“Don’t yell at me, Mal. I’ve a right to ask, as much as anyone.” Doryan shifted away from Mal, nonetheless, and winked at Paks. He was middle-aged, slightly stooped, and she had no idea what his trade was. “If you don’t want to say, that’s all right. Just asking.”
Paks thought what she could say. The Council had not told her to keep her mission quiet, but she had planned to say nothing. How else could she find the spy they thought lived in Brewersbridge? “The Council decided,” she said, “that I was no threat to the peace here. I had ordered goods, and they gave me leave to stay until these were made up. They did say you’d had trouble with brigands attacking caravans. Since I have been a soldier, they asked me to consider leading some volunteers against them.”
“Huh!” Mal grunted and rubbed his neck as he walked. “Have to find them first, don’t you? We all know they’re out there, but no one’s seen them.”
“But who would go with you?” asked Doryan. He had an irritating whine in his voice. “We don’t know you—the militia don’t—and they don’t think you could fight all those brigands alone, do they?”
Paks answered Mal first. “You’re right, no one can say where they are. I don’t even know where to start looking. If I ever get that black horse tamed down—”
“I’ve seen you riding out,” said Adgan. “One time I saw him shy, and you nearly went over his ears.”
Paks blushed, grateful for the evening gloom. “Yes—the Marshal’s teaching me, but I still fall off now and then. Anyway, I thought I could ride around and look for the brigands that way, but not until I can look at something besides his ears.”
“You rode through town today,” said Doryan. Paks began to dislike him very much.
“Yes,” she said shortly.
“You don’t want to go looking for brigands alone,” said Mal, more quietly than she’d heard him speak. “What if you found them?”
“I’d ride away,” said Paks. “Very quickly.”
“That’s right; you’re not a Girdsman.” Doryan managed a sneer. Before Paks could react, Amisi and Adyan took him up on it.
“Doryan, that’s stupid—”
“What’s she to do, be hogstuck by a dozen brigands? That’s not Gird’s way; you know the Marshal says Girdsmen have to think as well as fight.”
“I still think—” began Doryan. Mal punched his shoulder hard enough to make him gasp.
“Doryan, you don’t think. You just talk. The lady Paks is our guest in the grange, and if you treat her like this she never will join the Fellowship. We’ve all seen her drill; we know she’d be a good Girdsman. Marshal hopes she’ll join the grange, and so do I. Leave her be, man. You haven’t caught any brigands yourself.”
By this time they were approaching the barton gate. This time the boy on guard recognized Paks and grinned at her as she entered. Drill went much as before, with most of her time spent teaching the few swordsmen to use short blades in formation. Ambros and the Marshal did much better; Paks decided they must have been practicing in private. As he was dismissing them from drill, the Marshal asked Paks to carry a message to Sir Felis.
“Cal or Doryan could take it,” he said, as some of the men turned to listen. “But even though they live on that side of town, it’s an extra couple of miles for either of them—and they start work early in the morning. It wouldn’t take you long, to ride out there—”
“I’ll be glad to,” said Paks honestly. She had been looking for a good reason to talk to Sir Felis in privacy.
“And I can’t work with you for a couple of days,” the Marshal went on. “That’s why the message must go tonight. I’m leaving for barton court rounds immediately. Ambros here will handle matters at the grange. Drill as usual—” he said to the others. “I expect I’ll be back in a few days, but Ambros will take drill if I’m not. Paksenarrion, I suggest that you and Ambros ride together an hour or more a day—but don’t try mounted drill until I return. And if you can give him a couple of hours of swordplay, it’ll be good for both of you.”
The other men left at last, and the Marshal ushered Paks back to his study. On his desk was a leather tube; Paks could see the paper rolled inside. He nodded at it. “That’s for Sir Felis; it explains what I’m doing. Now—you seemed uneasy tonight. What have you found?”
Paks told him about the blazed tree, and the “game” trail that ended a few yards from it and the road. The Marshal nodded. “I think you’ve found something important. If you’ll take my advice, don’t ride that way tomorrow. If you were seen pausing there—well, it could be very dangerous. Right now a single arrow could end your campaign. Anything else?”
Paks hesitated. She glanced at Ambros, leaning against the door. He shrugged and moved back into the passage. “I—I’m not sure. One of the yeomen said something—”
“Asked or said?”
“Asked, at first, about my business with the Council. He asked if I’d been hired or if I’d—I’d bribed them.”
The Marshal’s face stiffened. “Who?”
“Sir, I don’t think he meant insult—”
“I didn’t ask that. I asked who it was.”
“I think his name is Doryan.”
The Marshal nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me. Doryan is—difficult, sometimes. He became a Girdsman after he moved here. Anything more?”
Paks thought of Doryan’s words and decided none of them were important. “Not really, no.”
He looked thoughtfully at her before going on. “Paksenarrion, it’s my business to defend my yeomen, if they need it. Don’t be afraid to tell me what they say.”
“But I don’t want to be—” she couldn’t think how to say what she meant, that no soldier held another to close account for every word, or told even a sergeant what a friend had said.
“You are not of our fellowship yet,” said the Marshal with a smile. “Now—I meant what I said about you and Ambros riding out together. Race the horses, if you will—anyone will understand that. Ride north and east for a day or so. Wear your mail, and keep alert. If you find where the brigands are hiding out, talk to Sir Felis before you do anything. Don’t wait for my return, if you need to take action, but don’t rush things, either. Ambros will not be able to go with you on an attack; until I return, his primary responsibility must be the grange.”
A little later, Paks rode north out of town toward the keep. Most of the houses were dark; the black horse’s hoofbeats echoed in the quiet streets. She had put on her mail shirt, and kept one hand close to her dagger.
At the keep, torches burned at the perimeter fence and on the building itself. An alert sentry challenged her; she waited while he took her name in, and returned to escort her to the entrance. There another soldier led her upstairs to Sir Felis’s workroom, a long room with two tables littered with papers and maps. Sir Felis and Master Zinthys, standing together near one table, looked up as she entered.
“You have an urgent message from the Marshal?”
“Yes, sir.” Paks pulled the leather tube from her tunic and passed it over. Zinthys smiled at her, as Sir Felis, frowning, worked the paper out of the tube and unrolled it. Zinthys wore a different, but equally rich-looking velvet robe, trimmed in white fur around the shoulders. Paks noticed, once again, the graceful movements of his hands.
“Why don’t you sit down, Paksenarrion? We have spiced wine ready on the fire—would you care for some?”
Paks shook her head, not certain what courtesy demanded, but sat in the chair Zinthys pointed out. He moved to the one next to her, and sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs.
“I’ll have some then, if you permit.” He hooked a potlift in the handle of a can on the hearth, and poured the wine into his mug. “Ah. These chill autumn nights make the best of wine. You should try it.” He slid his eyes sideways at her. “Or perhaps you drink only ale?”
“I—most soldiers drink ale,” said Paks. “Wine—we had that with an herb in it, if we were wounded.”