Have you any sort of token or pass from your duke, that might prove what you say of his opinion?”

Paks remembered the ring he had given the survivors of Dwarfwatch, and reached into her pouch for it. “Here is a ring—” She handed it to the mayor, who peered at it, and passed it along the table. When they had all looked at it, the mayor passed it back.

“Dwarfwatch,” the mayor said. “Isn’t that the name of that Sorellin fort on the south end of Hakkenarsk Pass?”

“So the traders say,” said Master Senneth.

“So. Those rumors, last spring, of a major battle there—” mused Hebbinford. “You must have been there. Why were you so angry with the merchants, Paksenarrion, for mentioning it?”

Paks glanced quickly at Sir Felis and the Marshal, then back to Hebbinford. “Sir, it is the Duke’s business. I don’t talk of it with merchants. But—by treachery, most of my—of a—cohort was lost at Dwarfwatch, to Lord Siniava. Most of a cohort of Halverics, too. For those of us who lived, the Duke had these rings made.”

“So he’s fought understrength this past year,” commented Sir Felis. “And the Halveric too, I presume.”

The Marshal was not deflected from the original story. “What was it, a siege, or what?”

“If she considers it her duke’s business, Cedfer—” began the Kuakgan.

“Nonsense. Anything that’s happened almost a year ago is public knowledge in Aarenis, and we’ll know the details here sooner or later.”

Paks took a deep breath and tried to shove her private memories back into hiding. All the mercenary companies in the south knew the story; Cedfer was right. She gathered her wits and began. “One cohort of the Duke’s company was detached from the siege of Rotengre—the Guild League cities had joined in that—and garrisoned Dwarfwatch while the Sorellin militia, who had been there, helped with the grain harvest.” She paused, and they all nodded. They listened intently as she described Halveric Company’s approach, the surrender, the departure of all but a guard cohort of Halveric’s and Siniava’s attack, the fate of the prisoners marched away toward Rotengre, and the desperate defense of the few who held the fort.

“And you were in that. I see.” Marshal Cedfer glanced at the Kuakgan and back to Paks. “Were you one of those sieged in the fort, or were you taken prisoner?”

“Neither, sir. Three of us were not taken—by chance, we were gathering berries in the brambles and they didn’t see us. We took word to the Duke.” Paks stopped there and looked at them. Sir Felis was leaning forward, alert and eager; the Marshal’s eyebrows were up; the Kuakgan was frowning slightly. The rest merely looked interested.

“How far did you go?” asked Sir Felis. “Where was the Duke?”

“Outside Rotengre, with the rest of the company,” said Paks. She wished they would go on to something else. She didn’t want to think about that journey, about Saben and Canna,

“I can see,” said the Marshal, “why you would be trusted by Duke Phelan. Remarkable. Well, then—so the Duke relieved his force at the fort. And where was the Halveric? I should think he’d have been there too.”

“He had taken most of his Company toward Merinath,” said Paks. “They arrived the next day, too late to fight there: but they came to Rotengre.”

“And how many troops did Siniava have?”

“We thought about eight hundred, altogether—”

“But Phelan’s force is what—three cohorts altogether?”

“Yes, sir. He had help from the Clarts and Count Vladi—”

“And Gird, no doubt,” said the Marshal firmly. “Well, indeed. That’s quite a tale, but straight enough. Now, what’s happened this last year? We’ve heard of widespread fighting, open war from the mountains to the sea, armies marched clear from the Westmounts to the Copper Hills. What about it?” The mayor was watching the Marshal closely, but did not interfere.

Paks wondered where to start. “Sir, after the year before, the Duke and the Halveric were certain that Siniava meant to conquer all of Aarenis. The Guild League cities blamed him for the piracy of Rotengre, and other things as well. My lord Duke pledged to spend himself on a campaign against Siniava, for what he had done to us. He gathered most of the northern mercenaries to his aid. And the Guild League cities fought on their own lands, and sometimes marched abroad as well.”

“Aha!” Master Senneth was rubbing his hands together. “I always suspected the like, sirs, I did indeed. Too many caravans were robbed on the trade roads between Merinath and Sorellin, and none of the goods ever showed up here. They must have been taken on south. And I’d heard through—well, I’d heard that Siniava had bought into some of the guilds.”

Paks nodded. “We heard the same, sir, after Cortes Cilwan fell.”

“Cilwan fell?” asked Sir Felis sharply. “What happened to the Count?”

“He was killed,” said Paks. “But Vladi’s men got his heir out, the boy, and he’s safe in Andressat, the last I heard.”

“Succession wars,” muttered the Marshal. “They’ll have succession wars, as well as everything else.”

“Go on,” said the mayor, with a gesture that silenced the others. “What then?”

Paks shrugged. “I don’t know it all, sir; I was only a private, after all.” She described the campaign as best she could. Sir Felis and the Marshal listened intently, their fingers moving as if on maps. The others reacted more to descriptions of cities fallen, battles fought, factions implicated in this plot or that. Finally, dry-throated with the length of the tale, she came to that last few days, when Siniava’s remaining soldiers were neatly trapped with the help of Alured the Black. “We caught up with the last of them,” Paks explained, “in an old ruin where the Immer and Imefal meet.”

“Cortes Immer,” said the Kuakgan softly. “No one’s held that since the old duke’s line died.”

Paks looked at him. “Is that what it is? It’s still a great citadel, built into the living rock like Cortes Andres. Anyway, Siniava was killed, trying to escape secretly from the citadel, and after that his army surrendered to the militia.”

“I can hardly believe Siniava is truly dead,” mused the mayor. “How many years have we worried that he might gain control of Aarenis and come over the mountains? I remember the first word we had of him, don’t you, Master Oakhallow?”

“Indeed yes.”

“And now he’s gone. And no more agents of his will come through, trying to spy out defenses, such as they are.”