Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Ten

As the sun rose higher, Paks felt sweat crawling through her hair under her helmet. The dust cloud ahead came closer as the Czardians advanced. Somewhere off on the right wing, a confused clamor began: crashing, metallic, and a deep roar that seemed to shake the earth. Her heart pounded; her sword grip felt slippery. She opened her mouth for air. Surely Stammel would tell them if they were supposed to do anything. She watched his unhurried stroll back and forth in front of their ranks. Behind him the mass of enemy came closer and closer. Someone in the ranks let out a sobbing groan.

“Take it easy, now,” came Stammel’s rough growl. “Remember your drill. I’ll tell you when to worry, recruits. And you veterans, stop acting up to scare the new ones. I’ll dock you a day’s pay, if anyone else tries to unsettle ’em.” Paks took a deep breath and tried to relax, flexing her hand on the sword. The noise and the dust came closer. One of the captains trotted along the front of their line and paused to speak to Stammel. Paks saw him nod. Stammel swung round to face them; Paks felt him capture and release her gaze before giving the expected order. At his command they began to march forward, the corporals chanting a ritual encouragement and reminder.

“Stay in formation now, file two; keep your swords up; keep your shields up and ready; steady march, slow march, count y’r cadence, slow march; file three, pick it up; steady march; no crowding there, third and four! Remember your shields, up and out—” And then the front rank was engaged with the enemy, and the noise of battle drowned out their voices. Paks suddenly found enemy swords thrust at her as the first rank moved into the enemy formation.

She blocked one with her shield, and hacked awkwardly at another with her sword. Only her longer reach kept her alive as her more dexterous opponent disengaged and thrust again. She remembered the correct move, this time, and slashed his sword away. The attacker on her left was now fully engaged with her shield partner, so she could use her own shield for protection against the man in front. She blocked another thrust, and tried an overhand swing. Her opponent’s shield caught her blade; for a terrifying instant she could not wrench it free. She was wide open to his sweeping stroke; though she deflected it with her shield, the blade slid down and sliced into her leg through the greaves.

Paks staggered as the blade bit in, and that jerk freed her own sword. She lunged straight ahead, thrusting at the man’s belly. Her longer reach worked; her sword slid into him. Before she could follow up her thrust, someone ran into her from behind, and knocked her off balance. She fell among the stamping feet and swinging blades, confused by dust and noise. The man she’d stabbed was also down—she saw his face, barely a foot from her own, and the dagger in his hand. She dropped her sword and grappled with his knife hand, trying to free her left arm from the shield so she could draw her own.

Suddenly his arm went limp; she saw another blade deep in his body. She could not see who had done it. She could not see anything but shadowy legs in the dust. She groped about for her own sword, found it, and tried to get to her feet. Bodies shoved at her from all directions. Her eyes were clogged with sweat and dirt; she blinked furiously, then realized she was surrounded by fighters in the Duke’s colors. She tried to pick out where she was in formation—or anyone she knew—but nothing looked familiar. Out of the whirling dust came more fighters in blue and yellow; around her rose screams and bellows of rage. She found as she thrust at one of the enemy that her own throat was raw with yelling—and still she yelled. Her shield arm ached. Her sword weighed as much as a full-grown sheep. Her left leg was on fire. She kept thrusting, countering with shield, thrusting—her head splitting with the noise and dust. She took in great gulps of air, but found herself choking on dust, coughing, sobbing against the coughs. She nearly went down again, slipping on something underfoot, but someone grabbed her arm and kept her upright.

“Go on! Forward!” yelled someone in her ear, and she went on, squinting through the dust for yellow and blue to strike at, her sword and shield work now mechanical, as in drill.

At last there seemed to be less dust in front of her, and no blue and yellow. Someone grabbed her arm; she raised her sword to strike, but Stammel’s voice penetrated the din. “Paks. Stop! Paks!” Her sword arm fell as if someone had cut the tendons. She stood, half-blinded by dust, gasping for breath, shaking—at last she could see Stammel, and met his eyes. “All right, Paks,” he said, more quietly. “You’re wounded; go to the rear.” She could not move. The light failed, as if clouds had come over the sun. She heard Stammel’s voice, now urgent, but could not follow what he said.

Someone’s shoulder was under her arm, supporting her; someone’s hands fumbled at the buckles of her shield. She tried to stop them, but could not seem to move well. Voices talked back and forth across her hearing. Nothing made sense. Suddenly someone shoved what felt like a length of wood into the wound on her leg; she tried to push them away from her, all of them, but found herself lying flat on the ground with no memory of how she’d gotten there. One of the veterans held her shoulders down; sweat dripped off his nose onto her face. When he saw her watching him, he said “Sorry,” but kept his weight on her. Someone else was holding her legs. Her injured leg throbbed fiercely. A surgeon in his dark robes bent over it. A hand appeared out of nowhere, with a kerchief dripping water.

“Here,” said a voice. “Chew on this.” She opened her mouth, and he stuffed the wet rag in. At once something—she thought the same length of wood—bored into her leg. She twisted against the hands that held her, to no avail. The pain went on, and when it finally stopped was replaced by a bath of liquid fire. Paks closed her eyes, grinding the rag with her teeth. Something tugged at her leg—would tear it off, she thought—but ceased before it came loose. She opened her eyes. Tears blurred her vision until she blinked them away. Her leg still throbbed, but farther away—a spear-length or so, maybe. The veteran released her shoulders; the surgeon was already walking away. She gagged on the wet lump of cloth in her mouth, and a hand came to pull it out.

“There,” said the voice. “That’s over.” Paks tried to twist her head to find the speaker, but it was too much effort. “You need some wine,” the voice went on. “That will ease the pain.” She tried to speak up, to refuse, but a strong arm heaved her head and shoulders up, and a wineskin pressed against her lips. When she opened her mouth to protest, a squirt of wine filled her mouth; she had to swallow. The wineskin was tooled in gold, she noticed, as another squirt of wine filled her mouth—then another. The pain receded farther, and a dark haze spread across her vision.

Paks woke to darkness and the sounds of pain. Far away to her left was a bobbing yellow glow. She felt light and crisp except for her injured leg, a cold weight dragging at her. The glow came closer, paused, came closer. She realized it was a lantern—in someone’s hand—someone coming near. She felt very clever—she knew what was happening, someone was visiting the wounded. Then she realized she could not find her dagger. Had she been captured? She tried to think as the lantern came nearer. Her leg began to throb, but it didn’t bother her. She had just decided that it wasn’t really attached at all when the lantern paused beside her. She squinted up, trying to see past the light to the person who held it. “Hmm,” said a voice she thought she should remember. “Looks a bit feverish, this one.”

“How do you feel?” another voice asked.

Paks worked her tongue around in her dry mouth until she could speak. “I’m—all right.”

“Do you feel hot?” asked the second voice.

At the question Paks realized that she was cold, cold from the bones out. She started to answer, but a violent chill racked her body; her teeth rattled like stones in a sack. Abroad hand touched her forehead.

“Fever, all right,” said the first voice. “Best dose her now, and be sure she’s checked on. We’ll use what we have to on this one.”

“She needs to drink,” said the second voice. “She’s dry. Here, now—” he said to Paks. “We’ll lift you up, then I want you to drink all of this.”

One of them lifted her shoulders and steadied her head; a jug came to her lips. Paks sipped; it was water. Despite the shaking chill and rattling teeth, she managed to empty the jug.

“Now then,” said the voice. “Swallow this.” Paks had half-drained the cup before the taste reached her; she gagged and tried to spit it out, but hands restrained her. “Finish it!” said the voice, and she choked down the rest of that bitter brew. “Now a swallow of numbwine.” Paks swallowed that, and the arm behind her eased her back to the straw.

“Sleep well, warrior,” said the first voice. Paks felt a hand grip her shoulder, and the lantern moved away to her right; three shadowy forms moved with it.

When next she woke, a lantern was on the ground beside her, and someone was peeling off her sweat-sodden clothes. She grumbled a weak protest, but the person went on, drying her with a rough towel and then easing her into a long linen shirt. “It’s fever sweat,” a woman’s voice said. “You need dry things so you won’t chill again.” A warm dry blanket covered her, then the woman held a flask to her lips. “Go on—drink this.” Paks gulped it down and was asleep almost before her head hit the straw.

A hand on her shoulder and a voice calling her name roused her to sunlight dappling through green leaves. She felt solid to herself, aches and all. Stammel squatted beside her. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve slept long enough.”

Paks found her mouth too dry for speech. He offered a jug of water, and helped her raise her head to drink. She tried again; her voice was thinner than usual. “I—forgot the right strokes.”

Stammel grinned. “I was going to mention that. Tir’s bones, girl, a battle is no place to show off. Why do you think we teach you what strokes work?”

“I’m sorry—” she began.

“Never mind; more weapons drill for you, until you can’t forget it. We don’t want to lose a good private—”

“What!”

“Well, you did it in a backwards, idiotic way, but you hardly fit the ’recruit’ category any more. I hope you realize you very nearly got yourself killed—and why didn’t you get that wound bound up before you nearly bled out?”

“I—I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Hmm. You don’t come of berserker blood, do you? No? Probably just first battle fever. Vanza, by the way, is sorry he told you to advance when you were already wounded. He says he didn’t see it.”

“That’s all right,” said Paks.

“Not with me, it isn’t. It’s his job to keep track of you novices and get you back if you’re hurt. Do you remember how many you killed?”

“I killed? No—” Paks thought a long moment. “No. There’s—a lot I don’t remember. It’s all confused.”

“Likely enough. You did well, Paks, wrong strokes and all. Now—you’ll be going back with the other wounded to Valdaire in a day or so. The Duke expects we’ll take out the rest of the Czardians tomorrow or the next day; they’ve gotten in among those hills southwest of here. Vanza will stay to help with our wounded—”

“Do I have to go back to Valdaire? Couldn’t I stay here—”

Stammel shook his head. “No. The surgeons say you won’t be up to a route march for several weeks. You lost a lot of blood, and the fever might come back. Don’t worry, though—you’ll be with us again soon.” He gave her a reassuring grin as he stood up. “I’ll see you again before you go. Do what they tell you, and heal fast.”

Paks had hoped to prove the surgeons wrong, but she could barely hobble a few steps to the wagons when they loaded. She settled into the second of five wagons, bedded deep in straw and braced into a corner against the jolting ride. Four others shared the wagon: Callexon, a recruit in Dorrin’s cohort, with his broken leg bound in splints, a veteran with a huge lump on his head who never woke up, a woman named Varne, from Cracolnya’s cohort, who had been burned by flaming oil, and Effa, who had been trampled by a warhorse and would never walk. Callexon and Paks helped Vanza care for the rest at halts. Paks learned how to feed and clean a helpless person, and how to help with bandaging.

The little caravan had been winding between tall trees, shade cool on the canvas-topped wagons. Paks looked out to see whether it was a road they’d marched over, but she couldn’t tell. The wagon rolled smoothly; she closed her eyes and dozed off.

She was wakened by a scream and a jolt that wrenched her leg. She opened her eyes to see Vanza hurtling out the back of their wagon, sword in hand. Out the front she could see strange horses and masked riders with black wolf’s heads on their red jerkins. Something blocked her view to the right; their wagon’s driver was slumped against the iron bow that held the canvas. Two arrows poked through her tunic. The mules had their ears laid flat. As Paks grabbed for the reins, heaving herself over the front of the box, the lead pair surged forward.

She heard a whirr and a thunk, and saw an arrow stand quivering in the wagon box beside her—but she had the reins. She tried to haul the driver inside with one arm; she couldn’t get any leverage. The wagon lurched as the mules veered from the track. Another arm appeared beside her: the burned woman.

“I’ll get her—you drive!”

“I’m trying!” Paks had driven her father’s pair of plow ponies, but nothing like a hitch of four frightened mules. She had a tangle of reins, all too long, and the mules were picking up speed. Suddenly one of the red-clothed riders swerved beside the lead pair and made a grab for their reins. Paks pulled some of her handful, and the mules veered.

“Now I know what those are,” she muttered, and reached to shorten the others. The rider glanced up and saw her. He wheeled his horse and came at the wagon, sword raised. Paks jerked the other pair of reins as he neared it; the mules swerved back and the wagon slammed into his horse. His sword hit the iron frame and shattered. Paks hardly noticed. The mules had broken into a panicky run. She couldn’t brace herself well enough to pull them in. And her best attempts at steering had the wagon veering wildly from side to side. There were trees everywhere she looked. All around came wild screeches, yells, the whinnying of horses and braying of mules. An arrow struck one of the leaders. It screamed, and lurched ahead faster. Ahead Paks saw a gap in the trees; the mules galloped toward it, flat out. Too late, Paks saw the dip that steepened into a bank of eroded stone over a stream. The wagon bounced from stone to stone, collapsing with a broken axle in the shallow streambed; the mules were jerked to their knees by the shock. Paks, already leaning over the front of the box, flew forward. Her injured leg slammed against the back of the box, all that kept her from going headlong on top of the wheel pair. She banged her chin on the footboard, and hung there dazed.

“Quick!” said a voice. Someone pulled at her. “Help with these reins. Don’t let ’em take off again.”

“Mmph.” Paks shortened the reins and blinked heavily. Varne held the reins she’d dropped.

“I’ve got the nearside reins,” the woman went on. “We’ve got to get them up. Where’s the whip?”

Paks looked around and found the whip still in its socket. She slithered over and managed to reach it. She glanced back into the wagon. Most of the hay had bounced forward in their final crash. Callexon still clung to the rear board, bow in hand, his splinted leg apparently straight. He waved at Paks.

“I’ve got two, so far,” he said. “If you can smooth the ride a little—”

Effa and the unconscious man lay tangled in the hay. Paks turned back to the mules. All but one were standing already, quietly enough; she flicked the whip at the arrow-struck mule, and it finally struggled up, not too tangled in harness. Paks looked at Varne. “Do you want me to take those reins?”

The woman gave a wry grin that creased the salve on her blistered face. “Depends—nothing like a little excitement to clear out a dose of numbwine. Maybe I should take all the reins and let you check on the others.”

Paks handed over the reins, and slid back into the hay. She found the driver first; she was dead. The veteran with the head injury snored heavily, but Effa was also dead, her stubborn face wiped clean of all expression. Paks tried to straighten the injured man on top of the hay. Her leg hurt a lot; when she looked at it, the bandages were soaked with blood. She burrowed into the hay for the medical supplies, and wrapped more bandages around it. She felt nauseated and faint, and broke into a sweat trying to pull herself back to the driver’s seat.

“I see someone,” called Callexon.

“We aren’t going anywhere,” muttered Varne. “Blast! Not even a sword among us.”

Paks took out her dagger. “Calle’s got the bow, and I have a dagger—”

“With those, it’s not enough. I wonder how many—”

“It’s ours!” yelled Callexon. “Hey—Arvid!”

Paks looked back. A limping figure in maroon and white stood at the top of the bank. “Any more alive?” he called.

“Yes—but the wagon’s broken.”

“So I see.” The man limped down the bank, chest heaving.

“What about them?” asked Callexon.

“Driven off for now. Tir’s gut, I never thought even the outlaw companies would attack a sick train.” He clambered up to peer in the wagon. “Hmmph. We’ll have to clear you out before we can mend this. Can any of you walk?”

“I can,” said Varne. Callexon shook his head.

“Let’s see.” Arvid climbed in and worked his way forward, checking the bodies first, then Paks’s leg. “We’d best deal with that.” He tore off another length of bandage and tied it tighter than Paks had managed. “Now you,” he said to Varne.

“I’m no worse than I was.”

“No? Let me have the reins, and see your hands.” He tied the reins to the wagon frame, and looked her over. “You’ll do—after a dose of numbwine. Now—” he climbed down. “—to get these mules unhitched.”

Paks sank back in the hay and her eyes fluttered shut. She roused to find Vanza beside her, calling her name.

“Yes—what—”

“Paks, we have to move you out of this wagon. We’re going to carry you in a blanket—don’t struggle.”

She felt the blanket tighten around her, then a swooping sensation that made her want to fight her way to her feet. Instead she lay still. Above her were voices, Vanza’s among them.

“We’d better send word to the Duke—”

“—that’s the fastest. And isn’t there a Baron Kodaly or something near here?”

“Yes—off east a bit; he claims this forest. Don’t forget—”

“—wheelwright, and a smith, and supplies—”

“—never heard of anything like this in all the years—”

“—Marshals or priests or something, if you can—”

“—what they thought they’d get out of it—”

“—and coffin wood—”

“—forward to Valdaire, too, but we can’t spare another—”

Paks sank into unconsciousness.

Her next waking was a confused struggle through dark corridors with shadowy opponents who faded away as she came near. Far ahead was a blur of light and a clamor of sound; she came to it in bursts of random motion. Finally her vision cleared. She was lying on the ground under a tree. The surgeon knelt by her injured leg, shaking his head.

“—don’t think I can do more, my lord,” he was saying. “Too much blood loss, and this additional bruising—”

Paks felt a cold twinge of fear. Was that her leg about which he had no hope?

“Very well,” said a voice from above and behind her. “We’ll try a healing. Master Vetrifuge?”

“At once, my lord.” A gray-bearded man in black and green robes stooped beside the surgeon and laid his hands on Paks’s leg. A warming tingle ran from his touch through the wound; it did not hurt. The surgeon bent to look.

“That’s better.” He looked at her face and found her watching. “She’s awake, my lord. We might try the potion.”

“Go ahead,” said the voice behind her. The surgeon took a small flask from his robes and brought it to Paks. He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and lifted her head until she could drink.

The lip of the flask was icy cold, and the two swallows of liquid in it burned her throat, but gave her the same warming tingle as Vetrifuge’s hands. Her leg did not hurt any more, nor the bruises where she’d hit the footboard. Her nausea had gone too. The surgeon’s face, watching her, was clear in every line; she could see the dust on his eyelashes. He turned to look at her leg.

“Ah—that’s more like it. Rest and food will be enough now. Thank you, Master Vetrifuge.”

“My pleasure, Master Simmitt,” said Vetrifuge, with a mocking smile. “Glad to know there are yet a few things in which wizardry can aid the science of surgery.” The surgeon reddened, and seemed to swell in the neck.

“Others need your skills,” said the third voice, with enough bite that both men froze an instant.

“Yes, my lord; right away.”

As Paks watched them stand and walk off, a mail-clad figure moved to her side and sat. When she looked back, she was face to face with the Duke himself. Paks gulped. This close she could see a few silver hairs in his fox-red beard; his nose was sunburnt and peeling; his eyes were the gray of sword-steel, just barely blue. Her eyes dropped. His cloak was fastened with a silver medallion; it was dusty. His gloves were gray kid, sweat-stained.

“First,” said the Duke, “you need to drink this, and eat a little; then I want to know what happened. What you saw.” Paks dragged her eyes back up and saw once more the gold-tooled wineskin she’d seen the night of the battle. “Try to sit up.” Paks found she was weak, but able to rise on one elbow. She took the wineskin. “It’s watered,” said the Duke. “It shouldn’t knock you out. Here—have some bread.” He bit the end off a loaf and handed her the rest. Paks tore off a hunk and took a swallow of wine. She wondered how long she’d slept, and when the Duke had arrived, but under his eye she ate as he directed.

“Now,” said the Duke, when she had choked down most of the bread. “Take your time, but tell it all, from the beginning. I want to know everything you can remember about the attack.”

Paks blushed. “Well—sir—my lord—I was asleep. Then someone screamed, and the wagon bumped. I saw Vanza jumping out the back, and out the front were riders in red, with a black wolf’s head on the front—”

“On the back as well?”

Paks thought a moment. “No—I don’t think so. Just the front. Then I saw our driver’d been shot, so I tried to get the reins. The mules were scared. Varne helped me pull the driver into the wagon. One of the attackers tried to grab the lead mules’ reins, but they swerved away—”

“Were you driving, or—”

“Yes, sir, I was—but I wasn’t sure which reins were which. It seemed like a lot—I jerked the ones that were tightest, and the mules veered—”

“Go on.”

“Then the rider turned and came at the wagon, so I pulled the other reins, and the wagon ran into his horse—”

“What did he look like?”

“The rider? He had a mask on.”

“A mask? Not a—wait—have you seen anything but open helmets? Have you seen a knight’s helmet, with the visor down?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Stammel showed us that in training. This was different. He had an open helmet over chain mail, but a mask over his face—it was some kind of cloth; I saw it ripple.”

“Aha!” The Duke slammed his fist onto his thigh. “Very good. Go on—what else?”

“He seemed heavy—broad in the shoulders. Taller than Sergeant Stammel, I think. He had something on the shoulder of his tunic that glittered. The horse had no barding, but it was a war saddle, and the blanket was black with a red stripe.

“What color was the horse?”

“Light brown, dappled, with a pale mane and tail. All the others were dark, but for the spotted one.”

“Spotted?”

“Yes, sir. One was black and white spotted. Now that I think of it, that one was smaller—we went by it in the trees.”

“What sort of rider on the spotted one?”

Paks shook her head. “I’m sorry—I don’t remember—”

“But you’re sure of the horses?”

“Yes, sir—though I don’t know that I saw all of them. We were moving too fast, and I was trying to steer around things, but I didn’t see the stream until we were almost into it. So I broke the wagon—” Paks faltered, remembering Stammel’s lectures on damaged equipment.

“Hmm.” The Duke’s eyes crinkled. “Are you an experienced teamster?”

Paks looked down. “No, sir—my lord.”

“That’s all right then. Not your equipment.” Paks looked up, still worried. “Tir’s bones, girl, that wagon’s the least of my concerns. I’ve lost fighters here. A wagon’s nothing—you did well. But I want to know who—” he bounced his fist on his thigh for emphasis, “—and why and how anyone would attack a caravan of wounded. No treasure—no ranking prisoners to ransom—and they must know this’ll bring my Company down on them. It’s costing me now, but it’ll cost them—” his voice trailed off, and Paks almost flinched at the look in his eyes. He glanced back at her and half-smiled. “You were just promoted, right? Paks, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, Paks, you’ve had the most expensive healing I hope you’ll ever need, and you should be ready to fight in a day or so. The next time you see those red tunics, you’ll have a weapon in hand. I’ll expect you to fight as well as you did in your first battle.” The Duke stood. “No—don’t try to get up yet. The surgeon will clear you for that.” Paks watched as he strode away, cloak swirling around his tall boots.

Paks looked at her leg, no longer wound in bandages. A red scar showed the line of the wound, but it looked nothing like the deep gash it had been. She wondered what they had done—how it had healed so fast—and why they hadn’t healed it that way in the first place. She looked around. The makeshift camp was bigger than she’d supposed. Smoke rose from a fire near the stream crossing; loud clangs revealed a smith at work. Across the clearing, the Duke was talking to a short man in plate armor. They headed for a tent, maroon and white striped. A man in green livery led a big warhorse still lathered in sweat. Another led three lighter mounts. On the track away from the stream, the remains of the caravan clogged the way. Two burnt-out wagons, one unburned, but missing a wheel, dead mules. As she watched, a group of soldiers dragged a mule into the forest. She wondered what had happened to the other wounded; she didn’t see any of them. Had they all died? Callexon hadn’t looked that bad—She saw the surgeon and Vanza approaching.

“How do you feel?” asked the surgeon.

“Fine,” said Paks. “Can I get up?”

“Yes—you’ll be weaker than you think; you lost a lot of blood.” Vanza reached down an arm, and Paks pulled herself up. She felt dizzy at first, but it passed quickly. “Try walking,” said the surgeon. She took a step, then another. She felt no pain, but she was shaky. “That’s expected,” the surgeon reassured her. “Don’t push yourself for the next day or so—rest when you’re tired. Eat and drink as much as you can.” He turned away. Paks looked at Vanza.

“Where are the others? Were they all—”

“No. Not all.” He sighed. “We lost more than we should, though. I still can’t believe it. No one does this—I knew the Wolf Prince was bad, but even he—”

“Is that who it was?”

“It must have been. You saw the wolf’s head, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But I’m confused—”

“We all are. Now—all you wounded are being healed, as you were, by the Duke’s command. For today, stay close. You can help with food, and that sort of thing, but don’t try to do too much—no hauling mules around.”

“But—what did that Master Vetrifuge do? And why not do it all the time, if it works so well?”

Vanza stopped short and gave her a startled look. “You mean you don’t know about magical healing?”

“No. Effa said something about St. Gird, but—”

“That’s different. Or somewhat different. Let me see—first of all, Master Vetrifuge is a mage. Wizard, they’re called in the north. Surely you’ve heard of them?”

“Yes, but—”

“Just listen. Some mages specialize in one sort of magic; healing magic is one particular kind of magic. I don’t know how it works—I’m no mage. It’s great learning, I’ve been told, and great power—but whether of a god, or the mage himself, I don’t know. But healing mages can heal wounds, if they aren’t too bad. Too old, say, or full of fever. Sometimes they can heal diseases, though not so well. But it takes a lot of money. Mages don’t work for nothing.”

“What about potions?”

“You had that too? Mages make potions, to speed healing. Those are even more expensive; don’t ask me why. Our surgeons always have a few of these, but of course they don’t use them most of the time.”

Paks frowned. “Why not? If wounds could be healed so fast—”

“Because of the cost. Paks, the Duke will have spent the whole contract’s profit, I don’t doubt, just healing the few of you here. No one could afford to have every wound magically healed. It’s cheaper to train and hire new fighters. Our Duke is one of the few I’ve heard of who will use such healing at all for his common soldiers.”

“Oh.” Paks thought about it. She had no way of valuing things, but it seemed strange that a tiny vial of liquid, however rare, could be more costly than a person. “But what did Effa mean, then?”

“About St. Gird?” Paks nodded. “Well, the gods can heal, if they will. Those who serve them—Marshals of Gird, or Captains of Falk, or whatever—have the power to ask healing of the gods and have it granted. Before my time, the Duke was friendly with Girdsmen—I even heard he was one himself—and had a Marshal with the Company for healing. I’ve seen men who say they were healed that way.”

“Does that cost so much?”

“Well—I can’t say. They usually heal their own, and no one else: Marshals heal Girdsman, and Captains heal Falkians. I’d think it would cost, though maybe not in gold. Why should a god give healing for nothing?”

“The gods give rain and wind for nothing, and sunlight.”

“For nothing? Surely your people gave back, wherever you’re from—” Vanza stared at her. Paks remembered the little shrines by the well and the corners of her father’s fields; the tufts of barley and oats, and the lamb’s blood they left there. For an instant she felt cold as she realized how close she had come to impiety.

“You’re right,” she said quickly. “But the gods have the power to give as they choose, whatever gifts we give. That’s what I meant, that we give gifts, we do not compel.” She hoped that was what she’d meant.

He nodded. “True, no one can compel—but they are honorable, or the good ones are, and generous.” He nodded to her and went away. Paks stared after him, thoughtfully. Wizards… magical healing… somehow when she’d heard of magic potions in songs, she’d never thought of the cost in gold. Or lives.