Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Eight

As Paks passed under the gate tower and out into the cold gray light of a late-winter dawn, she felt how changed she was from the girl who had left home those months before. She had not told anyone when her nineteenth birthday came, but she felt the extra year like a wall between her and the past. No one would take her for a farmer’s daughter, not with the sword at her side and the skill to use it, not in the uniform of Duke Phelan’s Company. Beside and behind her, eighty pairs of almost-new boots beat the same crisp rhythm on the hard-frozen road to Duke’s East. Going to the war, the rhythm sang in her head. Going to the war.

By the time they reached the rise between the stronghold and Duke’s East, the sun was rising, a brief red glare between the clouds. This was the last bit of known road: the curve into the village past the Red Fox, the square, the bridge. Smoke rolled out of chimneys. As their boots rang on the cobbles of the square, faces appeared at windows and doors. Mayor Fontaine opened his door to wave, along with the row of children that appeared at his back. Several children ran from houses to march alongside, singing and yelling, until they were called back. Beyond the bridge was Kolya’s farm and orchard; Kolya was leaning on the gate, grinning.

“Good luck,” she called. “Fight well.” Paks glanced at her, and Kolya winked. Then they were past, and after another fifty paces the road swung left again, leaving the village behind to curve through a wooded swamp, now frozen. After that it climbed, and the trees fell away. A stone wall bordered the road on the west, and beyond it Paks saw a herd of shaggy cattle, guarded by several men in leather capes. All the cattle stared at them, ears wide, as they marched by. Most of them were heavy in calf, and looked as wide as they were long in their winter coats.

They were seven days on the road to Vérella, marching at first through forested ridges that gentled into farmland sprinkled with villages. The people were shorter here, and looked heavier; the women wore their headscarves knotted high, with a peak to one side. Each night they stopped by a large stone-walled barn with a fox-head design chiseled into the stone. Stammel explained that the Duke had built these barns for the farmers to use, provided they let his troops shelter there while traveling.

The column settled quickly into the habits of a long march. Recruits took guard duty in rotation with the regulars, and hardly thought of themselves as recruits. They knew the captains now: Pont, junior to Cracolnya, and Ferrault, junior to Arcolin. As they passed through the villages, they saw themselves as they were seen: mercenaries. The Duke’s Company. They began to pick up the news of the road as they neared Vérella.

“Eh, Captain,” shouted one graybeard. “You’re late this year. They Sobanai is already come by here.”

“Seen anything of Vladi’s?” called Pont.

“Nay, and I hope not. They don’t come this way but once in a while, and I’m glad for it.”

“Why, grandfather?”

“Eh, well—he’s too hard for us, that one. Better he go east.”

The captain laughed and rode on. Paks wondered who the “Sobanai” were. She watched as two children, screeching to get the soldiers’ attention, struck at each other with wooden swords. An older voice called them, angry, and they dropped the swords and ran off.

Then they came to Vérella—the first city Paks had ever seen, Vérella of the Bells, the seat of the Kings of Tsaia. From a distance its great stone walls and towers seemed to sail the river meadows, already tinged with spring green. They had passed slower carts and wagons all that morning, and as they neared the city, they met more traffic: trains of mules, ox-drawn wagons, foot travelers, and horsemen.

The guards at the city gates wore rose and gray, and carried pikes. They marched under the gate tower. It seemed immense to Paks, its opening wide enough for two wagons at once to pass. The way was paved with square cobbles of pale gray stone, and was even wider than the gate. Paks tried not to gawk, but she was distracted by the buildings, tall and many-windowed, and crowded wall to wall, and by the incredible noise and bustle. Against the tall stone walls lay a flotsam of bright canvas awnings over shop windows and street peddlers, merchandise of all sorts piled in alluring heaps—it seemed that only the constant current of traffic kept it from taking over the road itself. She had never imagined such a variety of people and things. Men in long gowns with fur-edged sleeves. A stack of intricately patterned carpets next to a pile of polished copper pots of all sizes. Four men carrying a sort of box on poles, with curtains swaying on the box. A woman in green velvet, on a mule, strumming a hand-harp. A fat child, broad as he was tall, with an axe at his belt—as they passed, Paks was startled to see a waist-length red beard on the child. She gasped.

“Don’t gawk about,” muttered Bosk. “It’s just a dwarf.”

She had not realized that dwarves were real. She tried to keep her eyes ahead, but it was impossible. They passed a man in red and blue motley carrying a strange skinny black animal with a long tail that wrapped his arm. Two children dashed by, balancing loaves of bread an armspan long. She heard a confused roar from the right, and Stammel yelled a halt. From a side street rode six figures in gleaming armor on chargers bigger than the Duke’s; the street shook to the pounding hooves. Paks felt breathless. She watched Stammel peer down the side street before leading them on. She had never seen horses so big. Were there more?

After another few minutes of marching, the street made a sharp turn left and then right. Here were fewer sidewalk stalls, but a fascinating blend of smells: roast meats, fresh bread, ale, wine, spices. Paks heard her belly rumble in response. The buildings had benches in front of them, and a row of watching eyes followed them down the street. She saw another dwarf, and then two more, on one of the benches.

At a crossing, Stammel turned right into a narrower street the column almost filled. Ahead loomed a high stone wall, and beyond it the turret of some building. When they reached the foot of the wall, Paks saw that a wide paved area lay before it; Stammel turned left again, and they marched beside the wall for a space. Paks saw no gate, and no guards on the wall. At last it swung away to the right, and they went on, again on a wide street between buildings. Here were fewer stalls, and no peddlers. Paks saw a string of mules being led through a gate; she glanced sideways as they passed it. Inside, stables surrounded a courtyard; she saw another of the great horses, this one led by a boy.

They entered a square with a fountain in the center and trees around the fountain. Here once more the canvas awnings of shops and sidewalk stalls edged the street. A barefooted woman in a short dress struggled with a large jar of water from the fountain. A plump child in a fur-lined hood trotted behind a large fluffy white dog. Two cloaked men in tall boots strolled near the fountain, hands near the hilts of their weapons. A tall slender figure in gray trotted briskly past the column on a horse bridled in green and gold. It was past before Paks realized that its face was not human.

Past that square they marched down a quiet street with trees planted in the center. Ahead was another gate. The captains, who had ridden ahead, sat chatting with the guards as they marched up. “Everyone still with us?” asked Pont.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Very good. I’ve arranged for a meal outside the gates—you remember The Golden Goose? They call it The Winking Tomcat now; old Penston’s nephew inherited it this winter. We’re called to meet with the vice-regent; wait for us there.”

“Yes, sir. Do you think you’ll be long enough to unload the mules?”

“No. Give ’em a feed though. We’ll march through to Littlebridge today.”

“Yes, sir.” Stammel led them through the gates, this time onto a wide stone bridge with a waist-high stone parapet. They were far above the water. Paks looked upstream and saw a dark still surface; she could not tell how fast the water was moving. Another bridge spanned the river upstream; a wall rose from the far bank. Ahead of them, their own bridge pierced the wall at a tower, and again they passed through gates.

Here the buildings were lower, many of them wood and not stone. Paks could see over them to yet another wall. These streets were crowded, but they saw few velvets and furs, and more bare feet. Some people wore wooden clogs that clattered loudly on the cobbles. A pack of lean dogs worried something in a gutter. They passed a row of taverns, reeking of stale beer; only one man huddled on the benches outside. A fat woman in gaudy clothes danced sideways beside the column, showing a trayful of glittering jewelry. Paks heard one of the corporals swear at her; she flung back an oath in return.

At the last wall, the guards waved them through the tall gates, and they came out to see loosely spaced buildings and fallow fields beyond. They passed a tanner’s stinking yard, a pen of cattle on one side of the road and a pen of hogs on the other, a field fenced with split rails (which Paks had never seen) holding a dozen horses and a few mules, another field with wagons parked in rows. Ahead on the left was a large stone enclosure with a two-story building in front. On the sign hanging before it was a yellow cat with a ferocious leer. Stammel halted them, and entered the inn. Paks looked around. Across from the inn an open slope of bare ground eased up to a stand of trees. Ahead, down the road, was another building that might be an inn, then a row of cottages.

Stammel came out. “The court’s too full,” he said to Bosk. “We’ll eat over here—” he nodded at the open space. “I’ll take the file leaders in for food.”

Paks followed Stammel into the inn, excited and curious. It was much larger than the inn at Rocky Ford, larger than any she’d seen. They entered a long low room filled with tables and benches and noise. The landlord, a tall heavy young man with a pale mustache, led them to the kitchen behind, where the cook’s helpers were heaping platters with roast meat, bread, cheese, and dried fruit. Paks took a platter and carried it back through the dining room and across the road. The food was good, spiced with strange flavors, and Paks devoured her share. The second rank took the platters back, and they settled down to wait until the captains returned.

“How do you like cities?” Saben asked Paks.

“I don’t know—it’s not what I thought it would be.”

“Did you see that dwarf?”

Paks nodded. “I didn’t know they were real, any more. Do you know what was on that horse with the fancy bridle?”

“No. I missed that. We can ask Stammel or Bosk.”

Bosk chuckled at their question. “You mean you don’t know? It’s a good thing you didn’t point. That was an elf, from Lyonya or the Ladysforest, a messenger to the Council.”

“Elf—” Paks and Saben looked at each other. “Will we see more of elves and dwarves and things like that?” asked Paks.

Bosk spat. “I hope not. Uncanny, they are, and unfriendly, too. We don’t have much to do with them, and the less the better, I say.”

“Now Bosk,” said Devlin, who had walked up on the conversation. “Elves are good fighters, you have to say that.”

“If it’s fighting alone, give me dwarves—not that I want them, but they’re hard as stone, and tireless. Elves—they’ll sing as soon as fight, or go off after some fool idea. And they think they know everything, and have to tell you about it—without answering any question you want answered, either.”

“I don’t know—” Devlin looked thoughtful. “I’ve met a few elves—five years ago, that year you stayed north, Bosk, I talked to one. She was uncanny, but beautiful. Sometimes she’d sing in Common, about the Beginnings, and where the elves came from, and battles long ago. It was strange, but very powerful. I liked it.”

“Your choice,” said Bosk shortly. “And you can’t say some elves haven’t gone bad—”

“The kuaknom? That maybe, but they’re all dead.”

Bosk snorted. Another recruit broke in. “But won’t we go past dwarf lands in a few days?”

“South of here, yes. But we go around the mountains rather than through them. We’ll see dwarves on the road between here and Valdaire, but we won’t see their caves.”

“Are gnomes just another name for dwarves?” asked Saben.

“Gird’s arm, no! And remember that, if we see any. The Aldonfulk princedom comes near the road for a day’s travel. They’re not like dwarves at all, save their love of stone and living underground. You saw that dwarf—wide as he was tall, and so they all are. Gnomes are slenderer, but still short. Good fighters; they’re lawful folk, knowing the value of discipline and training. They don’t say much, but what they do say you can trust with your life.”

“You like them, don’t you?” asked Paks.

“Of the elder races, yes. Trustworthy, brave, well-organized. Some of them are Girdsmen.” Paks had not realized before that Bosk was Girdish; she looked at him curiously.

The sunlight had dimmed behind thicker clouds as they ate, and now a fine drizzle sifted over the landscape. Paks stamped her feet, feeling the chill.

“I hope we start marching soon.”

“We’ll have to wait for the captains. I hope they don’t linger over their meal.”

“Where are they?”

“Probably with the vice-regent. They usually eat at the palace on these journeys; the regents always have some message for the Duke.”

Paks wondered what the palace looked like. “Did we pass the palace?” she asked.

“Do you remember that wall we marched beside, before we came to the square with the fountain? That was the palace wall. You can’t see the palace itself from outside.”

“Have you seen it?”

Bosk shook his head. “No. But Stammel did once, I think. It’s just a palace, though, like any other. I’ve seen the King’s Hall in Rostvok.”

“That’s in Pargun, isn’t it?” asked Vik. Bosk nodded, and Vik went on. “I heard it had a room lined in gold, polished like mirrors, and all the guards wore jewelled helmets and a ruby in one ear.”

“I never saw a golden room,” said Bosk. “But they do wear jewels in their ears, and not just the guards, either. I couldn’t say if they were rubies. As for helmets, the ones I saw were good polished bronze, nothing more. Tell you what they did have, though: in the King’s Hall itself, where the King sits and receives ambassadors and such, they had a hanging framework that held—oh—a hundred candles, I suppose. Much like what the Duke’s got, so far, only bigger. But all over it, and hanging from it, were little chips that looked like clear ice—much too big for diamonds—and they glittered in the candlelight, and made sparkles of all colors that danced over the whole hall. One of their men told me it was a kind of glass, but I never saw glass anything like that. It was something to see, I’ll tell you—all lit up and a hundred colors. Like the sun coming out after rain, or an ice storm, only more so.”

Paks tried to imagine such a thing and failed; she had never seen even the Duke’s dining hall. She shivered as the drizzle thickened. When she glanced back up the road toward the city, she saw nothing but a cloaked man on foot, trudging doggedly toward the gates. Just as Stammel spoke of moving them into the inn courtyard, they heard a shout.

“Good,” said Stammel. “Here’s the captains, and we can go on. What I heard of the roads, it’ll be a long march.”

“What about cloaks?” asked Devlin. “If this gets worse—”

“We’ll need them dry for tonight,” said Stammel. “If a caravan’s stuck in Littlebridge, we may not have shelter for everyone.”

The captains rode up. “Sorry we were held up,” said Pont. “The vice-regent insisted that we witness the seal on a letter for the Duke. Ferrault will go on, and I’ll stay with the column. We’d better march.”

Quickly Stammel reformed the unit, and they moved out. Ferrault’s bay horse trotted ahead, quickly moving out of sight. The last large building was indeed another inn, this one with a picture of a mounted fighter on its signboard. As they passed, a small group of men lounged out its wide door to stare at them.

“The carrion crows are moving, I see,” said one in green, with gray boots.

“Whose are those?” asked another. He had a delicately curled mustache.

“Some northern warlord. Duke something-or-other, I forget. They all ape the nobility, that sort.” Paks heard him hawk and spit. “Better they go south to Aarenis and die than cause trouble here, I say.”

The others laughed. Paks noticed that Stammel’s neck was redder than usual. He said nothing. She wondered if the captain had heard. They marched on, up a rise in a gentle S-curve. The road ran between low walls and hedges, with farmland on either side. Under the drizzle the plowed fields looked soft and black. Most of the cattle were dun, with white markings on their faces. Cottages near the road were stone below and white-washed wood above; the roofs were slate cut thinner than Paks had seen before. Each cottage had a block of fruit trees behind it.

The next two days taught Paks more than she wanted to learn about bad weather marching. First the hard-frozen road went from greasy to soft mud under the drizzle. As the afternoon and rain went on, the mud deepened, until they were all ankle-deep in thin slop. Paks felt the wet creep into her boots: first the toes, then the sides of her feet, and finally the whole foot, squelch, squelch, squelch with every step. Her socks pulled the dampness up her legs. Drizzle soaked her tunic at the shoulders, until little trickles of rain began to run down her back and sides. She worried about her sword in its scabbard. That was better than thinking about her cold feet. When the road lifted over low hills, the road firmed, but in the hollows mud was deep enough to slow them. Paks, in the front rank, could see how it had been churned already by heavy caravan wagons.

As the light faded, Paks began to wonder where they would spend the night. Usually by this time they had already camped. She glanced around. Thick leafless woods on either side of the road, as they toiled up yet another rise. Mud dragged at her feet. Several had stumbled in holes hidden by the mud; some had fallen. At the top, the road followed the ridge, swerving east. The drizzle thickened to a steady light rain, blown by a northeast wind. As it got darker, it was harder to see the road surface. Paks lurched as she missed her footing in the ruts and holes. The road swung right; she felt the change in grade as it dipped. Paks heard the captain coming up, the sucking of his horse’s hooves in the mud. He rode past her, his horse mud to the knees, and called to Stammel.

“It’s going to be black dark before we make Littlebridge in this muck, and that bad hole’s still to come. We’re starting to break up in the rear. There’s a place to camp along on the right; it’ll be out of the wind if it stays as it is.”

“Yes, sir. Do you mean that old wanderer campground?”

“That’s it. There’s a spring straight downhill.” The captain wheeled his horse and rode back past the column. Paks noticed that he looked as wet as she felt. She was glad they were stopping soon. The next two hundred paces seemed to take forever. She watched Stammel search the edge of the woods.

“See this path?” he asked. Paks could barely see a dim gap between the trees. “We follow this; it’ll open out on a firm slope. Stay on the path; we don’t want the tribe angry with us.” He led the way, and Paks followed. File by file they slipped into the woods. After a few twists and turns, they came to a large clearing, dim now in the dusk, but easily large enough for all. Paks followed Stammel to the right, and they settled down under a row of cedars to rest. Stammel went back to direct the others. It seemed to take a long time. Paks began to stiffen in the cold, and her belly cramped and growled as if she’d never eaten lunch. She looked back through the trees and saw a flickering light—torches—someone had gotten torches from the pack mules.

The light roused her, and she stood, swinging her arms back and forth. If they were camping, Stammel would want a fire. And the captain had said something about a spring, and they’d need a ditch—she looked around for her file, and called them over. The other file leaders of her unit looked up, listening.

“As soon as we can get a torch,” she began, “we can see to set up. Same assignments as night before last, except I don’t know if we’ll be cooking. I’ll find out. Wood gatherers, try to find something dry—at least not soaked. Everybody up and get working, or we won’t sleep dry.” She was sure they would have a miserable night.

It seemed to take a long time to get organized. Torches sizzled in the rain, giving barely enough light to see, until the main campfire finally caught. The clearing was a slightly irregular oblong, edged all around with thick cedar trees, and sloping just enough to shed water. Off to one side was a smaller clearing where Stammel told them to dig their trench. The tribe, he explained, always used it so. Paks and Malek went with Bosk to find the spring, down slippery wet rocks until they heard a frog splash into open water. By the time they came back, the fire was burning well, and Stammel had them fill several kettles. Steam rolled up from their wet tunics. Bosk took the packet of ground roots and herbs for making sib, and poured it into the kettles.

“It’ll be stronger this way, and bitter, but we need it strong.”

Paks stirred the brew with a wooden spoon, enjoying the fire’s warmth. More and more of them were clustering near the fire to eat their ration of trail bread and salt beef. Bosk assigned someone to stir the other kettles.

“Here, Paks.” Her file-second handed her a share of bread and meat, and squatted beside her. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet, and had to sleep out.”

Paks grunted around the hunk of meat in her mouth.

“You should see Kefer’s unit,” he went on. “Mud to the waist, it looks like. I wonder how much more of this there is.”

Paks finished chewing the beef into submission, and washed it down with a swig of water. “I guess it depends on how long it rains. Lucky for us we were in front today. If they change the marching order—”

Keri looked startled. “They wouldn’t. The Duke himself said we were the first.”

“As an honor, yes. But in this—whoever marches last has the worst of it. It slows us all down, and it’s not fair.”

“Maybe it will dry off tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Paks stirred the brew again, and took a bite of bread. Her right side, near the fire, felt dry and hot; she shifted to the other side of the kettle and decided to take off boots and socks. She could dry her socks on the firepit rocks. She struggled with her boots, and had one off and the other half-off when she saw Stammel approaching. She tried to stand, but he waved her down.

“Don’t get up. How’s the sib coming?” It had begun to smell good. He dipped the spoon in and took a sip. “Another half-hour, I expect. Don’t scorch your boots. I wanted to talk to you about the order of march tomorrow.”

Her head came up. “You’re changing it? I wondered if you would.”

Stammel looked surprised. “I didn’t think you’d expect it, but yes. It’s nothing to do with the honor, you know; it’s the mud. The last unit has the hardest time, and slows us.”

Paks nodded. “I thought so. How will you change it?”

“We’ll change places every two hours—the change will keep any one unit from wearing down, I hope. The mules will go first; with those narrow hooves they have a bad time in soft ground anyway. You’ll be the last unit when we start, then move to second and first in rotation.”

“Why can’t we walk in the fields, when the road’s so bad?”

Stammel shook his head. “No. We don’t trample fields. It’s one of the Duke’s rules, and one of the reasons we can travel without trouble. The farmers don’t fear to see us coming.”

“How far do we need to go?”

“Tomorrow?” Paks nodded. “We’re almost an hour’s dry walk from Littlebridge, and the next good stop beyond that is Fiveway—a nice day’s march in good weather, and I don’t know if we can make it in the rain. Depends.”

Paks turned her socks over; they were almost dry. “Is it usually like this?”

“Sometimes. There’s a lot of rain south of Vérella, all the way to the foothills of the Dwarfmounts. Then it’s usually drier, going west and over the pass—not bad at all once we’re in the south itself. By then it’s summer anyway. But this stretch of road—three to six days depending—is always bad if it rains. You’d think the Council in Vérella would do something, with all the trade coming this way, but they haven’t since the old king died. They leave it to the local landholders. And they just leave it.”

Paks thought back to the city she’d seen that morning: a very different world from the wet dark clearing. “Sergeant Stammel, why did that man call us carrion crows?”

Stammel grunted. “You heard that, did you? You don’t want to listen to that sort. Well—crows follow a battle, I suppose you wouldn’t know that—they come to feast on the carnage. And some folks call mercenaries that, as if we were bloodseekers.”

Paks thought that over a moment. “But who were they? They had rich clothes. And why did they say that about the Duke? He really is a duke, isn’t he?”

“Them? Town bravos is what they looked like. They’d like to be thought lords’ sons by their dress and jewels. As for our Duke—I haven’t heard anyone dispute his title—any time lately, at least. He’s Duke enough for me, and more worth following than some pedigreed princeling that can’t sit his horse without a tutor, or draw blade without six servants to protect him.” Stammel stopped short, and stirred the fire for a moment. Paks asked nothing more, but turned her socks again. They were dry, and she brushed the dried mud from them. Stammel tasted the sib again and shook his head.

When the sib was finally ready, Stammel dipped a large spoonful of honey into each kettle. After a mugful of that stout drink, Paks felt warm to her toes. Her unit, being least tired, had the first watch. For the first hour or so the drizzling mist lightened, and Paks hoped it might stop entirely. But heavier rain returned, hissing and spitting in the fire. Stammel brought a length of waxed canvas to lay over their store of wood.

When the watch changed, Paks took her dry cloak from the protected pack with a feeling of futility. Everything was wet. She found a space under a cedar where the tree’s thick foliage kept the rain from falling directly on her, but she was sure she would not sleep.

Stammel’s call took her by surprise. She had slept the night through, despite the damp. She unrolled her cloak and crept out. A wet mass of cedar foliage smacked her in the face. Paks shivered. Around her the camp came slowly to life. She stretched the kinks out of her back, then looked distastefully at her sodden boots, and walked barefoot to the firepit.

The last watch had put porridge on the fire as well as sib. Paks checked to see that her file was up and moving, then took her place in line. Her wet cloak dragged at her shoulders. She wondered if they would pack the wet cloaks or wear them. When she could get near the fire, she turned her back to it, hoping to dry the cloak. The hot food warmed her; she wondered if she could march barefoot, and save her boots. But Stammel explained the dangers of this, and she resigned herself to the discomfort.

Soon they were ready to leave; yesterday’s last unit grinned slyly as they filed away through the trees. Only the captain on his horse stayed behind. When they came out on the road, Paks started after the rest. The road surface was churned into uneven mush, like half-eaten porridge gone cold. Their boots sank in several inches at once. Downhill the mud deepened. Rainwater on the surface splashed high up their legs. The next unit was already far ahead, but when Paks tried to pick up the pace, several of them slipped in the mud and almost went down.

She had to slow again; she and the other file leaders began a marching song to keep everyone in step, and that seemed to help. When some ran out of breath, or stumbled, others took it up. The downhill grade eased, but the mud was deeper still. It dragged at their boots; Paks felt her thighs begin to ache from jerking against that pull with every step. Around another turn of road, Paks saw that they’d gained half the distance to the unit in front of them. Then she saw why: it was floundering in a section of road that seemed to have no bottom.

“Tir’s brass boots!” growled Captain Pont. “I told them that the next time I mired a troop in this place, I’d fix it myself, then and there.” She looked up at him; he was scowling. “Very well—Paks—”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to put some stepping stones in that mess. See those walls?” He pointed to the drystone walls that bordered the road. Paks nodded. “Get your unit off the road; when they get to the bad spot, take those stones and pile ’em in until you can walk across. Those Tir-damned farmers have made enough pulling wagons out of this hole—we all pay toll on this road anyway, and some of it is supposed to go for repairs.”

The edge of the bad patch was obvious: the gaping hole where a mule had gone in belly deep. Already the mired unit was beginning to tear up the wall for stones. The first stones sank at once, but eventually they began to fill the hole. Finally Paks had her unit lay the flat topping stones from the wall over all, and they walked across without sinking.

Beyond that hole, they were back in ankle-deep mud, but the change of pace had rested them. Now they slogged on together, all three units chanting one song after another. “Cedars of the Valley” gave way to “The Herdsman’s Daughter” after many verses. On the left, trees thinned to pasture, and across the fields Paks could see a river as gray as the sky. The road edged toward it. Soon she could see a cluster of cottages huddled near the road. As they neared them, the road firmed. Paks could feel gravel through her sodden boots. They came to a paved square, streaming in the rain. Around it were larger buildings: an inn, a tall building with wide doors painted blue and red, several large houses. Stammel halted the column. Paks shifted her shoulders under her wet cloak and wondered if they would get anything from the inn. She looked around. The square was empty but for them; their mules were caked in mud to the belly, and the other units looked as muddy as she was. Her legs ached. She tried to see out the other side of the square, where the road humped itself up—a bridge, she thought. This must be Littlebridge.

A short time later, they marched out, having seen the inside of the inn very briefly, while downing fresh rolls and mugs of hot soup. That interval of warmth and dryness helped, but all too soon Paks was back out in the rain, lining up behind Vona’s unit, with Kefer’s behind her.

They started briskly across the square and over the narrow humped bridge beyond it. On the other side were more houses, some large, and craftshops. Then the houses dwindled to cottages flanked by gardens, and the gravelled road softened to mud.

The rest of that day was a matter of endurance. At times the rain slackened, but mostly they marched before a chill, wind-driven rain. Mud was always with them: now thicker, and clinging to their boots with every step, now thinner and splashing like water. They passed sodden little villages, too small for an inn, and wet farms that seemed half-melted into the ground. Every two hours they halted for a brief rest and change of position. By midafternoon, they were numb with fatigue, stumbling along the road like drunks. Paks ached from head to heel. She no longer worried about her sword rusting, or where they would sleep. She put one foot ahead of the other with dogged intensity. As the light faded, her unit shifted again from last to middle, this time with no pause for rest.

“We’ve got to get them to Fiveway,” she heard Stammel say, but she did not look up to see who else was nearby. They started again, lurching in the mud. Soon it was too dark to see anything but the nearest ranks and the road beneath. Then that faded. They marched on in the darkness more by feel than sight. The last singers lost heart and the marching songs died away. Paks could not have said how long they’d marched—it seemed like half the night—when a line of dim orange lights broke the darkness ahead. She could not tell how far away they were, nor how big—they were merely blurs that brightened step by step. After awhile, she realized that they were square: windows, she thought suddenly, with lights behind them. At once she felt even colder and stiffer than before.

Soon she could see light reflected on the wet road outside the windows. The road firmed under her feet: gravel again. She heard the crisp hoof-beats of the captain’s horse passing on the right. Torches flared ahead, wavering in the wind. By their light she could see wet pavement, the fronts of buildings, the gleam of steel. An abrupt challenge rang out before them. Stammel called a halt. She heard voices, but could not distinguish the words. She shivered. The torches came nearer; now she could see the men holding them, and the armed men behind. She slid a hand to her sword hilt. Stammel appeared, carrying a torch now. In its dancing light his face was strange; she could not read its expression.

“We’ve got shelter near here,” he said. “Vona’s unit will pick up food at the inn. Paks, yours will unpack the mules. Follow Devlin; he knows where to go.”

Paks did not think she could follow anyone anywhere, but when Devlin came with a torch, she found she could still pick up her feet. They turned down a lane beside a high stone wall, and came out in a field, onto short wet grass. Not far away Paks sensed a large structure looming against the sky. Devlin led them to it: a barn, stone below and wood above, easily large enough for all of them. The mules were already tied along one end, and the skinner had lighted other torches; a warm glow spilled out to meet them.

Once inside, the relief of being out of the wind and rain was enormous. The barn was almost empty, but for hay in one corner. Paks wanted to fall headlong in that hay and sleep, but Devlin prodded her to come unload the mules. She and the others stumbled over and pulled off the packs. Kefer’s unit, meanwhile, began placing torches high in wall brackets away from the hay. Then they laid out sleeping areas. Their final chore was setting up lines for drying their wet clothes; the barn had hooks built in, and Devlin handed out rolls of thin cord. By this time, Vona’s unit had brought the food, plentiful and hot despite the trek from the inn.

Long loaves of bread that steamed when they were broken—crocks of butter—kettles of savory stew—Paks ate at first hardly noticing what she put in her mouth, but as she warmed up she realized how good it was. Mug after mug of a strange hot drink not so bitter as sib. Bowl after bowl of stew. Suddenly she was nearly asleep, nodding as she sat. She glanced around. Devlin and Bosk were gathering empty platters and pots; she wondered if they would make the trip back tonight to the inn. She met Stammel’s eye and braced herself for the order to go back—but he smiled and told her to get some sleep. When she tried to get up, she found she had stiffened from that brief rest. She barely made it to a heap of hay and an empty blanket, falling into a deep sleep before she could review any part of the day.