The Deed of Paksenarrion (142 page)

“Yes—thank you. I think I will. But I’ll finish supper first—no need to move this.” She gestured at the platter and bowls. He smiled and left her. The mutton was tender and tasty; the soup warmed her to the toes. By the time she had finished, several townsmen had come in and ordered meals, staring at her curiously. She signalled the serving girl, and asked directions to the jacks and the private rooms.

“Right along here,” said the girl. “And master said you were to have this room—” she pointed to a door, “when you were ready.” Paks opened the door to find a pleasant little room with a fire already burning on the small hearth. Three chairs and a small round table furnished it, with a bench along one wall. The girl lighted the candles that stood in sconces on either side of the mantel. “Will you be wanting something from the kitchen?”

“No, not now. Probably when Kolya comes.” Paks tried to compute the probable cost of the meal, bath, and private room. But she wouldn’t be paying for a room tonight, and she had enough.

When she came back from the jacks, she settled into one of the chairs by the fire, and took her bow across her knees. She inspected it as she’d been taught, and rubbed it lightly with oil until it gleamed. She took the bowstring from her pouch and slipped it on, then bent the bow to string it. It was as supple and responsive as ever in her hands. She unstrung it and set it against the wall.

Her hand found her dagger, and then she was standing, staring at the door. She shook her head and sat down. Silly. Here, of all places, alone in a room in the Duke’s realm, nothing could menace her. She turned his ring again, looking at the seal in the black stone. It must be simple nervousness—fear of what Kolya had heard, or what she might say. Paks realized her dagger lay unsheathed in her hand. She stared at the blade, and felt the edge with her thumb. Sharp enough, and smooth. She slid it back in its sheath and stood again, pacing the length of the little room.

At the far end, away from the fire, she could just hear the murmur of other voices. It could not be coming from the common room, she recalled—it must be from another private room on this passage. She stared at the wall, her sense of something wrong growing, then turned back to the fire. She pulled her chair to face it, and found she could not turn her back on the far wall. She could not sit still; her earlier sleepiness was gone. Nothing like this had happened on the journey north, and she was still fighting with herself, a little angry, when a knock came on her own door.

“Yes?” The door opened, and the innkeeper glanced in.

“Councilor Ministiera,” he said, and stepped aside. Kolya appeared in the door as Paks stood up. The gray streak in her hair had widened, but otherwise she seemed the same. Her strong dark face was split with a broad grin.

“Paks! You brought more rain with you.” She gave Paks a long, considering look.

“Come on in. Don’t you want some ale? Or cider?”

“Ale,” said Kolya. “I get all the apples I want at home.” She entered and sat in one of the chairs, while Paks spoke to the innkeeper about ale. She cocked her head up at Paks. “You will stay with me tonight, won’t you?” Paks nodded. “Good. You’re looking well. The Duke will be pleased to see you. We heard several things—” She paused, and gave Paks another long look.

But Paks had been ready for this reaction. She smiled. “No doubt. There have been several things to hear. I have a message for you, Kolya, from Master Oakhallow—” She turned and rummaged in her pack until she found the scroll in its oilskin wrapping, and the little oiled pouch that she had never opened.

“Thank you.” Kolya started to speak, but paused as the innkeeper brought their ale, and left. “He sends me seeds and cuttings—did you know he helped me start my orchard, after I lost the arm?”

“No.” Paks was surprised; she knew only that Kolya was kuakgannir. She had not known even that until the Kuakgan gave her his message to take.

“Yes. He knew me, before I joined the Company.”

“Are you from Brewersbridge?”

“No.” Kolya did not explain. She was looking at the scroll, which she’d unwrapped. She looked up. “Well, I see that some of the tales we’ve heard cannot be true.”

“Ummm.” Paks poured the ale into both mugs. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Kolya. Some things are true that I wish were not. But now—”

“Now you’re a warrior again—aren’t you?” Kolya picked up one mug and sipped. “As the Duke said you would have been without the Girdsmen’s interference.”

“I am a warrior, yes.” Paks wondered how much to tell her, and how soon. Seeing Kolya again, she realized how much older the other woman was, how young she might appear. “What happened was not the fault of the Girdsmen,” she began.

Kolya snorted. “The Duke thinks so. You’re not going to tell me you—” She stopped, obviously looking for a tactful way to say it.

“I am telling you that they did what they knew how to do. The Kuakgan knew more—of some things.”

“Are you kuakgannir now?”

“No.” Paks did not know how to explain.

“Still of Gird’s fellowship?” Doubt lay behind that.

“No—well, in a way—it’s difficult to explain—”

“But how do you feel, now? You can fight again?”

“Yes. I feel fine. I spent the summer with the rangers in Lyonya; we saw some fighting there.”

“You’re not wearing a sword,” said Kolya.

“No, that’s true. I used a borrowed one there; I haven’t the money to buy my own. But they said they’d keep my arms in Fin Panir. Even if they haven’t, I expect they’d give me a sword when they got over the shock.”

“Shock?”

“Well—they didn’t expect me to recover like this.”

“Oh. But the Duke said they gave you money . . . what happened?”

“It’s a long tale—the short end is it’s gone.”

Kolya nodded. “When are you going back to Fin Panir?”

“I don’t know.” Paks felt the uneasy restlessness she’d struggled with before Kolya came. “I wanted to come here first; to see you, to thank the Duke for all his help. I thought perhaps I could do something for him—I don’t know.”

Kolya drained her mug. “You could join the Company again, if that’s what you want. I know he’d take you. Or are you still set on being a paladin?”

Paks shifted the mug in her hands. “I have no choice, Kolya—or you could say I’ve already made it.” She finished her ale, and set the mug down. “I—don’t want to talk about it here. Can we go?”

Kolya stared at her in surprise. “Paks, it’s safe here. Piter’s the Duke’s man as much as I am. He tells no tales.”

Paks stood up. “I don’t doubt you, or him, but something—Kolya, I cannot explain this here and now, but I must not ignore these warnings.” She stepped to the door, opened it, and glanced into the passage. Nothing. “I’ll go pay the reckoning.”

“I’ll come.” Kolya stood, and Paks collected her bow and pack. She slipped the bowstring off the bow again and rolled it in her pouch. Then she led the way down the passage to the common room.

It was noisy and crowded there now, and it took a moment to catch the innkeeper’s eye. He came to them, and greeted Kolya, then asked Paks what more she needed.

“Just the reckoning,” said Paks. “Your hospitality has been more than generous.”

He looked at her, then at Kolya. “There’s—there’s naught to pay, this time.”

Paks turned to Kolya, whose face was blank. “What? You can’t mean that, sir. I’ve had a fine meal, good cider and ale, bath, a private room—”

The innkeeper looked stubborn. “No. You carry the Duke’s seal. One time for each of the Company—I’ve been a soldier; I know what need is.”

Paks felt herself blushing. “Sir, I thank you. But another time, I might have need. This time I have the means to pay.”

“You aren’t carrying a sword. No, if you come back someday, with all your gear, and want to pay, that’s fine. But not a copper will I take this night, and that’s final.” He glared at her.

“Well—my thanks, then. And I hope to enjoy your brew many a cold evening.” Paks and Kolya went out into the cold windy night. The rain had stopped, though the wind smelled wet. They said nothing for some distance, but as they turned into the market square, Paks asked, “What was that about?”

“What?”

“Not paying. Does he really give a free meal to each of the Duke’s men? I wouldn’t think he could make a living that way.”

“Paks—wait until we reach the house.” In a few minutes they had crossed the bridge, and neared Kolya’s gate. Kolya led the way up the flagged walk to the cottage, and pushed open the heavy door. Inside, a fire on the hearth lit the front room dimly. Kolya poked a splinter into the fire until the end flared, and lit candles in sconces around the room.

“If you need to dry anything, here’s a rack,” she said, pulling a wooden frame from one corner. Paks dug into her pack for her wet clothes, and spread them on it, glancing around the room. It served as both kitchen and living room, with cooking hooks in the fireplace, a dresser holding plates, mugs, and two blue glasses, a net of cheeses, one of onions, and a ham hanging from beams, a sturdy table and several chairs near the fireplace. The other end of the room held a desk and stool, and more chairs around a striped rug on the floor. Under the front windows was a long bench covered with bright weavings. Kolya disappeared through a door beside the fireplace, and returned with a deep bowl of apples and a small one of nuts.

“You may be tired of apples, but these look good,” said Paks.

“They are. This is the first year I’ve gotten much from these two trees. The green and red striped ones are from Lyonya: Master Oakhallow sent the seedlings years ago. The dark ones are a new strain, according to the traders—at least it was new when I bought some. These trees are—oh—about nine years old by now. What I sent you, in the south, were Royal-garths—what they grow in the king’s groves in Pargun. They travel well, and are sweet, but these are better—thinner skinned.” It was clear that Kolya was glad to talk of something harmless. Paks fell in with this.

“How many kinds of apples do you grow?”

“As many as I can acquire. Apples do better if you mix varieties, and some tend to skip years in bearing. Right now I’ve got seven that are bearing well: these two, the Royalgarths, the Westnuts from Fintha, Big Ciders and Little Ciders, and Westland Greens. I’ve got two kinds that just started bearing this year, but not heavily: another summer apple, but yellow instead of green, and a big red and yellow stripe that does well in the markets south of here. And the pears have come in since you left. Over twenty bushels of pears this year.”

Paks had taken a bite out of the green and red apple. Juice flooded her mouth. “This one is good,” she said, swallowing. Kolya had cracked two nuts against each other in her strong hand; she began picking the meats out of the broken bits of shell.

“Yes. Paks—you are welcome to stay here; I hope you do. But—what did you come here for? Was it just to thank the Duke for his help? Or—?”

Paks took another bite of apple. “I’m not sure I can tell you. I don’t know how much you know of what actually happened to me—”

“The Duke told us—the Council—some of it. Nothing to blame you for—”

“He didn’t know all.” Paks could feel Kolya’s look as if it were a hand on her face.

“He said it was the Marshal-General’s fault,” said Kolya. “He’s never blamed you for it—”

“It was not her fault. Not in the way he means. Did he tell you about Kolobia? What happened there?”

“Not really.” Kolya shifted uneasily. “Something about capture, and evil powers.”

“Yes.” Paks struggled for calmness. Surely she should be able to tell this tale calmly by now. “I was taken by the kuaknomi, who serve Achrya.” Kolya nodded, eyes intent on her bowl of nuts. “They offered the chance to fight—to fight for a chance at escape. Or that’s what I thought they offered. Fighting against orcs, for the most part, in a sort of arena they had underground.”

“Most part? How many times—?”

“I don’t know.” Paks set the apple down carefully, as if it were alive. “I don’t remember. Many times, to judge by the marks they left. At the end, I was forced into charmed armor—”

“Mother of Trees!” said Kolya, staring now. She had brought up her hand in the warding sign. Then she looked at her hand, and shook her head. “Sorry. Go on.”

Paks took another apple out of the bowl, and looked it over. “In the fighting great evil entered my mind. It grew beyond my control. This is what the Marshal-General saw, in Fin Panir. She was not the only one to see it, Kolya. Even I, when they—” She stopped to take a long breath. “Anyway. They saw but one possible cure. And the Marshal-General, two paladins, and an elf tried to cut that evil from within. Which they did.”

“And left you, the Duke said, as crippled as if they’d cut off your legs.”

Paks shook her head. “Not so. You—forgive me, Kolya, but you have truly lost an arm. Nothing, now, will make it grow back. I had my limbs—legs and arms both—but not the use of them for awhile.”

“And within? The Duke said they did more damage within, that they had ripped the very heart out of your self, the courage—”

“So I thought, and they thought, but the Kuakgan showed me that this was not so.”

“Are you certain?” Kolya peered closely at her. “We had heard that you were to be a paladin yourself—and here you are without money enough, you say, to buy a sword—”

“Do riches make a paladin? Or do I look so scared, to you?” Paks smiled at her.

“Well—no. You don’t. But you wouldn’t be scared of me, anyway.”

“I would have been. I was. Kolya, I cannot hide this: I was, for those months, as craven as you can imagine. I don’t know what the Duke told you, but he saw me unable to lift a sword even in practice. He saw me afraid to mount a horse—even a gentle one. He saw me—a veteran of his Company—faint in terror because an armsmaster came toward me with his sword raised.”

“You’d been hurt—”

Paks snorted. “You know better than that. Kolya, I have been where very few soldiers ever come—to the fear and helplessness that the common folk have. And I’ve come back from that, with help. Why I’m here—well, that’s a long tale. Tell me, would you think me crazy if I told you—” she faltered, and Kolya looked at her curiously.