The Deed of Paksenarrion (21 page)

“Hmm.” Captain Arcolin picked up the roll and glanced at it, then looked at Paks. “You were promoted on the first day of the campaign. You’ve got a small bonus for your actions when the sick train was attacked. Less the contribution to the fund—did Stammel explain the currency?” Paks nodded. He’d explained, but she didn’t really understand. The Guild League cities coined under their own marks at agreed weights, with the gold nata, or father, being the coin of greatest value, followed by the gold nas, or son, silver niti (mother), silver nis (daughter), and two sizes of coppers, the page and serf. “Well, then,” said Arcolin, “it will be thirty-six nitis for you.” He pushed a pile forward.

“I’d advise you not to draw it all,” said Stammel. “As long as we’re in town, you can draw your pay once a day; you’re less likely to lose it to thieves and such.”

Paks had never seen so much money; it was hard not to take it all. “How much, then, sir?”

“Take ten, why don’t you? That should be enough to make you feel rich. Take two of it in mixed coppers.” Paks nodded to the scribe, and he marked the sum she drew beside her name. Stammel counted the coins into her hand. They were heavy; when she dropped them in her belt pouch, it dragged at her belt. She thought of all she could buy, and how soon she could save up the amount of her dowry to repay her father.

“I’ve never had so much money,” said Saben, coming up beside her.

“Nor I,” said Paks. “And to think we’ll get more next month, and the next—”

“What are you going to buy?”

Paks thought through her list. She didn’t know what they had, yet. “I was wondering if there was a place to buy spicebread—”

Saben laughed. “You and I are truly countryborn. I was thinking about clotted cream—that’s what they had at fairs near home. I never had but a bit of it, and I could eat it by the bucket. And something for my sisters—ribbons, or something like that. Stammel said it could go north with the Duke’s next courier, if it was small and light.”

Paks had not thought about presents; she felt guilty. “I’m—saving to send my dowry to my father,” she said.

“Dowry?” Saben looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t want—”

“To repay it,” she corrected. “He’d already given it, when I ran away.” She had never told anyone but Stammel the circumstances of her leaving home.

“Oh. I see. But you hadn’t agreed, had you?”

“No. I told him I wouldn’t wed Fersin, but he thought he could make me, so he gave dower.”

“But if you didn’t agree, it’s not your fault.” Barra pushed in beside her.

Paks wished she’d never mentioned it. “No—I suppose not. But I’d feel better if I paid it back. There’s my brothers and sisters to think of.”

Barra snorted, and Saben asked quickly, “Do you know how much it is?”

“Not exactly.” In fact she didn’t know anything but rumor: her oldest brother had said it was as much as Amboi dowered his eldest to the wool merchant’s son in Rocky Ford, and she thought she remembered what the baker’s wife in Three Firs had said about that. Saben looked impressed, and asked no more questions.

When they asked Stammel for permission to leave camp and go into the city, he told them to wait. Shortly before midday, he gathered some of his novices.

“All right,” he said. “You’ve got your pay—come along and let me show you how not to spend it.”

Vik shook his pouch, listening to the jingle of the coins. “But, sir—I already know how not to spend it. And I have plans—”

“Sure you do. And I can’t stop you from losing your last copper, if you’re taken that way. But I can show you the safer places to drink, and maybe keep you from being robbed and beaten in some alley.”

“Is Foss so dangerous?” asked Saben.

“And who’d attack us? We’re armed,” said Paks.

“It’s exactly that attitude,” said Stammel severely, “that loses good fighters every year. With the Company, you’re good. But alone, in an alley with thieves—no. If you’re lucky you wake up in the morning with a lump on your head and no money. Unlucky, you find yourself in a slaver’s wagon with a sack over your head and a brand—or maybe just dead. You youngsters don’t know the first thing about cities—well, maybe Vik and Jorti do—and that’s why you’ll come with me this time.”

A half hour later, Stammel led a dozen of them into the wide public room
of The Dancing Cockerel.
A tall, powerful-looking man in a green apron came forward to greet them.

“Hai! Matthis, old friend—I thought we’d see you this summer. Bringing the new ones in, eh?” The man looked at them keenly. “Duke Phelan’s soldiers are welcome here—what will you have?”

“Bring us your good ale, Bolner, and plenty of it. We’re in time for lunch, I trust.”

“Certainly. Be seated here—unless you wish a private room?”

Stammel laughed. “Not for lunch—are you thinking the Duke’s raised our pay?”

“I’d trust you for it, after these years. Besides, what I heard about the Duke’s contract, you’re getting paid in gold for copper.”

“So? You can hear anything, if you listen to all. Besides, what have contracts to do with us—poor soldiers that we are, and dying of thirst in the middle of your floor.” A roar of laughter from a table near the wall greeted this, and the tall landlord turned away. “Have a seat here,” said Stammel more quietly, and Paks and the others sat down to a long table near the center of the room.

“How much is the ale?” asked Saben, fingering his belt pouch.

“Last time I was here, it was three pages a mug, and a niti a jug. Local coinage. Dearer than some, cheaper than others, but Bolner doesn’t water his ale, and he won’t take a bribe to drug it, as some taverners will. This is a good tavern, as taverns go. Just remember that any landlord loves gossip, and can no more keep a secret than a pig can weave. Anyone who talks about the Company’s business will be explaining it to the captain.”

“Hey—Sergeant Stammel!” They turned to see a fat redhead at the table by the wall. “Still taking your recruits about in leading strings?” His companions laughed again.

Paks looked quickly at Stammel. He was smiling, but his eyes were grim. “My dear Lochlinn, if they were recruits I might, but these are all seasoned fighters—merely friends. And how is the Baroness these days?”

The fat man jogged one of his companions with an elbow. “Seasoned? Half seasoned, I should think, close as they cling to you like chicks to a hen. Haw! They’re big enough, especially that yellow-headed wench, but—”

Paks flushed and took a quick breath. Stammel’s hand beneath the table dug into her elbow. “Now, Lochlinn, we realize it’s been so long since you fought you can’t tell the fighters from the spectators. But come to our next, and let us show you. And mind you keep civil—this ‘wench’ as you would say—” Stammel released Paks’s elbow and thumped her shoulder lightly with his fist, “—could part you from crown to cod with one stroke. I trained her.”

Paks gazed across the room at the fat man’s pink face, now a shade paler than it had been. He looked from Stammel to her and made a face, lifting his brows.

“Well, pardon me for plain speaking to an old comrade.” Stammel snorted. “What a fierce look she has, too. I had no wish, wolf-maiden, to anger you and risk a blow from that strong arm your sergeant boasts of.” He rose from his table and made an elaborate bow. “There—will that content you, or must I attempt some other satisfaction?”

Paks looked down at the table, scarred by many diners. She would gladly have leaped on the man, and killed him then and there. Saben, sitting on her other side, nudged her with his knee.

“We would be content,” said Stammel mildly, “to take our ale in peace—and silence.”

“You can’t order me off!” cried the fat man. Paks suddenly realized that he was both drunk and frightened. “You don’t have any right to order me around now, Sergeant—I’ve got soldiers of my own!”

“Tsst! Lochlinn!” said one of his companions. “Let it be, man. Don’t start—”

Paks jumped as a tall pitcher and several mugs were dumped in front of her. Two serving wenches, as well as Bolner, were at the table, distributing the ale. Stammel turned away from the fat man to grin at Bolner. “What’s the menu today, eh?”

“The usual. Common lunch is slices off the joint, bread, redroots, cheese—we’ve the kind you like from Sterry, no extra charge to this party. Or special—roast fowl, and we’ve three in the oven. Pastries. Cella’s tarts, plum, peach, and strawberry, but not enough of the last for everyone. Fish—but I don’t recommend it; it’s river trash this time of year. Leg of mutton—it won’t be done for several hours. Soup—there’s always soup; comes with the common lunch or the special, or a mug of soup with bread is five pages.”

“How much for the common lunch?”

“For this group—if you all take it—well, I’ll take off a bit. Say a niti each, ale included.”

Stammel looked around at them. “It’s good food here. What about it?”

They nodded, and Stammel gave a thumb’s up sign to the host, who left the table, calling orders to the kitchen. Paks looked for the fat man, but he had gone, and his friends with him.

“Who was that?” she asked Stammel.

“Who? Oh, him—the fat one?” She nodded. “His name’s Lochlinn. Used to be one of ours, years back; he left the Company. Now he’s in some local baron’s guard. And bed, they say, when the baron’s traveling.”

“I’d like to—” began Paks, but Stammel interrupted.

“No, you wouldn’t.” She looked at him, surprised. “Don’t get into fights. Remember that. The rule is the same as inside the Company—there’s no good reason short of being assaulted. You get us a reputation for brawling, and we’ll all lose by it.”

“But what he said about Paks!” Saben scowled. “Why should we let him get away with that?”

“Because we want to come here and eat—or shop in the market—and not be prey to every cutpurse and ruffian, and have the citizens cheering them on when you and you and you—” he pointed around the table, “—are bleeding in the street. Or being hauled off to the lockup by militia. We don’t want trouble. We aren’t paid to fight over nothing. Tir’s bones—we know any one of us could split that fat leech—what difference does it make what he says?”

Paks reached for the pitcher and poured several mugs full. She pushed one toward Stammel and took one herself. She sniffed at it; it smelled much like the ale sold at market in Three Firs.

“Paks, have you had ale before?”

She blushed. “No, sir, not really. Just a few swallows.” She took a cautious sip.

“Don’t drink much, then. It makes some people quick tempered; you don’t need that. Vik, I don’t have to ask you.” Vik had drained his mug at one swallow.

“No, sir—and how I’ve missed good ale these long months.”

Stammel grinned. “You can spend your pay quickly on ale, if that’s your choice. Just keep in mind—”

“Oh, aye—no fighting, no talking—but what about wenching and dicing?”

“Well, if you must, you must. I’d recommend
Silverthorn Inn
for the one, and here for the other. Whatever you do, stay away from River Lane, across the market, and don’t go to Aula’s. They’ll recommend it at
Silverthorn,
but don’t. All the dice are magicked, and the dwarf will slit your gizzard in a second if you show you notice.”

“Yes, sir—perhaps I’ll wait for another day.”

Arñe laughed. “Adding up the cost, Vik? Homebrew’s the cheapest, they say.”

“It’s not so much my silver I care for as my fair white skin—you know how I dread being ill-marked.” The rest laughed. Between sunburn, freckles, and healing battle scars, not much fair white skin was displayed.

“That’s all right, Vik,” called Coben from down the table. “You can teach me that dicing game—what is it?”

“Don’t play the innocent, Cob,” said the redhead. “I heard about you with that girl from Dorrin’s cohort—was it five silvers, or six, you won from her while she taught you dicing?”

“More than that, my lad, more than that,” said Coben, and drained his mug. “I’m a slow learner, I am. Especially when I’m winning.”

“Here you are,” said Bolner from behind them. He and each of the serving girls carried a platter of sliced roast meat to set out on the table. By the time they had finished stuffing themselves with meat, rounds of dark yellow cheese, redroots, bread and soup, the rest of the room was empty.

“Now,” said Stammel. “A last reminder. Don’t wander about alone—stay in pairs, at least. Keep alert; Foss has as many thieves and cutpurses as any city. The slavers won’t bother you if you stay together. Don’t brawl. Keep your mouths shut about the Company and its business, but be polite otherwise. If one of you gets drunk, the others bring ‘em home. You’re all to be back before supper, so the others can go. Clear?” They all nodded.

In the main market square, they scattered into clumps of three or four. Arñe and Coben stayed with Paks and Saben, poking into every stall and shop along one side of the square. One sold lace, its white tracery displayed against dark velvet. Another sold strips of silk, patterned with exquisite embroidery. Paks found a spicebread stall, and managed to stuff down a square of it despite the lunch she’d eaten. They found a shoemaker’s shop, displaying pointed-toed shoes in scarlet and green and yellow, and a bootmaker’s with riding boots, laced boots, and one pair made of three different leathers. Paks stared, and the man came to the door.

“You like those, fair warrior? ‘Tis mulloch’s hide, and goatskin, and the skin of a great snake from across the sea, south of Aare—only a nas, for you.”

“No, thank you,” said Paks, stunned more by the price than the boots. He smiled and turned away.

Coben stopped to look at a jeweler’s display; the jeweler’s guards dropped their hands to the hilts of their weapons. Paks looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. A tray of rings, gold, silver, some with bright stones set to them. Most were finger rings, but some were clearly earrings. Another tray held bracelets, and a single necklace of blue stones and pearls set in silver.

“Look at that,” breathed Coben, pointing to one of the rings. “It’s like a braided rope.” Paks saw another that looked like tiny leaves linked together. She wondered what else was in the shop—far too expensive, whatever it was.

One shop displayed clothing; they could see the tailors inside, sitting cross-legged on their platform. Bolts of cloth were piled up behind them. Another shop was hung with musical instruments: two lap-harps, a lute, something twice the size of a lute with more strings, and many more that none of them recognized. In a litter of woodshavings the maker was working on a part, and smiled at them as they peeked in the door. He reached a hand to pluck one of the harps and show its tone. Paks was entranced. She had heard a harp only twice, when musicians came to the fair.