Sheepfarmers Daughter (18 page)

"By all the gods, that one's prickly," said Vik. No one had to ask what he meant.

"She's a good fighter," said Paks, temporizing.

Vik snorted. "Paks, sometimes I think you'd forgive the Webmistress herself if she was a good fighter. That's not all that matters."

Paks felt her face growing hot. "I know that, Vik. But being touchy isn't all that matters, either — Barra's good at heart."

Vik gave her a long green stare, one of the few serious looks she'd had from him. "Paks, for once let a city—born runt give you a bit of advice. It's possible to like bad people, but liking them doesn't make them good." Paks opened her mouth, but he held up his hand and went on. "I'm not saying Barra's bad, exactly, but I am saying you think she's good at heart because you like her and want her to be good at heart. It doesn't work that way. If you don't learn to see people as they are, you'll get hurt someday."

Paks felt confused and angry. "I don't understand. It certainly sounds like you're saying Barra's bad, and she's not."

"No. I'm not really talking about Barra, but about you. Paks, my father was a harper. Harpers have to learn about people, or they can't sing with power. Even though I can't harp or sing, I learned a lot about people from him. They're complicated —being good at one thing doesn't make them good at something else: a good fighter can be treacherous, or cruel, or a liar. Do you see that?"

"Yes, but Barra — "

"I'm not talking about Barra. Listen to me. You've told us you always wanted to be a fighter, a fighter for good, right?" He waited for her nod before going on. "Well, you're so intent on that — you don't see other things. You see people as good or bad, not in between; as fighters or not, and not in between. And since you're basically a good person, you see most people as good — but most people, Paks, are in between — both as fighters, and as good or bad. And they're different. If you don't learn to see them straight —just as you'd look at a sword, knowing all swords aren't alike —you'll depend on them for what they don't have."

Paks nodded slowly. "I think I see. But what about Barra?"

Vik threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, Paks! Barra's all right; she's just prickly, as I said." Arñe and Saben were both chuckling, and Paks finally grinned, still unsure of the joke.

Their winter quarters in Valdaire felt like home now. Familiar buildings, familiar people. No longer novices, after their first campaign year, the newest members of the Company found themselves accepted by the veterans. Among these friends, the Company mourning ceremony honoring all who had died that year brought more comfort than Paks expected. Canna was now an "old veteran," being past her required two years of service, but, like most such, she elected to stay in.

Their winter routine was much like training: drill, weapons practice, barracks chores. Paks spent hours in the smithy and armory, fetching and carrying, and doing what the unskilled could do. Some work always awaited them. Paks took the opportunity to begin learning longsword, and collected a whole new set of cuts and bruises.

With free time in Valdaire, they found that the salary which seemed so large at first disappeared amazingly fast.

"It's not that things are so expensive," said Arñe thoughtfully one evening in
The White Dragon
, the Company's favorite inn. "It's that there are so many things, and all we have to do is buy — "

"I know." Paks frowned at her linked hands. "I was going to save most of mine to repay my father, but I keep spending it. But except for coming here with you, I've needed what I've bought — or most of it — "

"We've gotten used to spending," said Saben. "That new dagger I bought — I could have used the Company one. But — I bought it."

"We might as well enjoy it," said Vik. "We're going to spend it one way or another. No use fretting about it."

Paks snorted. "There speaks a man who dices his way to twice his salary."

"Not always." Vik was unruffled. "And if I do, I spend it all. I'll teach you, if you like. I'll even let you start with pebbles."

"No, thank you. I just can't see taking a chance on losing it."

"You take chances when you fight — that trick you pulled on Canna today — "

"That's different." She blushed when Vik laughed. "No, it is. I know what chances I'm taking, in fighting. But with money — "

"You're still a country girl, Paks. That's exactly the difference between city and country — "

"I'm the same way," said Saben mildly. "I can't see throwing money away — or anything else, for that matter." Vik laughed, shaking his red head.

The Duke left, to ride north; they realized that he was going to inspect another group of recruits. Paks was distressed to find that Stammel was going with him.

"What did you expect?" he asked. "It's my year to recruit and train; I saw you through your first year. I'll be back a year from now." His brown eyes twinkled. "And you'd better be here to lick my recruits into shape, you and the rest. Take care — I want to hear good things of you." "Is Bosk going too?" Paks felt like crying.

"No. He's staying down another year. Devlin wanted to stay north; his wife's had another baby."

Paks had never thought of any of them being married; she eyed Stammel but lacked the nerve to ask him.

While waiting for the new recruits to come down, they had more time off. Paks met a corporal in the Valdaire city militia who had grown up near Rocky Ford — the first person she'd met in the south who knew where Three Firs was. A bowman from Golden Company bought them all ale one night — he was celebrating his retirement, he said — he'd saved enough to buy a farm. Spring came earlier and quicker in the Vale of Valdaire than in the north. As the fields greened, grass ran like green flame up the slopes toward retreating snow. Rivers boiled with snowmelt, roaring and tumbling the rocks in their beds. Tiny yellow and white flowers starred the grass. New lambs scampered among the flocks, flipping their ridiculous tails. Paks was almost homesick when she saw the lambs. Buds swelled on the trees; wild plums flowered by every rivulet. The first caravans clogged the city with wagons and pack beasts, waiting for the pass to open.

Paks had not realized, the year before, that someone left the recruit column to warn the Company camp while the column went through the city. This year, when the courier came, the older veterans explained what to do.

"Just hang about as if you didn't know they were coming," said Donag, grinning. "Keep close to the yard. When the captain yells, throw yourself into position, fast. Whoever's closest, go for the front; never mind your usual position. What counts is speed. They don't know where we're supposed to be, and they'll be too scared to notice. Be sure to keep a straight face — they'll be funny, but don't laugh."

Paks saw the column coming up the lane; she strolled back to the yard, her heart hammering. What would the new recruits be like? Were they as frightened as she had been? And what about the sergeant who would replace Stammel? She watched as they came into the yard and halted, and tensed, waiting for the captain's shout. When it came, she was moving before it ended. Donag, still quicker, made his usual position before anyone else had a chance at it. It was all over in a moment. They stood silent and motionless, and the recruits' eyes widened.

Stammers replacement was a black—haired, green—eyed woman named Dzerdya; Paks thought she looked forbidding. The other cohorts each had a new sergeant, and Bond, senior corporal in Cracolnya's cohort, was replaced by Jori. They had twenty—nine new recruits in Arcolin's cohort alone. Paks was glad to find that she was not assigned a recruit; she wouldn't know what to say to the bright—eyed youngsters who filled the empty bunks.

In the next few days, Paks found Dzerdya nothing like Stammel or easy—going Coben, their junior sergeant. She seemed to have a mind as quick as her bladework, and she demanded instant attention and obedience. Paks was surprised to find that her recruits actually liked her.

"She was my sergeant," said Canna. "Isn't she amazing?"

That had not been Paks's first thought. Terrifying, quick—tempered, hasty, impossible — but not amazing. But Canna went on, not noticing her reaction.

"Wait until you see her in battle. She's so fast you can hardly see her blade. You ought to drill with her sometime."

"She seems kind of— kind of— angry a lot," said Paks lamely.

"Oh, that. She's quick to bite, true, but she doesn't brood on things. Don't worry about it. I don't think she knows, sometimes, when she's scared someone half to death."

In another week, Paks had begun to agree. Dzerdya was strict, and had a tongue like a handful of razors, but she was fair. She obviously cared a great deal for her troops.

This year's contract was very different. "It's a siege," explained Donag, who had used his own mysterious contacts to find out. "The Guild League cities are joining to siege and assault another city, halfway across Aarenis. They're hiring several companies as well as their own militia. I think our contract's with Sorellin, but the others are supporting it."

"What city?" asked Canna.

"Rotengre. Have you heard of it?"

"I think so. Wasn't there a caravan raid near there, last year?"

"Yes. The Guild League thinks that Rotengre harbors brigands — in fact, they suspect the city lives by preying on the northern caravan route between Merinath and Sorellin. Three or four years ago — before your time, Canna — five caravans were totally destroyed. That was the worst, so far as I know, but for the past ten or twelve years the loss has been enormous. Almost as bad as what Alured's done to the Immer River shipping."

"But why do they think it's Rotengre?" asked Paks. "Do the caravans go through there?"

"Look." Donag began to scratch a rough map on the table with the burnt end of a stick. "Here's Valdaire, in the northwest. Now here's the river. It's like a tree, sprouting from the Immerhoft Sea in the south, with branches northwest, north, and northeast. Downstream from Valdaire you come to Foss, Fossnir, Cortes Voraja, Cortes Cilwan, and Immervale, where the branches meet. On the north branch, up from Immervale, you've got Koury, Ambela, and Sorellin. The other branch, to the east, has Rotengre. Then off in the far northeast, Merinath and Semnath. And the Copper Hills — "

"Have you been to all those places?" asked Paks, awed.

"Most of'em. The Copper Hills, now, that's where caravans come north from the coast — "

"Why don't they come up the Immer?" asked Vik. "That other's a long way out of their way, isn't it?"

"You haven't heard yet of Alured the Black?" asked Donag, brows rising. They shook their heads. "Well — that's a tale in itself. Used to be a searover he did — a pirate — and somehow decided to come ashore. He controls a belt of forest near the coast, and he's pirated so much of the river trade that there isn't any. It's cheaper to go the long way around than pay his tolls." Donag rubbed his face with one meaty hand, then went on. "Like I was saying, the caravan route is north along the Copper Hills, then west: Semnath, Merinath, Sorellin, Ambela, Pier Vonja, then Fossnir and Foss and upriver to Valdaire. The road they've built is something to see.

"The stretch between Merinath and Sorellin is long — comes fairly close to Rotengre — and that's just where the caravans have been attacked. A lot of that's forest, so it's easy enough for brigands to throw off pursuit, and for Rotengre to claim they live in the forest. But they trade somewhere, and Rotengre is the obvious place. Besides, what else can the city live on? It never was part of the river trade — that branch is too shallow. No good farmland, no mines."

They nodded, staring at the blurred smears of black on the table. Paks wondered what the country looked like.

"What is a siege like?" asked Vik.

"Boring," said Donag. "Unless the first assault works, and we take the city at once, we camp outside and keep anyone from going in or out. It takes months, and it's nothing but standing watch and camp work and drill. Along wait until they get hungry, that's all."

"That sounds easy enough," muttered Saben.

Donag shot him a hard glance. "It's not. They'll have archers on the walls, and stone—throwers. You can get killed walking too close, but if you're too far away they have time to climb down the walls and get out. And it's hard to keep the camp like the Duke wants it for that long. If you don't, you have camp fever taking out half your troops. It's better than a fight every day, but it's not easy."

Canna had been looking thoughtful, tracing the smeared lines with one brown finger. "Does Rotengre have any allies?"

"Ah. That's a question." Donag frowned and rubbed his nose. "Probably yes; somebody must be buying the stolen goods. My guess is they ship it downriver. Koury, for example: it isn't a Guild League city, but it's gotten rich in the past few years—how else? Or cities passed by on the old river route: Immervale, Cortes Cilwan. Or if you want to reach far enough, there's always the Honeycat. Siniava. He wants to rule all Aarenis, they say; it takes money to hire the troops for that. If all this flows back to him — "

"Well, what if they attack us while we're sieging?" Vik looked almost eager.

"Then we'll have a fight. That's why the siege force is so large —just in case. But their allies may not want to come out of cover."

It all seemed very complicated to Paks. The only thing clear was the route they would travel. She thought of lands and cities she had never seen.

It was a long three days' march to Fossnir, down the river from Valdaire, with a baggage train much larger than the year before. Peach and apricot orchards were still pink, though the plum blossom had passed. Paks missed the more delicate pink and white of apples, and the white plumes of pear. When she mentioned this to a veteran, he said that apples were grown only in the foothills of the Dwarfmounts, or far to the west. Pears did not grow in Aarenis at all.

The road they marched on was wide and hard: great stone slabs laid with a careful camber for drainage into ditches on either side. To one side was a soft road, for use in good weather when the road was crowded. Northbound caravans passed them, one made up of pack animals instead of wagons. They had a nod and smile from the caravaners. The last guard on one of them looked back and yelled, "I hope you get those bastards!"

"How did he know?" asked Donag, startled, then answered himself. "It'll be those militia talking, I suppose. Can't keep any quieter than a landlord."

The next day after Fossnir, they made Foss, oldest city in Foss Council. Here they left the river, following the Guild League caravan road to Pier Vonja. Villages were spaced a few hours apart along the way, and great walled courtyards for caravans to use were never more than a day's easy journey apart. Wheelwrights, harnessmakers, and blacksmiths had their places at each caravan halt; the villages offered fresh food and local crafts.

As they crossed the Foss Council border, they found a large unit of militia ready to go with them. Paks was happy to find that the militia would march behind; she liked her forward view.

Pier Vonja, next in line, was stone—walled, but most of its buildings were wood above the first story: a great forest bordered the city on the north. It had fortified bridges across its little river. The city militia wore orange and black, and carried pikes. Paks noticed a nasal twang in the local accent that made some words hard to understand. The march from Pier Vonja to Ambela took six days; rain and a crowded road slowed them down.

Ambela was built, like Pier Vonja, across a small branch of the Immer, but it had a different look. Its gray stone walls were livened by the red and white banners that stirred above every tower and gate. Some low flower made a bright gold carpet along the water meadows. Farm cottages were whitewashed, brilliant in the green fields. The two hundred foot and fifty horse of Ambela militia that joined the column all wore bright red and white.

Four days later, they came to Sorellin. Much larger than Ambela, it had double walls, the inner one defining the old city. They marched through the west gate, under a white banner with great yellow shears centered on it. The guards wore yellow surcoats. Paks thought it looked as clean and prosperous as the best parts of Verella and Valdaire; she wondered if it had a poor quarter. Below the bridge she saw two flatboats, loaded with plump sacks, being hauled upstream by mules. Outside the city again, on the southeast, they found a large contingent of Sorellin militia waiting for them.

After two days in a camp outside the city, they marched again on a very different road. It had never been part of the Guild League system; narrow, rough, and partly overgrown, it had to be practically rebuilt to allow the wagons to pass. Six days later they came out on the gentler slopes that lay around Rotengre and its branch of the Immer.

Even from a distance, Rotengre looked more formidable than the other cities, more like an overgrown fort: high, steep walls, massive towers, all out of proportion to the breadth. It was shaped somewhat like a rectangle with the corners bitten off; its long axis ran north and south, with the only two gates on the short ends. Paks decided that the tales must be true — it was a city built for trouble, not for honest trade.

As the head of their column cleared the forest and started across a wide belt of pasture toward the walls, trumpets blared from the city. A troop of men—at—arms in dark uniforms, their helmets winking in the sun, came out the north gate. The Duke's Company marched on, angling left toward the gate. The Rotengrens halted, and began to withdraw, as more and more of the attacking column snaked from the forest. Ahead, to the northeast, another column came into sight. These wore black, and carried spears in a bristling mass. Paks caught her breath and started to reach for her sword.

"That's Vladi's Company — don't worry about them," called Dzerdya. "We're on the same side."

"I hope so," muttered Donag, just loud enough for Paks to hear. The compact mass of spearmen kept pouring from the forest, cohort by cohort — five in all, with a smaller body of horse. They turned south, to march along the east side of the city. After them came a troop of cavalry whose rose and white colors were bright even at that distance. Most of the horses were gray; a few were white. Paks thought they looked more like figures from a song than real fighters, but she had heard of Clart Company. The Rotengren troops had withdrawn completely, and they heard the portcullis crash down long before they could have reached the gate. A small party of riders galloped away downstream, pursued by a squad of Foss Council cavalry, but they were clearly drawing away.

Setting up and maintaining a siege camp was every bit as hard and boring as Donag had said it would be. The Duke's Company had a position west of Sorellin's militia, just west of the north gate, and around the angle of wall to the west. On their right flank the Ambela militia covered the west wall. Vonja militia had the south wall and gate, and Vladi's Company and the Foss Council troops divided the west wall. Clart Company patrolled between the siege lines and the forest.

The Duke and his surgeons had definite and inconvenient ideas about siting the camp's necessities, from the bank and palisade between Rotengre's wall and their camp, to the placement of jacks trenchs. All that work — dull and unnecessary as it seemed to Paks and the others — was better than the boring routine of the siege itself, when nothing happened day after day. Spring warmed into summer, and the summer grew steamy. Rotengre troops threw filth off the walls; its stench pervaded the camp. When it rained, a warm unrefreshing rain, dirty brown water overflowed the ditch under the walls and spread the stinking filth closer. No one complained about hauling wood or water, or cutting hay in distant meadows: any break in routine was welcome. Tempers frayed. Barra and Natzlin got in a fight with two militiamen from Vonja, and even Paks agreed it was Barra's fault. Rumor swept the camps that two cohorts of Vonja militia were down with fever from swimming in the river. Paks's captain, Arcolin, rode off to Valdaire on some errand for the Duke, leaving Ferrault in command. The cohort found that Ferrault was as strict as Arcolin had been, where camp discipline was concerned. The Duke's surgeons frowned constantly, and swept through the camp inspecting everything.

Muggy midsummer faded to the blinding heat and cloudless days that ripened grain for harvest. Paks thought longingly of the cool north. Food began to taste odd; she thought it was the terrible smell from the ditch under the wall. Dzerdya's orders to get ready for a long march were more than welcome.

"Where?" asked Paks.

Dzerdya glared at her, then answered. "North. Sorellin Council wants us to garrison a frontier fort, and let the militia up there come home for harvest. They've had a big crop this year. It's up in the foothills." She smiled, then, at Paks. "Hurry; we march tomorrow."

"Is everyone going?"

"No; it doesn't take the whole company to garrison one little fort. We could probably do it with half of you — it's only a matter of taking tolls if anyone crosses Dwarfwatch — but no one will, this late."