The Deed of Paksenarrion (95 page)

“We haven’t seen him,” said Paks, thinking of the arm-ring with a shudder. “Is that what you think happened?”

“It took him. It seemed hungry. We heard cries. We could see nothing; I will not say what happened when I have not knowledge, but that is logical.”

“Is your friend hurt?” The gnome on the floor had not moved.

“Only slightly—he was hit by arrow of robbers. He sleeps to gain strength.”

Paks was surprised by the gnome’s composure. Despite days of imprisonment in a dark cell, the death of one companion and the wounds of another, the gnome showed no distress. He turned to the other gnome, and spoke loudly in gnomish. Paks could not understand a word of it. She looked around to see if the others did, but they looked as blank as she felt. The gnome on the floor stirred, and opened his eyes.

“Surely you are hungry or thirsty,” said Paks, counting how many days they’d been imprisoned. “We have water and food.”

The response was less than she’d expected; the unwounded gnome nodded and came forward. “It is not so bad as you thought. The robbers brought food the first day or so. They fed the creature something too. Then they were gone. Then we had nothing. You will take us back to Brewersbridge?”

Paks handed him her water flask; the gnome uncapped it carefully and carried it to the other, who drank a few swallows. Then the first gnome drank. “We need not so much food as you,” he said, returning the flask. “If you take us now—”

“But we haven’t found the priest,” said Ambros.

“Priest?” asked the gnome, with no change of expression.

“We believe that a servant of Achrya is nearby—perhaps deep in this place—and directed the robbers.”

“Oh.” The gnomes looked at each other. “It is a matter for humans. We are not daskdusky, to search after the webspinner’s lair. If return to Brewersbridge, the return of your favor will be granted.”

“We might as well,” said Arvid. “We’ve lost all chance of surprise.”

“And we can’t leave these behind us,” said Paks. “They can’t defend themselves, with one of them wounded, and weakened as they are. We should get them to safety.”

“I agree,” said Mal. He had a large swelling bruise across his forehead. Paks realized that the axe-haft must have hit him on the face. “I don’t know as I can fight as good as most days.” Ambros looked at him in surprise, then concern. His voice seemed slurred.

“Will your friend need to be carried?” asked Paks.

The gnome bowed again, and gave Paks a small tight smile. “It is generous of the lady to think of that. If it is possible, he should not walk so far.”

In the end, they came back to Brewersbridge that same evening, with the two gnomes alive and well, and clear evidence of the human trader’s death. Ambros and Mal hacked off the creature’s right hand and an ear as proof of what they’d found. The gnomes took rooms at
The Jolly Potboy—
they were well known enough that Hebbinford trusted their credit. Paks, her clothes still stained with blood, found Suli dogging her every step.

“Did I—I mean, I couldn’t get through the hide, but did I do all right otherwise? I didn’t scream, or anything—”

Paks felt tired. “No. You did fine, Suli—I said that—”

“Yes, but—you are going back, aren’t you? You’ll let me come? And I can take your clothes, now, and get Sevri to wash them—”

“No!” It came out harsher than she meant it, and Suli looked worried. Not frightened, Paks noticed, but worried.

“But—”

“Sevri has her own duties—she’s not a washing maid. I’ll do it; any soldier learns to keep her own gear clean.” Paks could see that this was not pleasant news to Suli. She nodded, remembering her own feelings during training. “I told you before, Suli—being a warrior’s not what you thought. Most of it is like this—cleaning gear, and keeping weapons in trim, and practice. If you don’t do it yourself, you can’t be sure it’s done right.”

The girl nodded, and leaned against the wall, evidently planning to stay until she was tossed out.

“Your own sword, for instance,” said Paks severely. “Have you inspected it yet? Is it clean? Have you taken care of any nicks or dents? It’s the grange’s sword—you should return it in perfect condition.”

Suli reddened, and pulled it from the scabbard—sticky with drying blood and hair.

“Go clean that,” said Paks. “When you’ve got all the blood off, then polish it, and clean the scabbard. If you leave all that muck in the scabbard, then—”

“But how?” asked Suli. “It’s inside, and—”

Paks took the scabbard and looked. Unlike hers, this was a simple wood casing, pegged in several places and glued along the edges. The upper end was notched for attachment to a belt.

“You’re lucky. This is all wood. Take some wet grass or sedge—sedges are better—and tie them to a limber switch, and scrub inside with that. Then run clean water in and out of it. That should do. Set it in a cool place to dry—don’t put the sword back inside, or it’ll rust. If it smells clean tomorrow, you’re done. Otherwise you may have to take it apart.”

“Seems a lot of trouble, just to get a bloodstain off,” grumbled Suli. Paks glared at her, sure now of her ground.

“Trouble! You don’t know what trouble is, until you leave something to rot in your scabbard, and then nick yourself with dirty steel.” She remembered the surgeons talking about wound fever, and poisoned weapons. “It’s the way some tribes of orcs poison weapons, Suli. Store ‘em in rotting flesh and blood.” She was glad to see the girl turn green and turn to go without further argument. “Check with Ambros at the grange later this evening—you’ll need to pick up another scabbard, and he can tell you where and when to meet us.”

“Yes, Paks,” said Suli, subdued.

Paks had just finished cleaning up, with her wet clothes hanging behind the kitchen, and her wet hair still chilly on her head, when Hebbinford came to tell her the gnomes wanted a word with her.

“Why?” she asked.

“Gird knows,” he said. “Being as it’s gnomes, it’s some trading matter, I’d say. Remember that they’re as full of pride as bees of sting—and as quick with it, too. They don’t like jokes, and they don’t like someone misjudging them on their size. Gnomes see everything as exchange—good for good, and blow for blow. They don’t do favors, but they’re perishing fair, if you can understand their idea of fair. And they never forget anything, to the ends of the world.”

“Oh.” Paks hoped they would understand ordinary courtesy as courtesy.

Both gnomes were seated before the fire in one of Hebbinford’s private rooms when Hebbinford announced her. One jumped up and bowed. Paks made a sketchy bow in return. She thought she could see a gleam of satisfaction in that flat dark eye.

“Master Hebbinford if you would bring ale.” The gnome gestured to a chair, and Paks sat; he returned to his own seat. His speech lacked the pauses and music of human language; Paks found it hard to follow, even though the words were pronounced correctly. “Is it that you were hired for our rescue?”

“No,” said Paks, “not exactly.”

“Then this rescue was in hope of reward?”

“No—what is it?”

“That is what I try to find out. For what service were you hired, if not for our rescue?”

Paks wondered how much she should say of the Brewersbridge Council’s affairs. “Sir—pardon, if I do not know the correct address—” He took her up at once.

“Lady, it is our mistake. We thought you would not care to be precise. I am Master-trader Addo Verkinson Aldonfulk, sixth son of my father’s house: the polite address in Common would be Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk, or Master Addo if in haste. This my companion is journeyman-trader Ebo Gnaddison Gnarrinfulk, the fourth son of my father’s third sister: he should be styled Journeyman Ebo. And thine own naming?”

“Master-trader Addo—” Paks got that far before losing track. The gnome nodded anyway.

“That will do.”

“—I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, of Three Firs—”

“Three Firs is thy clan?”

“No, Master-trader Addo; it is the place of my father’s dwelling.” Paks found her own speech becoming both stilted and formal.

“Ah. We know that some humans have no clans.” He paused as Hebbinford himself returned with a large flagon of ale and three tankards. “Be welcome to ale as the guest of Aldonfulk, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter; no obligation is thine for partaking of this gift.”

Paks stared, then caught her wits back. “I thank you, Master-trader Addo.” She took the tankard he offered, and sipped cautiously. “You asked of my employment, sir. The Council of Brewersbridge has, as you may know, a policy against idle swordsmen in the town.”

The gnome nodded. “An excellent policy. Human towns are too lawless as it is and human vagabonds cause trouble. We allow no masterless humans in the gnome kingdoms.”

Paks reddened, but went on. “Master-trader Addo, the Council examined me, and decided that I might stay some time, but they asked a favor.”

“Favor! What is a favor?”

She remembered Hebbinford’s warning. “Sir, my—my vows are to another; I am traveling from Aarenis to the far north.” That seemed safe enough. The gnome relaxed in his chair. “But they asked my aid in finding the hiding place of a band of robbers—the same who attacked you—and asked that I lead a force against them if I could find them.”

“And what pay did they offer for this?”

“Well—that I could stay longer than they would otherwise allow, and the use of a horse, and a share of goods recovered from the hideout, if there were any.”

“Hmmph.” The gnome chattered in gnomish with his companion. Paks could not tell how old they were, or if the journeyman were younger than the master. They had earth-brown, unwrinkled faces, and thick dark hair. Addo turned back to Paks. “It seems little payment for an uncertain task. How many days were you bound to stay and work at it?”

“No time was set. But I had money enough, and reason to dislike brigands.”

“Hmm. And after our caravan was taken did they say aught about rescue?”

“No, Master-trader Addo. It was thought you had been killed with the others. One man escaped to tell of the attack. Many bodies were found.”

“I see. Why then were you in the keep? To look for goods?”

“No. The robbers we captured said that someone else took over the goods. Ambros, the yeoman-marshal, thinks it is a priest of Achrya. Arvid Semminson says the goods are being sold at a distance.”

“And you did not expect to find us.”

“No, sir. But we were glad to find any that had survived.”

Another conversation in gnomish. Paks finished the ale in her tankard, and thought about pouring another. But she felt constrained to wait until it was offered. Finally Addo turned to her again.

“If you did not come and search the keep would anyone else have come?”

“No, Master-trader Addo. Most people around here think it is bad luck.”

“Superstition. Luck is a fallacy of humans; things either are or are not. That creature who ate our companion—was it dangerous to armed men?”

“Yes, sir. It was very large, and fought well; it took several of us to kill it.”

“It is true you command this force?”

Paks frowned. “I would not want to mislead you, sir. I was asked to command, and did command, the force which killed and captured the robbers themselves. Today’s foray was not entirely my idea—yeoman-marshal Ambros insisted that it must be made at once. But because I have experience, I was at the head of the party.”

Addo shook his head. “Even among humans, one must take command, and be responsible for all—I ask again if that was you or another. If another who would it be?”

“I—in that way, sir, you could say I commanded.” Paks thought it was not too great a boast—they had followed her orders, such as they were.

“You are not boastful as many human fighters are,” he commented; she wondered if he could read her thoughts. “It is important to know who commands. It is this person the clans owe thanks to.” He took a ring off his finger, and reached out to her. “At this time we have been robbed; we have nothing. But this is in earnest of your just claim on Aldonfulk and Gnarrinfulk; it shall be redeemed fairly, on my word as Master-trader.” Paks took the ring; it was black, like iron, and heavy. She nodded, wondering what to say.

“I thank you, Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk—and Journeyman Ebo.”

“It is but right. You had no obligation; you had not been hired for this task. I ask your trust that this will be redeemed.”

“Master-trader Addo, you have that trust. But I would free anyone from such captivity—”

“Oh?”

“It is right—”

“You have an obligation to a god? Are you sworn to such deeds, then?” He looked almost as if he might ask for the ring back.

“No, sir,” said Paks. “But I serve the gods of my father’s house, and they oppose evil.”

“Umph. That is well, to stand with tradition. And such belief does not interfere with our owing. Keep the ring, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. You returned our lives.”

“It was my pleasure to do so.” Paks sat a moment; the gnomes were silent. “Would you,” she ventured, “be my guest for another flagon of ale? With—with no obligation?” Both gnomes nodded.

“We would not willingly owe thee more,” said Addo, “but it is mannerly of thee to offer. We will be thy guests.”

Their brush with death had not discouraged Ambros at all. He insisted that they go again the next day. Mal grunted; he was purple from hairline to jaw where the axe-haft had caught him, and he breathed noisily.

“I wouldn’t have said it before, yeoman-marshal, but I’m still head-thick from this, and I don’t trust my speed. A thick eye’s bad enough in daylight.”

“Then you can stay,” said Ambros tartly. “I’ve other yeomen.”

Mal sighed loudly. “By Gird’s arm, Ambros, I’m willing enough, but—”

“Mal, I can’t wait. I can’t. Something bad is going on here—I have to deal with it.”

“Ambros, we did well by scouting around before attacking the robbers,” said Paks. “Why not look for the place where the goods are moving out? That might be a better way in.” She was thinking of the tunnel at Rotengre.

“No.” Ambros shook his head stubbornly. “It takes too long—let the priest think we were frightened back by that monster. It’s a door-guard, I imagine—”