The Deed of Paksenarrion (51 page)

“Yes, my lord, but only if the being is aware, which she was not.” He took a sip of wine and sighed. “And I’ll say again—we did not think it likely that she served evil knowingly, not in this Company, not when a Girdsman had left her the medallion. But we had to know. That leaves us, however, with the same puzzle. If she were Girdish, and his symbol saved her life, it would mean she had received special aid from Gird. We would consider that such a one might have a call from Gird himself—should go to Fin Panir, say, and train as a Marshal or paladin. But she is not Girdish; she has never considered becoming Girdish.” He paused, and a smile moved his face. “In fact, she had quite—primitive, I suppose I’d say—ideas about Gird. The recruit she met—Effa, I think she said—who told her about Gird, seems to have been highly enthusiastic and quite ignorant.”

Arcolin glanced at him. “Effa—yes. She was. She was crippled in her first battle, and died soon after.”

“So Paksenarrion said. She considers that reason enough for doubting either Gird’s power or his interest, I’m not sure which. But back to my point: since Paksenarrion is not Girdish, it’s hard to see why—or even how—the symbol could have saved her. I asked her about other deities, but as far as she’s aware, she’s under no special protection.”

“Did you consider Falk or Camwyn?” asked Dorrin. The High Marshal smiled and nodded.

“Indeed yes, captain. But she’s from the northwest—Fintha or its borders—and had never heard of Gird before she joined your Company. Falk and Camwyn are better known to the south and east.” He shook his head. “I cannot say who or what saved Paksenarrion, but something most assuredly did.” He took a sip of wine; the others nodded slowly. “My lord Duke,” he began again. “I know you have no love for the Fellowship of Gird, but you are known to be a fair and just leader. Paksenarrion has told me that she cannot imagine following anyone else. But consider, my lord: some force is moving in her life, something which may call her away from this Company. Not me,” he added quickly, to the scowls around him. “I did not even suggest to her that she should join our granges or leave you. I would not dare, not knowing what the High Lord may have planned for her—”

“What do you think?” asked the Duke abruptly.

“Think?” The High Marshal leaned back in his chair. “I think you have as fine a young warrior as I’ve seen. That’s what I hear, as well, from all who have mentioned her. Too impulsive, perhaps, like most young fighters, but that comes as much from generosity as anything else. I think she’ll go beyond a hired fighter in the ranks, if nothing breaks that will or that honesty.” He sipped again at his mug. Arcolin frowned at his hands locked together on the table. Dorrin fiddled with a link of the fine chain that clasped her cloak. Cracolnya, head cocked on one side, traced a river on the map. Only the Duke locked eyes with the High Marshal.

“You think this Company would do that—would harm her?”

“No, my lord. If she is what she may be, she could not have found a better training ground than your Company. But she may grow beyond it, and if she does, her loyalty may hold her anyway. She will grow cramped, my lord, like a hawk always caged.”

“All companies are cages,” said the Duke.

“True. I wish, though—I hope that if she seems to be—if she needs freeing, that you will free her.”

“I’m no slavemaster!” growled the Duke. “By—by Tir, you know me better than that! She’s served her first enlistment; she can go when she will. But I’ll not, High Marshal of Gird, toss her out for no good reason except that you worthy people and interpreters of the gods’ will think she’s trapped here. You’ll not get what you want that way!”

“What we want?”

“Aye, what you always want. Every good fighter should be Girdish, to fight at your Marshal-General’s command. Ha! You’ll find, High Marshal, that there are worthy battles never sanctioned by your fellowship—helpless victims you never see that depend on others for rescue—fighters just as honest and kind and brave as your paladins who don’t get the glory of it—” The Duke paused, breathing hard, his face pale. The High Marshal did not move, and the two men stared at each other in silence. At last the High Marshal set his mug on the table.

“My lord, you know we have never claimed that only in our service is a warrior warring well. There are other saints than Gird, and gods above saints. And you know I did not lie to you: I would be glad to see that girl a Girdsman, but I did not and will not try to talk her into it.”

“She could surprise you and end up a loyal servant of Tir,” said Arcolin.

“That may be. As long as she serves good—and not my good, my lord, or yours—I wish her all joy. We are not quite so narrow as you think us, Duke Phelan.”

“Perhaps.” The Duke shifted in his seat. “I hope not. And, after all, in this campaign we are allies once more.” He poured more wine in his own mug and offered the jug to the High Marshal, who refused it. “I told the captains to let the Girdsmen in their cohorts know you’d be in camp this afternoon—have you seen them?”

“Yes, my lord; most of them I’ve seen, and all the wounded. I appreciate the chance to meet with them.”

“I,” said the Duke brusquely, “don’t try to influence my troops.”

“No? I’d have thought you influenced them daily with your example of courage and fairness.”

“Don’t flatter me, High Marshal, if you want something.”

“I’m not flattering. You command a fine, well-disciplined body of troops; everyone knows it. You don’t get that without the other. Look at Siniava’s, for example—or Sofi Ganarrion’s, though the cause is different.” The High Marshal shifted his weight and set his hands on his knees. “My lord, it’s late, and you have much to do. I will not trespass further on your time. But if you would allow me to speak to Paksenarrion again, when her memory has returned, I would like it.”

The Duke gave him a long look. “It’s not my decision to prevent you—but we march in the morning.”

“Can she?”

“I leave no wounded behind for that scum or his agents to capture, High Marshal. Those who can’t march will ride in the wagons. If you’re going our way, you can talk to her again.”

“Do you expect to have need of clerical aid, where you’re going?”

The Duke laughed. “Delicately phrased, High Marshal. I appreciate your delicacy. No, I think not. This city, and perhaps others on the coast, were the strongholds of those deities who cannot be fought by sword alone. I expect hard battles, but straightforward ones. Your aid in healing would be welcome, but, after all, there are other sources of healing.”

“I would like to be there when you take Siniava,” mused the Marshal. “But my own command lies elsewhere. We might meet again this season, should our ways to the same end cross. I must go to Vonja, among others.”

The Duke’s eyes twinkled. “We might be near Vonja ourselves, though I cannot say how soon. If you would ride with us, you may.”

“It’s a thought—”

“But if you start with us, High Marshal, you must stay. Whatever I think of your fellowship as a whole, I trust its clerics’ discretion. But Siniava has agents all over the south, and torture—as you saw, in there—is one of his pastimes. I will not risk my Company.”

“No, I understand. If I decide to go with you, I will tell you in the morning, early.” The High Marshal stood. “I thank you, my lord, for your courtesy. And, if you’ll allow, I’ll pray Gird’s blessing on your ventures.”

The Duke had also risen. “Blessings, High Marshal, we always accept, with thanks.” The High Marshal bowed slightly and withdrew. The Duke stood, looking after him with a faint frown, before turning back to his captains.

“Well. What do you think of that?” He looked around at them.

Arcolin snorted. “Anyone stupid enough to even consider that Paks could be evil, after what she’s done—” He didn’t finish.

“I wonder—” began Dorrin. “I don’t know if I mentioned it, my lord, but there was an incident in Rotengre last fall—”

The Duke threw himself into his seat again. “No. I don’t recall. About Paks?”

“Yes, my lord. Remember that we found a priest of Achrya?”

“Oh—yes, I do. Was she involved in that?”

Dorrin nodded. “I wondered at the time if Canna’s medallion had saved her. She came near being hit by a crossbow, and then the priest cut her with a poisoned dagger. Luckily I was nearby . . .”

“But you’re wondering if it was all luck,” suggested Arcolin.

“Yes. Perhaps I look at it differently, as a Falkian.” Dorrin gave each of them a long look. “But I must agree with the High Marshal that far: something has protected her, and now more than once.”

“She takes wounds like anyone else,” said Arcolin.

“Yes—it’s not that kind of protection, obviously. But when you think of it, as much as she’s in the front ranks, she has fewer scars than most.”

“And she’s a better fighter.” The Duke shifted in his seat. “So, then—you think something protects her, at least from some kinds of injury. Do you see her leaving the Company?”

Dorrin frowned, and paused before answering. “My lord, I don’t know. Once, I would have said no. But the Company has changed. If she’s being guided by—by something, perhaps she will need to leave.”

“She could grow in the Company,” offered the Duke. “She needn’t stay in the ranks, if it comes to that. Sergeant—even captain someday.” They all thought that over. “I know it’s unusual,” the Duke went on. “But so is she—and if she’s got the potential you and the High Marshal think she has, I would be open to the suggestion later.”

Dorrin smiled. “I’d rather her than Peska, to tell the truth, my lord.”

The Duke laughed. “Dorrin, I promise you he’ll be gone after this campaign. And you must admit he’s a good field commander.”

Dorrin grimaced. “In a way. If you like that sort.”

“I agree,” said Arcolin, with a sideways look at Dorrin. “He’s not what we want to keep in the Company, my lord. But about Paks—I’d thought she would make a good sergeant, when she’s had more experience. I hadn’t thought of more.”

“We don’t have to,” said the Duke, “until later. And I can’t see encouraging her to leave the Company any time soon. She hasn’t the experience yet to be a free-lance. But I’ll do this, Dorrin—with Arcolin’s agreement—I’ll see the armsmasters encourage her to pick up solo skills. And if anything else happens with her and that blasted medallion, be sure to let me know. All right?” Dorrin nodded, and Arcolin, and they returned to the maps.

For some days of the journey away from Sibili, Paks rode in the wagons, unable to stand without help. Between the pain in her head, the rain, and the swaying and lurching of the wagons, she was miserable enough not to regret having missed the sack of Sibili. From Volya, who came every evening to check on her, she learned some of what she’d forgotten: which night they’d assaulted the wall, which day the paladin had repelled a black cloud near them, which day the citadel had been taken. Volya’s tale was incredible—it didn’t seem possible that she could have forgotten such fighting, just from a knock on the head. She worried at her mind, trying to force the memories to return, but nothing worked. She had fought beside a paladin—he had come later and tried to heal her—and she could not remember.

Volya’s reports of the city’s sack were almost as strange, but not as disturbing; it bothered Paks less to have missed something completely than to have been there and forgotten. Volya told of rich treasure in the palace:

“Gold,” she said. “I never imagined so much. Even a gold mirror. And most of the rooms had pictures on the floor, made of little bits of rock laid in patterns: all colors. And in one room, the walls and floor were all white stone, carved in patterns of vines and leaves. When the light came in the window, it glowed. We just stood and stared; it was wonderful. But underneath—” Volya paused, and went on to describe the horrors that Sibili had concealed. Both Siniava’s palace and the temple of Liart overlay dungeons and torture chambers. They had found victims still alive, but hopelessly crippled, and on the high altar in Liart’s temple a child’s body, still warm. Paks thought at once of the girl in Cha who had feared for her little brother—was that what she’d expected?

“How many days did I miss?” Paks finally asked, when Volya had run down.

“You were out for more than a day—but from what you say, you don’t remember much from the day or so before that.”

“Huh. Not doing the Company much good.”

“No, the fighting was almost over when you went down. Oh, and Paks—you should have seen the servants in the palace—”

“Why?”

“They all had marks on their faces—tattoos,” Stammel said. “Seems Siniava marks all his own household—his personal bodyguard, too: blue or black tattoos all over the face. It should make them easy to recognize.”

Paks nodded. “It should indeed. Makes it hard for them to run away, too.”

Volya grinned. “I hadn’t thought of that.” After she left Paks realized that she’d have to quit thinking of Volya as a recruit: she and the others had come a long way since the winter. Already they had more combat experience than Paks had had in her entire first year.

By the time they passed Cha again, retracing their earlier route, Paks was walking part of the day, and had started exercising her burned hand, under the surgeons’ directions. She knew that the Halverics and Clarts were traveling with them, that Golden Company had taken a contract with Andressat to govern and control Sibili and Cha; the Count of Andressat had laid claim to the South Marches and those cities.

“That’s why he was so angry with the Westland and Pliuni troops for destroying the orchards and vineyards.” Jenits, eating lunch with Paks and Volya, took a pull at his flask. “They made a mess—hacking down trees for cooking fires—”

“They cut down orchards?” Paks was shocked. Jenits and Volya nodded. “But we don’t do things like that. What about the crops?”

“Those troops from Pliuni,” said Jenits, “want to destroy everything the Honeycat ever owned. We’ve got some of ‘em marching with us now.” He made a sour face. “Huh—it’s all the Duke and the Halveric can do to keep them from torching everything we pass.”

“Then why are they with us?”