The Deed of Paksenarrion (90 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of ale?” asked Ambros.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I sit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Girdsmen.” His tone was sour.

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

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

“What craft?” asked Paks.

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

“No—” Paks flushed, confused.

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