The Deed of Paksenarrion (59 page)

“Yes, sir, I do wear it. I’m uncertain what the help would be like. I remember the High Marshal telling me it saved my life, but I don’t remember that day at all.”

“Do you ever feel anything—warmth, or cold, or such?”

Paks considered telling him about the first time she’d handled it, when Canna was wounded, but decided against it. Not in front of the High Marshal. Nothing had happened recently. She forced down the memory of that weight on her chest before the ambush—she’d been very tired. She shook her head.

“If it does—if anything strange happens, if you feel anything—you’d be wise to let one of us know. It could be important, to you and to all of us.” With a casual wave, the paladin turned away, and the High Marshal followed. Paks stared after them, her appetite gone.

“What was that about?” asked Jenits.

Paks shook her head. “I’m—not sure.”

Jenits stared after the paladin with open admiration. “I’d like to have mail like that. I wonder how he keeps it so shiny. It makes even the Duke’s look dull. Do you suppose I’ll end up a paladin, Paks?” He grinned at his own joke, and thumped her arm. Paks laughed, easing her tension.

“About as soon as I will.”

Shortly after dark, all those in Arcolin’s cohort who wore the Dwarfwatch ring were called to his tent. There they found the mercenary commanders, Alured the Black, and a group of Halveric soldiers that Paks recognized from Dwarfwatch.

“I have a special mission for you,” the Duke began. “You have known the treachery of the Honeycat longest; I assume you want him dead the most.” A murmur of anger and assent followed. “Good. Our ally Alured tells me there’s a secret passage between the citadel and the outside. He knows where it begins, in the dungeons under the inner keep, and where it comes out, in the forest.” Paks felt a surge of excitement. She imagined them breaking in, finding Siniava in his chamber—

“He’ll know of it, surely,” Alured said, his rough accent breaking into her fantasy. “I sent a man to his army, when your Duke said, and he’ll have told them the secret, as if he found it himself. I’ve used the passage a few times myself. It’s narrow, but sound. You can wait at the outer end, for him to try an escape, or you can go in. If he’s barred the opening, on the inside, you’d have trouble breaking in. And if he’s got a wizard, you’d need a wizard to break the lock.”

“Has he a wizard, Alured?” asked the Duke. Alured was silent a moment before answering.

“He’s got someone in a long fancy gown. Might be a merchant or banker—a high guildsman. Or it could be a wizard. I don’t know.”

“Mmm. We’ll wait, and let his well-known selfishness lead him out the bolthole.” The Duke looked around at the soldiers. “I want you to keep watch over the forest end of the passage.
You
will not leave it unguarded, even for an instant. If he has a wizard—a mage—he may come out in disguise, even shapechanged. And he will certainly come out with his bodyguard and as much wealth as they can carry. Remember: their weapons may be poisoned, and the bodyguard is marked, dark tattoos all over the face. Siniava himself, if not in disguise, is a little taller than Aliam, here, and dark-haired. Harek told us, before he died, that Siniava has a small tattoo himself, between the eyebrows: the horned chain of Liart. I doubt you’ll see it; he’ll be in armor, most likely. But I want to be sure nothing escapes that way. Nothing. And when he comes, I want him alive. Can I trust you for this?”

“Yes, my lord!” came the response. The Duke smiled at them.

“I thought so. Now—you must go by night, so his sentries on the wall see nothing. You’ll have to camp there—but no fires; they’ll see light or smoke. One of us or our squires will be always near, within hail. When someone comes out, try to be sure they’re all out before you attack. Set up your watch schedules so that some from both companies are always on. Paksenarrion—”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I heard good things of you when you took over from Seli. You’ll command our unit and work with the Halveric—sergeant, is it, Aliam?”

“Sergeant Sunnot.” The Halveric looked at her. “You should remember him from last fall.”

“Yes, my lord.” Paks caught Sunnot’s eye; he smiled.

Not long after, they faced the black-in-black maw of the passage, an irregular hole in a rocky outcrop south of the citadel. Paks would not have noticed it, in the darkness, if Alured had not pointed it out. The next morning Paks and Sunnot examined the situation more closely.

The passage entrance faced south; above it a steep rockface, thickly forested on top, blocked their view of the citadel a half-hour’s walk to the north. Below, a gentle slope dipped more west than south, to the Immer; a small clearing gave them a good view of the passage and its surroundings. Paks poked cautiously into the near end of the passage. It crooked sharply left, then right, its rough walls looking like a natural fissure in the stone, but beyond the second turn Paks found smoothly hewn walls and floor, with torch brackets set into the walls. The passage ran straight from there, dipping gently. She backed out and told Sunnot what she’d seen. They decided to pile dry leaves just inside the entrance to give warning of Siniava’s approach. Then they rearranged the guardposts, and decided on the signals to use when something happened.

That evening the Duke came to inspect their arrangements. “How long do you think he’ll wait?” asked Paks.

“He can see us cutting timber for siege towers. I think he’ll go soon, before his own men decide to turn on him. Tonight—tomorrow—tomorrow night. I doubt he’ll wait much longer than that. And I’d say at night—it’s how he’s left every other position this campaign.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“But don’t count on it. If he realizes his pattern, he’ll change it. And remember, Paks: take him alive.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Paks and Sunnot walked the posts that night, but nothing happened. No sounds came to them from the citadel. In the dark Paks had time to think back over the campaign. It seemed that nothing could go wrong this time: Siniava was well in the trap. But they had thought the same before, only to face another long march and battle. She sighed, louder than she’d meant to, and Arñe spoke her name softly.

“Paks? What’s wrong?”

Paks moved to Arñe’s post and leaned on a tree. “Nothing—it seems strange not to be marching somewhere, that’s all. I keep thinking we’ve got him, but I thought that before.”

“I know. For awhile it seemed we’d been marching a year, and would go on forever, but—”

“It hasn’t been that long. We did start early—”

Now Arñe sighed. “We did indeed. I tell you, Paks, I don’t feel the same. It’s only our third year, but I feel older—I feel there’s been more than a year between this campaign and last spring. Do you remember when we came to Rotengre?”

“Yes. I know what you mean. We were so glad to be second-years—but we knew we weren’t really veterans. And then Dwarfwatch—”

“Yes. Dwarfwatch. Then Rotengre. Then this.” Arñe sighed again.

Paks pushed herself away from the tree. “Well—it’ll be over soon. We’ll feel different when he’s dead, and when we’ve had some rest.”

“I hope so,” said Arñe soberly. Paks walked on, still thinking.

The next day was as quiet as the first. No one grumbled about missing the action at the citadel, but Paks knew many shared her fears: what if he doesn’t come this way? What if others make the capture? By nightfall they were edgy and watchful. Paks and Sunnot had both slept during the day, so they’d be on together.

Night chill made Paks shiver suddenly between guardposts. She looked at the tunnel mouth and saw nothing. She felt distinctly colder; she wondered if a weather change was coming. She pulled her cloak closer around her, and leaned into a tree trunk. She felt a breath of cold air drift down the slope, chilling her face. Her cloak was warm. She yawned, suddenly sleepy despite the cold. Her mind wandered.

All at once a sharp prick, like a thorn, stung her chest. She jerked her eyes open, realizing in that instant that she’d been almost asleep. She looked quickly around and saw nothing. She started to relax, and realized that she should have seen at least one guard, even in the gloom. She pushed herself up. The nearest guard had slumped to the ground. Paks felt a trickle of fear, like icewater, down her spine. The hairs rose on her arms. She shook the guard—a Halveric, she remembered—and the woman grunted.

Paks pinched her arm and muttered, “Wake up! Trouble.” The woman stiffened, grabbed Paks’s arm, and started to rise.

“What happened?”

“Magic, I think.” Paks drew her sword as she spoke. “Pray we’re not too late. Draw your blade.”

“The others?”

“Wait—we’ll have to wake them, but—” She peered toward the tunnel mouth again. A dark shadow seemed to flow out of it. “There—see?”

“Falk’s oath in gold! But what do we—?”

“Wake the others on this side; I’ll go across. If they think we’re all asleep, maybe they’ll be careless. Watch—don’t sit down—be sure the torchlighters are ready.”

A glimmer of starlight lit the rockface, as Paks edged around in the trees to find the other guards. She could see another shadow, and another, emerge from the tunnel. She found a pair of guards and woke them, then another pair. Where was Sunnot? More shadows emerged, to cluster a few yards from the entrance. Paks had most of the guards awake; she could only hope they would stay so. She wished she knew which of those shadows was the wizard, and which the Honeycat.

The shadows took up a blunt arrowhead formation, and Paks tensed. Which way would they move? Her left hand fumbled for Canna’s medallion without her thought, and it seemed to twitch left. She moved from the trees along the rockface, where she could cut off a retreat to the tunnel.

A last cloaked figure emerged, and the entire group moved slowly westward toward the trees. Paks took a deep breath and yelled, a wordless cry of mingled anger and triumph. Torches flared around the perimeter; guards stepped forward. She spared a thought of relief, that the guards had stayed awake, as she charged the group of fugitives. They turned, forming a hollow ring, blades whistling in the air as they drew them.

These were the Honeycat’s bodyguard: faces tattooed in garish patterns, bladetips dark with poison even in dancing torchlight. In seconds the woods rang with the clash of swords, and the cries of the fighters. Paks swept her blade in joyful strokes across the enemy blades, exultant. Trick
me,
will you, she thought. Ha! She glanced past her opponents to those sheltered by the ring. One was a man with a narrow dark beard—surely a wizard. The other must be Siniava. Except—Paks nearly missed a parry—except that it was a woman. Very obviously a woman, in a thin silk gown. Shapechange, thought Paks, astonished, and pressed her attack.

The fighter in front of her went down: one of the guards had gotten a lateral stroke. More were down. The mercenaries surged forward, overrunning the rest, to grapple with the two in the center. They went down in a heap of bodies, each eager to grab hold. Paks, an instant too late, stood panting beside them. She rubbed her corselet absently; her chest itched. A tingle ran down her left arm, as if someone had jabbed her elbow. She whirled, searching the shadows, and stiffened as she caught a movement along the base of the rockface. She relaxed: only an animal. An instant later she charged, sword high. What animal would be out in the open with all that noise and light?

As her sword came down toward a furry back, the animal shape rippled, and she faced a man in black armor inlaid with gold. The first blow of his broadsword snapped the tip of her blade. Paks yelled a warning to the others, yanking her dagger from its sheath, as she tried to parry another of his strokes. This time her sword shattered in her hand.

“Phelan’s bitch!” snarled the man. “This time you’ve gone too far—touch
me
with a blade, will you!” He lunged; Paks jerked aside. The thrust barely missed her. She tried to stab with her dagger, but it was too short. His blade sliced into her corselet; the force of the blow staggered her, though she felt no cut. He whirled and ran for the trees. Paks launched herself after him and managed to grapple his legs. They fell sprawling together. Before she could get loose, she felt him heave up and start to swing his sword.

The next instant he gave a loud screech, and writhed away.

“Hang onto him!” said a brisk voice. Paks clung to the kicking, squirming legs, and tried to see who had spoken. Against the light of the torches, her helper was only a dark shape. She heard boots running toward them. In moments, six or eight soldiers were holding the black-armored man down. Paks pushed herself up, panting. Her elbows hurt, where she’d fallen, and she had a stitch in her side.

The Duke strode into the light. “Got him, have we?”

“I think so, my lord.” Now Paks recognized the paladin’s voice. “We’ll get his helmet off—”

“Allow me.” The Duke knelt beside the man and slipped the tip of his dagger into the visor to lift it. Paks stared. The face inside was pale and angry. Dark eyes, a lock of dark hair showing, and a small tattoo between thick eyebrows.

“Well,” said the Duke cheerfully. “What a surprise, Lord Siniava, to find the commander of a besieged citadel wandering the woods at night.” Paks could not hear what Siniava said in answer, but the Duke’s shoulders stiffened. The paladin growled. Paks looked around, suddenly remembering the other man and woman. What had they been, and who were they? She saw a circle of mercenaries, and walked over to see two captives, bound hand and foot.

“Kieri!” No mistaking that call; the Halverics had arrived, both bareheaded.

“It’s Siniava,” said the Duke. “We’ll have to get his armor off before you can have what you’re looking for.”

“We can manage that, can’t we, Cal?” The Halveric looked eager.

Cal was grinning too. “How badly is he hurt?”

“Nothing much,” said Fenith. “Paksenarrion caught him, and I disarmed him. He’s got a slashed wrist; that’s all.” He paused a moment. “What are you planning?”

“Don’t be silly,” snapped the Duke. “We’re going to kill him.”

“I know that,” said the paladin, equally shortly. “Go on and do it.”