The Deed of Paksenarrion (37 page)

When he sheathed the sword, he motioned to Dorrin. She came near. He seemed more relaxed. “You are all worthy of praise,” he began. “And we will raise the mound both here and on the battlefield near Rotengre for our fallen companions. Still, there are a few who deserve praise before the Company, for deeds uncommon even in this uncommon campaign. Captain—?”

Dorrin began. “My lord Duke, I have four soldiers to recognize. Simisi Kanasson, who held off three guards from the prisoners, though his horse had been cut down. Sim was wounded then, and again today when fighting the pikes. Kirwania Fastonsdotter, who led her file against the pikes both north of Rotengre and here, and accounted for eight dead by her own sword. Teriam Selfit, who rallied his squad after Kalek was killed, and prevented a breakout. Jostin Semmeth, who accounted for two of the mounted guard, was hit by a crossbow bolt, and went on to slay three bowmen and a pikeman before falling himself.”

“Come forward, then,” said the Duke. As they stepped out of line, he took from a casket held by one of the squires a ring for each of them. As they went back to their places, the Duke gestured to Cracolnya. He too had several soldiers to honor, and the ceremony proceeded. When the last of Cracolnya’s men had stepped back, the Duke turned to Paks’s cohort.

“You have no captain to speak for you,” he said. “Nor sergeants, nor corporals. Yet your deeds speak aloud without their aid. I cannot pick and choose among you; I will have made for each of you, from these spoils, a ring to commemorate your deeds. But those to whom you owe your lives, who brought me word of your peril: even among such honor, they deserve honor. Three started: Canna Arendts, Saben Kanasson, and Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. When they were attacked by brigands near Rotengre, only Paks was able to win free. We do not know the fate of the others; be assured that the search will continue until we know. But now—Paksenarrion, come forward.”

Paks felt herself blushing, and could hardly tear her eyes from the ground. She limped forward.

“Here is a ring,” he said, “that I think best represents your deed. Three strands, for the three who started together, braided into one: the one who succeeded, the message, for returning to the place you began. And imperishable gold, for loyalty.” Paks took the gold ring he held out, and stammered her thanks. This was not the way she had dreamed of winning glory, when she was still herding sheep. It felt indecent to be praised so, when her friends were captive or dead.

When the blood quit roaring in her ears, the Duke was still speaking to her cohort. “I want you to stay together,” he said. “You are still Arcolin’s cohort; you’ll remain so. When I bring the recruits down, you’ll be brought up to strength. In the meantime, until Valdaire, you’ll form a squad in Dorrin’s cohort. She will recommend temporary corporals. We will stay here until we raise the mound for our friends, when the Halveric arrives.” He turned to the captains. “You may dismiss your cohorts when you’re ready.”

“My lord.” The captains bowed. The Duke gave them all a last grim smile and returned to the keep. In a few minutes, the muster was over, and Paks had limped back to the stables with Vik. She spent me day doing such chores as she could manage without standing. Someone brought a pile of swords for her to clean and sharpen; she found her own, now notched, as she worked.

Sometime in the afternoon, they were startled by a horn cry from the gate tower. Paks stiffened, her hand clenched on the hilt of the sword she was cleaning. The fort erupted into action and noise. A squad of Clarts came boiling out of the inner court, their horses striking sparks off the stone paving. Through the open gate Paks could hear shouts from outside. These ceased, and she heard the drumming of a single galloping horse coming nearer. She glanced around the stableyard, then toward the inner gate. The Duke, armed and mounted, sat his horse in the space between the walls, his squires behind him.

The hoofbeats outside slowed, then halted. The Duke raised his hand. Into Paks’s view rode a mailed figure in Halveric green on a lathered chestnut horse. He pushed up his visor; Paks thought she recognized Aliam Halveric. He rode forward until his horse was beside the Duke’s and they were face to face. They clasped arms.

“I have much to say to you,” said the Duke.

“And I to you,” replied the Halveric.

“I fear we are crowded within,” said the Duke. “Though I would welcome you and your captains to the keep, we have many wounded and I have brought them all inside the walls.”

“We came prepared to camp,” said the Halveric. “For a long time, if need be. I am only sorry we missed the battle. I would be glad, however, to accept your generous offer of a roof for myself and my captains. Where would you prefer I place my company?”

Paks thought she saw a smile flicker across the Duke’s face. “Old friend,” he said, and the Halveric relaxed visibly. “I will answer what you are too courteous to ask. Your men within these walls are at your disposition, to stay or go as you direct. Between us now there can be no question of captives. Your men acted in all ways honorably and bravely. I would suggest you leave the wounded inside the walls. Now—will you see them first, or come with me?”

The Halveric spoke in a softer voice, and Paks could not hear. The Duke nodded, and beckoned a squire forward. The Halveric spoke to him, and he rode out the gate. The other squires dismounted, one taking all the horses, and the other holding the reins for the Duke and the Halveric to dismount. The two men stood talking while the horses were led away. In a short time Sunnot, the Halveric sergeant, came from the inner court and went down on one knee before the Halveric, who raised him up at once. Some command was given; Sunnot bowed slightly and turned away, leading the Halveric toward the barracks with the worst wounded. He was smiling, clearly relieved to have his own commander there at last.

When the great burial mound was finished, all the companies assembled there for a final leave-taking. The names of the fallen were called aloud one last time. Vladi’s spearmen sang “The Dance of Frostbreath” and tossed their spears over the mound. The Clarts performed a wild dance mimicking combat on horseback; the thunder of hooves, one of them had explained to Paks, would carry their fallen comrades to the endless fields of the afterworld, where horses never tire, nor riders fall. Aliam Halveric and his captains sang to his harper’s playing, the old “Fair Were the Towers Whose Stones Lie Scattered” that Paks had heard even in Three Firs—but instead of the name of the Prince and his nobles, they sang the names of the Halveric dead. Then the Duke signalled his piper, and a tune Paks had never heard before seemed to drag all the sorrow and anger out of her heart with its own bitterness. It was the “Ar hi Tammarion,” the lament written for the death of the Duke’s lady by the half-elven harper at the Court of Tsaia, and not since then played openly. Paks did not know the history of the song, but felt its power, as the rough wind dried tears she had shed without knowing it.

Their journey back to Rotengre passed quickly and uneventfully; five days after leaving the north they were back in position. The horses they had ridden had to be returned; most had been borrowed from one or another militia. Paks led half a dozen back to the horselines of Sorellin. Coming back, she was hailed by a burly sergeant. His voice was vaguely familiar.

“Hey! Duke’s sword! Aren’t you the one who came across the lines that night?”

Paks looked at him, not sure of his face. “Yes. Why?”

“By the sword, you look so much better I’d not have known you but for your size and yellow hair. Why? Because we’ve heard about you—and I’m sorry we gave you such trouble that night.”

Paks thought back to that black wet night and shivered, though it was daylight. “That’s all right.”

He sucked a tooth for a moment. “Well—I came close enough to tossing you in our guard cell. It was a lesson to me. Anyway, I’m glad you survived it all. I’m Sim, by the way—Sim Plarrist—and I’d be glad to stand you a tankard of ale—”

Paks shook her head. “Not until the city yields. May it be short—but until then we’re to stay strictly with our Company. But thank you.”

“No hard feelings, then?”

“No.” He waved her on, and Paks threaded her way to her own lines in the fading light. There, in another echo of the earlier event, was Barra on guard.

“Paks, the Duke wants to see you.”

“Do you know what about?” Her stomach clenched, expecting bad news.

“I think he’s heard about Saben and Canna.”

“Bad?”

Barra shrugged. “I don’t know anything. When I asked, I was told to mind my own business and see you got the Duke’s message. But if it was good news, I think we’d know.”

“I suppose.” Tears stung her eyes, and Barra’s face seemed to waver before her. Barra squeezed her arm, and Paks went on to the Duke’s tent.

The lamps inside were already lit, and a brazier warmed the room. The Duke moved to his work table; Paks glanced at it, and saw on its uncluttered surface a little red stone horse strung on a thong, and a Girdish medallion on a chain. She knew them at once, and felt the blood drain from her face.

“You recognize them.” Paks looked up to meet the Duke’s steady gaze. She nodded. “Paks, I’m sorry. I had hoped they would be found sooner. The surgeon says Saben had taken a hard blow to the head, and probably never woke up. He died soon after they were found. Canna was not badly wounded in the fight, but when the brigands realized their hideout had been found, they tried to kill all their prisoners before they fled. Though she was still alive when the militia got in, she died several days later, here in camp. She knew you had made it, and that we’d defeated Siniava’s army on the road and gone on north. The surgeon said she wanted you to have her medallion, and wanted you to know you did the right thing. She was glad you made it through; he said she died satisfied.” The Duke paused. Paks was trying to blink back tears, but she could feel them trickling down her face. “Paks, are you a Girdsman?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm. Girdsmen usually want their holy symbol returned to their home grange, with an account of their deeds. I wonder why Canna wanted you to have it, if you aren’t Girdish.”

Paks shook her head, unable to think why or answer. She had hoped so that they would be found alive, unlikely as it had been. Even now she could scarcely believe she would never see Saben again.

“Paks—you were Saben’s closest friend, as far as I know. Did he ever say what he wanted done with his things?”

Paks tried to remember. “No—sir. He had family, that he sent things to. But he—he—”

“He didn’t make plans. I see. We’ll be sending them word, and his pay, of course, and—do you think they’ll want his sword, or were they against his choice?”

“No, my lord; they favored it. He had five brothers at home, and six sisters. They were proud of him, he said; they’d be glad of the sword.”

“And this pendant—was that from his family?”

“No—my lord. It was—was—my gift, sir. It—it was a joke between us.”

“Then you should take it, for his memory, as well as Canna’s medallion.” The Duke scooped them up from his table and held them out. Paks stared at him helplessly.

“Sir, I—I cannot—”

“You must take Canna’s, at least; she wanted it so. And I think your friend Saben would be happy to know you have the other.”

Paks took them from his hand, and as her hand closed around them the reality of her loss stabbed her like a sword. She fumbled at the flap of her belt-pouch and pushed them in.

“Here,” said the Duke; when she looked up, he was offering a cup of wine. “Drink this. When you are calmer, you may go; I am joining the Halveric for dinner.” Paks took the cup, and the Duke caught up a fur-edged cloak from its hook and went out. The wine was sweet, and eased the roughness of her throat, but she could not finish it. After wiping her face on her sleeve, she returned to her own cohort. Vik knew already, she saw, and he told her that the Duke had released word as soon as he had told her himself.

“We miss them too,” said Vik fiercely, hugging her again. “But you, Paks—”

“We were so close,” she whispered, as tears ran down her face. “Only a few more miles, and they—” She could not go on. Arñe got up and put an arm around her shoulders; they all sat together a long time in silence.

The next day the regular siegework began again. The Halverics moved in beside Duke Phelan’s Company, slightly narrowing the Sorellin front. This suited Sorellin, but drew catcalls from the battlements; these ceased after four men fell to the Phelani bowmen. Weapons and armor taken from the Honeycat’s force were divided among the different companies; Paks had the chance to try a crossbow (at which she nearly cut off her thumb) and a short curved blade much like the one Saben had taken.

Day by day she grew to realize how much she had leaned on Canna and Saben—Saben especially. She found herself looking for his cheerful face in the meal lines, waiting for his comment when she came off watch—missing, increasingly, that steady pressure of goodwill she had always felt at her side. They had been together from the beginning. When she went to the jacks, she remembered the trench they had dug together her first night as a recruit—and cried again, knowing it was silly and ridiculous, but helpless to hold back the tears. It was impossible that he was gone, and gone forever. She had thought of her own death, but never of his—now she could think of nothing else.

She could not talk about it to anyone. She knew that Vik and Arñe watched her, and almost hated them for it. She heard a Halveric ask Barra if she and Saben had been lovers, and did not know which was worse, the question or Barra’s scornful negative. She and Saben had shared everything but that: the early hopes and fears, the hours of work, the laughter, that final week of danger. Everything but love and death. For the first time, she wondered what it would have been like to bed him. It was something he had always wanted, and now there was no chance. But if she had—if it hurt more, to lose a lover—she shook her head, and went doggedly on with work she hardly noticed. Better not. She had never wanted to, and surely it would be worse to lose a lover. It was bad enough now.