Divided Allegiance

14

Mal, when Ambros explained the plan, seemed shrewder than Paks had expected. He spoke quietly enough, with a rumbling chuckle when amused. Paks began to think he might be an asset after all.

“So we’re to find the place first, and find sign—then she’ll lead a troop?” He gave Paks a sharp look. “Have you led troops before, lady? I don’t mean to be like Doryan, but—”

“I was acting corporal in one of the cohorts,” said Paks.

“That means yes, I take it.” He turned back to Ambros. “And what if their place is fortified? Do we try to take it?”

“No. There’s a plan to get them out—if it’s the place we think it might be, or one like it. Have you been out near the old Seriyan ruins lately?”

“Gird, no! I told the Marshal a few years ago that was a bad place—unlucky, that is. Is that where you think they are?”

“It could well be—considering the sign Paks saw a few days ago.”

“Then they’re a brave bunch, that’s all I can say. I wouldn’t stay there for a silver a day. Not even for a cask of ale.”

“And for you, that’s saying a lot. All right, Mal—I know you don’t like it. But if they’re wicked enough, it might not bother them.”

“What is it?” asked Paks. “Why are the ruins so bad?”

Mal and Ambros looked at each other. Ambros broke the silence. “It’s from before my time—I was just a boy, living over near the Lyonyan border. But there was a wizard who settled in there—built a stronghold all in one year, by magic, some said. Like most wizards, didn’t care more for bad and good than a deaf man cares for music.”

“I don’t know as that’s fair,” Mal broke in. “Master Zinthys is a nice enough fellow.”

“Who buys you ale every quarterday. But would you trust him, Mal, at your back in a fight?”

Mal considered. “Well—yes. If Sir Felis or the Marshal were there, at least.”

“I like him myself,” said Ambros. “I think he’s as honest as any wizard, but they care more for magic and money than anything else—it’s their nature. But this other wizard, Seriyan, wasn’t much like Zinthys. No. He came here, so I was told, because he wanted to rule. That’s not what he said; he said he had come to study. But he had a small horde of magical creatures that he let loose, and then he threatened worse if people didn’t pay “taxes” for protection from them. Brewersbridge had no keep then, just the grange.”

“It wasn’t Marshal Cedfer here then,” Mal put in, grinning at Paks. “Nor yet Deordtya, but the one before her. I don’t recall his name.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ambros shortly. “He made the mistake of believing the wizard harmless when he came, and it ended with a lot of lives lost when the yeomen had to storm the place. He blew himself up, at the end, rather than be taken.”

“I hope he blew himself up,” said Mal darkly. “The way that place feels, I’m not so sure.”

“He may have left spells,” said Ambros. Paks found herself hoping that the brigands were hiding somewhere else. She did not want to meet a wizard who had only pretended to blow himself up. But she had to agree that Seriyan’s old keep was the closest of the known ruins to the blaze she’d found, and Mal agreed to go out with her the next day to take a look at the trail sign.

Mal arrived at the inn driving a sturdy two-wheeled cart with a large shaggy pony between the shafts. His big axe stood head-down in the corner beside him. Two more wheels filled the bed of the cart.

“This way,” he said quietly, downing the tankard of ale which Hebbinford brought him without being told. “This way I’m just hunting a good straight bole of limber pine for the Town Hall extension. With these extra wheels, I can haul anything we find.” Paks wondered how; she had never seen foresters at work. Mal saw her confusion and laughed loudly. Paks noticed others watching and listening. “See, lady, you don’t know everything yet.” Now his voice was louder, and more accented. “What I do is cut a short heavy piece for the axle, to bind these wheels together, and then tie them near the end of the bole. With the front end resting in the cart, and the other held by the wheels—now do you see?” Paks nodded. She started to ask why the second set of wheels didn’t fall out from under the tree trunk, and then realized that he could tie it securely to the wood that held the wheels together.

“Ride along with me,” said Mal, as if she had planned something else, “and I’ll show you some more things you don’t know about.”

“I should find Ambros—” she said doubtfully, as they had arranged. Mal laughed again.

“Oh, Ambros! By Gird, you don’t want to spend every day with him, do you? He’s a yeoman-marshal, after all. Come on, now—” He gave her an enormous wink, and swaggered back to his cart after handing one of the serving wenches his tankard. Someone laughed. Paks grinned.

“You go on ahead; I’ll catch up when I’ve got my horse ready. Which way are you going?”

“Oh, west again. I remember a few years ago, out that way, there was a straight, tall, limbless bole right near the road. Not so hard, you see, if the trees I want are next to the road.”

“Good,” said Paks. “That way I can tell Ambros I won’t be riding with him this morning.” Mal waved and went on, and she ducked into the stable to saddle the black horse. She hoped their act had gone off well. She hated to think of a spy in the village, but the evidence for such was persuasive.

She caught up with Mal before he was well into the forest on the far side of Brewersbridge; he had stopped to chat with the woman at the last roadside farm. He waved her to a stop.

“Paks, do you know Eris here?” It was the same woman Paks had met in Council. Paks began to think Mal was even smarter than she’d thought.

“Yes, I remember you,” said Paks, swinging down from the saddle. She was no longer afraid to mount and dismount in front of witnesses; the black was learning manners. “I didn’t know this was your farm.”

“It wasn’t, a few years ago,” said Eris, with a slow smile. “We used to be out there—” She pointed southwest. “But raiders—bandits—something—kept breaking our fences, and running off stock. Finally after my husband died, and the boys married, I bought this farm from a cousin, just to be closer to town.”

“It looks good,” said Paks. The small farmhouse looked in good repair, and the orchard next to it was obviously flourishing.

“Oh, it’s a good farm,” said Eris. “I miss the spring we had before—the best water I ever had, and only a few steps from the door. But when you find dead animals in it, day after day—”

“Ugh—” Paks shuddered.

“Do you like apples?” she went on. “The good ones are coming ripe now—I’d be glad for you to have some.”

“Between me and the horses,” said Paks, “we’d eat half your orchard full. I’ll buy a measure of good ones for me, and a double measure of bruised ones for the horses.”

“I would have given—”

“Eris,” said Paks, wondering as she said it whether she should have given her the Council title, “I grew up on a farm myself. Right now I have the money, and you have apples to sell.”

“Very well,” said Eris. “When you come back by this evening—or whenever—I’ll have them near the gate, under the hedge.”

“And you know I want some, Eris,” said Mal.

“You! I thought you lived on ale, Mal!” But she was laughing as she said it.

They continued down the road, chatting freely. Paks continued to lead the black horse, since Mal was walking beside the cart. He pointed out different trees, but Paks quickly grew confused with it: colors and patterns of bark, and shapes of leaves, and the form of the tree meant little to her. She could tell a star-shaped leaf from a lance-shaped one, and both those from the ferny-looking compounds, but that was her limit. Mal teased her gently. In the meantime, they both watched the road for the signs of the caravan—the fresh wheel ruts and narrow mule hoofmarks. These they did not mention.

Paks wondered what would be left at the ambush site, since Sir Felis had sent a troop of his soldiers out to retrieve the bodies. Would she even notice it? As the sun neared its height, she began to worry that they’d missed it. But it was clear, when they came to it. Deeper tracks, round-hoofed, of ridden horses, and the mules’ tracks veering from side to side. Bloodstains on the fallen leaves, and on the rocks that edged the road. A few spent arrows, mostly broken. Mal pointed out the traces she missed, chatting the while about trees. In the end, Paks found the way the wagons had been taken. Freshly cut boughs, the leaves hardly withered, disguised the wagons’ track into the woods; the brigands had chosen a stony outcrop for the turn off the road. It led, or so Paks thought, the wrong direction—north—but Mal looked grim when he saw it.

“There’s a farm to the northwest,” he said. “Or was, until it burned. If they’re using it, they may be using the old farm lane to bring the wagons back, and cross this road farther along. As I remember, that other farm lane hits this road in about the same place.”

“Well, do we follow this?” asked Paks.

“No. Not with horses. We’d make a noise like an army in there, with a third of the leaves down as they are. If you’ll take my advice, we’ll go along the road and look for that other place, where the lane comes in.”

Paks could just see the lane coming in ahead when Mal stopped abruptly. “Ha,” he said loudly. “There’s the tree I come for.” She stared at him, surprised, and he winked. “You’d best go on up the road a ways,” he went on. “I want to drop it right here in the road. Tell you what. You take these two wheels along with you, eh? Go on—yes—right along up there, at least as far as that lane. This’un’ll fall long, I tell you.” Paks finally caught on, and wandered slowly up the road as he bade her. Behind her, the axe rang on the tree. She wondered if it really was a “limber pine” or whatever.

It was hard to roll the wheels along with one hand and lead the black horse with the other. Several times a wheel got loose, and she had to bend to pick it back up. When she got both wheels as far as the lane crossing, she dropped them with a grunt and wiped her hands on the fallen leaves. The black horse nudged her, and she scratched his chin idly. She could just see Mal bending to his work.

“How long will you be?” she called back to him. The rhythmic axe blows stopped, and he stood up.

“Eh?”

“How long will you be?” She made it loud and distinct. “I thought I’d ride on and find water for my horse.”

“Oh—say—a finger or two of sun. Not longer. There’s a spring up that lane—used to be a farm there, some years back. You could bring me some—my can’s back here; this fellow won’t fall till I drop him.”

Paks mounted and rode back, to another of Mal’s winks, and he handed her a tall can with a wire bail. “It’s good water, or used to be,” he said. “Look out for wild animals, though. I’ve heard of wolves using it.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Paks, and drew along the black horse’s neck the tracks she’d seen: wagons and teams both. Mal nodded and waved her away.

Paks made no attempt at silence as she rode along the lane that led south. She found a thread of water beside the lane, and then a cobble-walled springhouse. Beyond was a half-overgrown clearing with the ruins of a farmhouse and outbuildings. She didn’t look at it, but dipped the can in the spring, and let the black horse drink afterwards. It was not really thirsty, and wanted to sniff at fresh droppings a few feet away. Paks reined it around slowly, and rode back, glad of her helmet and mail shirt.

Mal had the tree down by the time she got back, and loudly directed her in placing the wheels under one end of it. He had trimmed the ends of the axle log into rough rounds, and once the wheels were in place split the ends and placed cross-wedges in them.

“Thing is,” he said, “the wheels have to turn on the axle, not with it—else it’d walk right off the end of the tree.” Paks hadn’t thought of that problem. Nor had she noticed the can of grease he’d brought to put on the axle. She did wonder how he’d gotten the large end of the tree into the cart. Surely he wasn’t that strong. She glanced overhead for something he might have slung a line from.

“Don’t look up,” he warned quietly. Paks froze. “If you want to know how I lifted that monster,” he said more loudly, “I used its own limbs for levers. Trimmed ’em after, that’s how I do it. Some men use lines, but then they have to have a taller tree nearby. Not always handy. By Gird, I’m thirsty!” He drained the can at one swallow.

The journey back was slower; Mal’s pony moved the tree at an easy footpace. The black horse fretted. Paks got off again and walked alongside. When they reached Eris’s, they picked up the apples; Mal told Paks what the current price was, and she left it wrapped in the cloth Eris had put over the baskets. From there into town they talked softly of what Paks had seen. Mal said he had spotted a watcher in the trees. They agreed it would be too dangerous to scout the game trail if the brigands were still so alert.

It was nearly dark when they passed the grange; Ambros and several other yeomen were talking in the barton gateway, and called greetings.

“You can come help me on the bridge,” Mal yelled back. “Paks here isn’t much of a teamster.”

“That’s not a team,” Paks retorted, sure by now that such joking was acceptable.

“I’d be glad to hitch your black up and let him do some work,” said Mal.

“I doubt that.” Ambros came up to them. “You weren’t there the first time she saddled him. He’d be impossible in harness. Come on Jori, give us a hand here.” Ambros and the other yeoman helped Mal get the wheels aligned on the bridge. Still talking, they followed along. Mal untied the log beside the Council Hall, and drove it off the back wheels. Then he let the weight drag it out of the Cart. His pony gave a heavy sigh as the log fell, and the men laughed.

“Come on to the inn,” said Mal. “I’ll buy a mug for you.”

They nodded and walked along; Jori and Ambros returned to some grange matter; Paks did not know what grange-set was, or what it had to do with a farm’s sale. She hardly listened, intent instead on figuring out just what Mal Argonist really was—not a simple forester, that was clear. She was beginning to wonder if anyone was actually a simple anything. Until Brewersbridge, she had not considered that an innkeeper might be a council member as well—that many people had more than one role, and considered them all important.

The common room was moderately busy, but quiet. News of the attack made solemn faces. Paks stabled the black horse, and went back in to find that the others expected her at their table. She shook her head at Mal’s offer of ale, and asked Hebbinford for supper instead.

“I eat before I drink,” she said in answer to Mal’s question. “I don’t have your—” She paused and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as the others laughed. “—capacity,” she said finally. Mal shook the table with his laughter.

“You didn’t start young enough,” he said. “When I was scarce knee high, my old dad had me down tankards at a time.”

“Of ale?” asked Ambros.

“No—ale costs too much. Water. But it’s the habit, Ambros, of an open throat. The feel of it sliding down—”

“Then why didn’t you stick with water?”

“Oh, that was my brother.” His face grew solemn, but Paks thought she could sense the laughter underneath. “He said a yeoman of Gird must learn to drink like a man. So I did.”

“If that’s your reason,” said Ambros, “you should be a kuakgannir—you don’t drink like a man, you drink like a tree.”

They all laughed. Hebbinford brought Paks her platter of sliced meat and gravy. Mal grabbed a slice and stuffed it in his mouth. She looked at him.

“It’s luck,” he said. “It’s your good luck if someone else eats the first bite.”

Paks shook her head, and began eating. By the time she was through, the room had almost emptied. Ambros and Mal had gone out together. Sir Felis, Paks knew, would be coming in later for her report. She asked Hebbinford for another of the apple tarts, and settled back comfortably. The black-clad man was still in the room, and met her eyes. She had not talked to him since the afternoon before the Council’s summons; now he came to her table.

“May I sit?”

Paks nodded, her mouth full of apple tart. She reached for her mug to wash it down.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he said. “You seem in good favor now; I hope for your sake that is true. But if anything is going to be done about that attack on the caravan—and if you are going to be part of it—I wish you’d consider my offer to come along. You might well want someone who was not—let’s say—from here.”

Paks looked at him a moment before answering. “Sir—Arvid, didn’t you say?—” He nodded, smiling slightly. “You seem to be telling me that these people can’t be trusted. Is that so?”

“I don’t think I’d put it like that. I do think that those who live in small villages are more trustworthy to others of the village than to strangers. Haven’t you found that to be true, in your travels? That these village folk stick together?”

“I suppose.” Paks took another swallow from her mug, and prodded the remains of the tart. “It might be a reason not to trust them fully, but—pardon me—why should I trust you?”

He gave her a suggestion of a wink. “Ah—I knew you knew more than you showed at first. That mountain traveling is enough to scramble anyone’s wits. Now I don’t have anything to say about their character—everyone knows how honest the Girdsmen are—at least to Girdsmen.” When Paks didn’t rise to this, he smiled a little and went on. “But you aren’t Girdish. Or of this village. I don’t think they’d lie, exactly, but they might shade the truth. And if it came to your skin or theirs—?”

“I see your point,” said Paks quietly. “But you have still to answer mine.”

“My dear,” he began, as he drew his dagger and carefully trimmed his fingernails with it. “You should trust me only because it is in your interest, as well as mine. I am neither Girdish nor a native here—therefore I am unlikely to sacrifice you for a brother’s reputation or a friend’s life. I don’t expect you to trust me as you trusted your companions in Duke Phelan’s company—of course not. But I have no good reason to kill you—and several to keep you alive.”

“And they are?” asked Paks curiously. She picked up the rest of her tart and ate it, waiting for his answer. His eyes narrowed. He resheathed his dagger.

“I told you before that our interests might march together. I think they do. I wish the brigands no luck; I would be glad to see them dead. You need not know why. Obviously, no one official is going to encourage me to go after them—I’m not an experienced soldier, and that’s what it takes. But if that is the charge they gave you, then I would be glad to assist. Perhaps to make sure it is done thoroughly.”

“Have you a grudge against them?” asked Paks, honestly curious now. “Have they done you or your family an injury?”

“I will not tell you that at this time.” Arvid turned a little, and signalled Hebbinford, who came over with a sharp glance for both of them. “Wine, sir, if you please.” Paks shook her head, and the innkeeper moved away. “I perceive, lady, that you are of sufficient experience to have caution—but insufficient to recognize an honest offer. Nonetheless it stands. My word you would have no reason to trust—but I will tell you honestly that I will not kill you, and I will defend you within reason, if you accept me as one of your company. If you were wise enough to know what I am, you would know what that is worth.”

Paks frowned, not liking the bantering tone or the subtle insults. It reminded her too much of Macenion. She looked up at him again. “If such a command is offered me, and if I accept you—what other suggestions would you have?”

His brows arched. “You ask much, with nothing given.”

“I do? What of you—you ask my trust, with no evidence of your character. I have had such chances, sir, as make me distrust most strangers.”

“But Girdsmen.” His tone was sour.

“Most soldiers have found Girdsmen to be honest, at the least, and usually brave as well. I don’t know your allegiance, either to gods or lords.”

Arvid sighed. “I am a guild member in good standing. As such I obey my guildmaster, in Vérella. It is an old guild, long established there—”

“What craft?” asked Paks.

He laughed. “What—do you think the Master Moneychanger here tells everyone when he travels what his guild affiliation is? Don’t you know that some guilds bind their traveling members to secrecy? Do you want to bring down on me that very plague of thieves you think I represent?”

“No—” Paks flushed, confused.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have laughed. I understand your suspicion—and it does you credit. Any experienced adventurer is suspicious. But I cannot tell you my guild—at least not without asking—at this time. I cannot tell anyone here. I can only tell you what I have told you. In my judgment—and I am not without experience in the world myself—it is in both our interests to cooperate. I have an interest in those brigands—I want to see them removed. Does that sound like a thief or worse? You, I believe, have the Council’s permission to mount an attack on them. And you could use someone at your back who has no reason to wish an honest witness dead. Suppose they are actually living in town—related to one of the Council members. Do you honestly think they’ll thank you for capturing such as that? Let you take the risk, yes. Let you kill and capture them, yes—perhaps. But let you live to take the credit, when it’s their own? I doubt that much. If the brigands really are strangers, then you have no problem. But otherwise—”

Paks nodded slowly. She was not truly convinced, but she had worried that the spy the Council wanted her to find might turn out to be someone they liked. And, as well, they had asked her to involve the other adventurers in town if she could. Surely this Arvid Semminson was an adventurer.

From the hill west of the keep, the crooked path down the moat was clearly visible, as were the signs of age and decay: stones from the outer wall tumbled into the moat, leaving ragged gaps in the wall through which the battered interior could be seen. Paks, concealed behind a thick-leaved but prickly shrub, stared down at the broken walls and waited for the diversion Sir Felis had promised. She had a motley group: Mal and several other yeomen of Gird, including Doryan, the two traders she’d met some days before, who said they wanted to avenge the attack on the caravan, a servant of theirs whom they said was a good bowman, one of Eris’s sons (a Falkian, Mal had reported sadly, but a good man), and Arvid. The sun rose higher, burning off the last of the mist from the moat and swamp around. Paks insisted that her group stay well back in cover, and refused to let them talk or light pipes. A subdued grumble followed these commands.

“Stands to reason,” muttered the heavy-set bowman, “that if they could see us, we could see them. We can’t see a thing, through these leaves. We could smoke, at least.”

Paks shook her head fiercely. “Sun’s in our eyes. They’ve got the better light. Think: how far can you see a shepherd’s breakfast firesmoke? There could be a dozen eyes looking out of that gap, from the shadow, and we’d never know it. Be still.”

Someone cursed, but softly, and they rested as best they could in the positions Paks had chosen for them. The sun rose higher. Paks had to force herself to stay still. She wanted to walk back and forth, from post to post. Was this why the captains had so often walked the line before battle? She could hardly believe that she, the same old Paks, was commanding a group like this—a group of strangers.

She looked again at the keep, which seemed a different shape as the shadows shifted with the sun, and wondered if the magician who built it had, indeed, left a curse. A light wind sifted through the trees, shuffling the leaves and making the shadows dance. She wondered if the militia had left Brewersbridge on time. They were supposed to have left just enough time for her to get her group into position. It had been too long. She squinted at the sun, feeling the sweat spring out on her neck, chill as it was. She swallowed against the fear, and glared around at the others. Someone had shifted carelessly, and a rock clattered. She turned back to the keep. Nothing moved there but a cloud of midges over the moat, a shimmer in the sun.

At last she heard the rhythmic noise of marching men and horses. She eased forward to the edge of the wood, trying to see the north side of the keep, where the forest left a wider opening. The sound came louder, eddying in the uncertain wind. Now she could hear it distinctly. A movement in the distance caught her eye. A horn call swam through the air, mellow and long. She looked back at the keep. There: a flicker, quick as a lizard’s tail, on the highest part of the ruin. The horn call came again, louder. She could hear a bellowed command from the oncoming force. She looked back at her group; they were all alert. Mal grinned at her, shifting his broad shoulders. She realized that he had moved forward, coming between her and the others. But she had no time to think of that.

The front of the captain’s “show of force” was out of the trees now. She could not tell from this distance how many of them were illusion. Nor could she tell which was Zinthys. None of them wore the kind of robes she had seen on him so far.

“There’s one,” said Mal, so softly she almost missed hearing it. Then she, too, saw the brown-clad man peering from a low gap in the keep wall. He passed through, carrying a plank, and laid it on the edge of the moat. It extended to one of the fallen blocks farther out. He moved out onto the plank, and at once another came, this one in a heavy mailed shirt, dragging another plank. The second plank bridged the moat from the stone to the near shore. A third man appeared, carrying bows, and the three slipped across the bridge and spread to cover it. After a glance upslope, they concentrated on the corners of the keep.

Noise from the north side increased. Paks could not tell if it was a fight, or just noise. Suddenly a gout of flame rose up, and a thunderous boom echoed across the woods. Birds flew up screaming. The bowmen below did not flee, though one of them half-stood, to be pulled back by the others. Another gout of flame, and another, followed. The noise was appalling, even though Zinthys had warned them. A deer broke cover and bounded through the woods, crashing and snorting. A hurrying file of men slipped from the gap and teetered across the bridge. Paks saw the glint of mail on most of them; they had their swords out, and bows slung to their backs. She counted as they came, hoping that Sir Felis’s estimate was right.

She knew the last had come when the bowmen moved. The entire group—just over a score—started up the hill, as she had expected. The archers stayed in the rear, and two swordsmen took the lead, several strides ahead of the rest. Paks frowned. With that spread, some of them could escape, if they were quick. She thought they would be quick.

She turned to the stocky bowman. “Shoot low. Just in front of ’em.”

“Why?” But he complied. Two arrows thudded into the ground, and the two brigands in front slowed and peered up the slope.

“So they’ll bunch up,” said Paks. “As they are now.”

He gave her a quick look. “Hunh. That’s quite a trick. Where’d you learn—?” But they were all together now, and Paks called for another volley, from this man and the Girdish archers as well. Four of the brigands fell; Paks saw one of them struggle up and begin to crawl away along the slope. The others, furious and frightened, charged up the slope.

The bowmen shot as fast as they could, hitting seven more of the brigands before Paks led the rest of her group to break the charge. Some of those fell; others turned aside, limping, or jerked the arrows free and kept with the main group. She hardly noticed; in the lead, full of the old excitement, she met the first brigand with a sweeping blow that broke his sword at the hilt. He jerked out his dagger and thrust, but she was past him, the sword carving into another man’s side. A blade she didn’t see caught her in the ribs; she felt the blow, but rolled off it to take another brigand in the neck. She heard the yeomen of Gird call on their patron as they followed her. But compared to the battles she’d been in with the Duke’s Company, this was short and easy. Almost before she knew it, the clash of weapons ceased.

She looked around. Arvid Semminson was wiping the blade of his narrow sword; it was stained to the hilt. One of the merchants nursed an wounded arm; his bowman stood guard over him, dagger drawn. Mal had one brigand down, and was tying his arms; two of the other yeomen were guarding the few who could stand. Ten of the brigands were down, dead or dying of serious wounds. In the distance, Paks thought she saw two or three huddled forms limping away. None of her own force seemed badly hurt, barring the merchant. Paks walked over to look. He had a long, deep gash on the arm, not a killing wound, though he seemed dazed. She hadn’t expected much from him anyway.

“What now, Paks?” asked Mal. “Do we kill them, or take them back, or what?”

Paks glared at him, before she remembered the agreement. For an instant she had thought he might seriously mean to kill the prisoners. In that moment, the other merchant spoke.

“We ought to kill them.”

“No.” Paks shook her head for emphasis. “We’ll take them to Sir Felis. He’s the Count’s representative.”

“But they killed—”

“We’ve killed enough. How many do you want?” Paks turned away, and squatted beside Mal’s prisoner. She recognized the man who had led the others up the hill. He was bleeding from a cut on his head that had split the leather helm, and from a deep gash in one leg. “Better bandage that,” she said to Mal, who nodded. She wiped the blood off her own sword and sheathed it. The prisoner watched her, dark eyes alert. He flinched when Mal touched his leg, then held still as it was bandaged. Paks said nothing, looking around at the others as she caught her breath. Then she met the prisoner’s eyes.

“Your name?” she asked.

“Why should I tell you? We’re just going to be killed—”

“Probably,” said Paks. “Any reason why not?”

“Reasons!” His mouth worked and he spat blood. “Being poor’s reason enough—that and going looking for work. That’ll get you killed, that will—going along, trying to find a place, and nothing—nothing.” He twisted his neck, wincing, to look around.

Paks felt an obscure sympathy she had not expected with this weatherworn robber. He did not look as if he’d enjoyed his life. For that matter, he didn’t look as if he’d profited by it. “How many of you were there?”

“They’re the lucky ones,” he said sourly. “Dead and over with. Gods above, what chance did we have—”

“Chance?” rumbled Mal, coming back to confront him. “About the chance you gave Eris at her farm, I suppose. Poor, eh? You think we’re all rich?”

The prisoner closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t—dammit, man, I never thought to be a robber. Not back when I—I had land once myself. A few cattle, enough. If I hadn’t come here—”

“What about ‘here’?” asked Arvid, who had come up softly behind Paks. “What’s so special here?”

“I—” The man seemed to choke, shook his head, and said no more. Paks pushed herself up. All of her group could travel as they were; of the brigands, four that might live could not walk. Those whose wounds were mortal she despatched herself, not trusting the others to give a clean deathstroke. But she told the others to gather the weaponry, such as it was: she had always hated stripping bodies, and had avoided it most of the time. She had the yeomen supervise the prisoners in making litters for those who could not walk.

“Paks, what about those that got away?” Mal swung his bloody axe slowly in his hand.

“We’ll have to track them. They’re all wounded.” Paks sighed. “I don’t know how many—”

“I thought four or five. There’s a couple down there still—” He jerked his head toward the slope.

“I’d better go—”

“No. You stay here—I’ll take Doryan. You don’t need him here.” Paks started to protest, but thought better of it. She was sure Mal was trustworthy.

He had just started down the hill when five horsemen broke from the woods on the south side of the keep. Paks saw a flurry of motion in the bushes near them, and then four of the horsemen charged, driving out the remnant of the robbers. That was over in a few seconds. Zinthys rode across the slope to greet her.

“Well done, Lady Paksenarrion,” he said cheerfully. “Sir Felis will be pleased.”

“You too. That was a real show, that—” Paks stopped short, wondering if she should reveal his work as illusion. Zinthys grinned at her confusion, and spoke up.

“Most people find a fireblast alarming,” he said casually. “I sent the rest of the troops back when we found the main keep empty—you seemed to have everything well in hand back here.”

Paks wondered what he would have said if she’d blurted out the truth, but merely smiled. “I’m glad you thought to send a few around back for the stragglers.”

“Oh, of course. I see you have quite a few prisoners—how about transport?”

“If you could have someone send a cart or wagon out from town—and Master Travennin is wounded. It would be better for him to ride—”

“Certainly. Why don’t I see to moving your mounts back along the road—then you can come out the way we came in. It’s easier traveling.”

“Fine.” Paks looked around. The prisoners had rough litters ready, covered with their cloaks. They loaded the wounded, and prepared to march out. Zinthys rode off with a wave of his hand; the soldiers from Sir Felis’s command joined her, flanking the party. One of them offered his horse.

“No, thank you,” said Paks. “I’ll walk to the road.” He shrugged and moved back into position. She wondered if she should have taken his offer.

“I wonder,” said Arvid quietly at her side, “that you are unhurt. Didn’t you know that a sword broke on your armor?”

Paks thought back to the fight—it hardly deserved the name of battle. “I don’t—oh—I remember a blow in the side—”

“Yes. I was just behind you then. It was a fair blow, and the man was as heavy as you, or more. I thought you’d get a broken rib out of it, at the least.”

Paks took a deep breath, feeling nothing. “No,” she said. “It must have caught at an angle.”

Arvid shook his head. “I saw it. Either you’re a good bit tougher than I thought—which is unlikely—or your armor has great virtue. Where did you get it?”

Paks gave him a straight look. “I found it,” she said. “In a ruin.”

“Hmm. That’s a good sword, too.”

“Yes.” Paks looked around. Everything seemed to be secure. Mal was moving up beside her. He had wiped the axe blade on something; it was clean.

“The others are dead,” he said. “Too bad hurt to make it; the riders trampled some of ’em. I did it quick.” He looked past Paks at Arvid. “You fight good, for a city man.”

Arvid laughed easily. “Do you think all soldiers begin in a farmyard?”

Mal’s forehead creased. “Nay, not that, sir. But the ones I know all did, and the city men I know are mostly merchants. This lady, now, says she comes from a farm. Isn’t that so?”

Paks nodded.

“Many good things come from cities,” said Arvid.

“Oh, I didn’t mean any different. I know that. Fine clothes, and jewels, and that. But there’s more thieves in cities, too. My brother always said that wealth draws thieves like honey draws bees.”

“I suppose.” Arvid didn’t sound interested; he turned to Paks. “What are you going to do now?”

Paks shrugged. “First things first. Get the prisoners to Sir Felis. Then he can find out how they’ve been operating, and if they’ve had contacts in town.”