“Because the Marshal hasn’t allowed it,” said Ambros shortly, reining his bay around to the west. “It’s been one thing after another—chores, drills, whatever. My father’s been in to Brewersbridge, of course, to the markets. My mother came once, last spring. But it’ll be spring before either of them come again. I just wanted to see them one more time before winter.” He sighed again. “It was a foolish idea.”
“But why? I mean, just because it’s going to rain—I don’t melt in the rain, Ambros—not even in snow. How far is it?”
He shook his head. “No. Paks, you’re not a Girdsman; I can’t explain. But I tried to go on my own, and it’s not what I should do. With Marshal Cedfer gone, the grange is my responsibility. The clouds are another warning; the first was in my own heart. We’ll go back. I pray Gird that no more will be required.”
Puzzled, and a little put out, Paks followed Ambros back toward Brewersbridge. The clouds thickened, and soon a fine drizzle wet her face. It was not enough to penetrate her cloak. She nudged the black horse and rode up beside Ambros.
“Ambros, do you really think Gird made it rain because you wanted to see your family?” She thought even less of Gird if that was his sort of action.
“No, not exactly.” Ambros spoke slowly, as if more lay behind his words than he wanted to say. “I don’t know, to be honest, where the clouds came from—the High Lord may grant the wind’s keys to any he wishes, I daresay. But Marshal Cedfer did say the grange was my responsibility—even if you find the brigands, he said, I cannot fight them with you.”
“But did he tell you not to visit your family?” Paks persisted.
“No. I think—I think he knew I would want to go, but did not insult me by telling me my duty.” Ambros gave a short laugh. “He should have.”
“But you—”
“Paks,” said Ambros, with a look that stopped the words in her mouth. “Paks, you have been a soldier in many battles—have you ever had a dream of death?”
She stared at him, surprised into long silence. “Not—exactly,” she said finally. “Some of my friends have—I have had disturbing dreams, though, if that’s what you mean.”
“Have you—did you ever know someone to have a true dream like that?”
“Once.” Paks swallowed with difficulty. She wondered what dream had come to Ambros. When she glanced at him, he was staring at his horse’s mane, fists clenched on the reins.
“I—I saw myself,” he said softly. She could barely hear him. “I saw myself fighting—and struck—and dying. And then nothing. I know—” he said, turning to meet her eyes. “I know that all Girdsmen train for this, to fight evil to the death. But—but Paks, it was so soon. You know this cut—” He pushed back his sleeve to show a cut she had dealt him in practice the night before. “It wasn’t healed yet; I could see it, under the other marks.”
Paks shivered violently. Ambros’s face seemed to waver, changing from the ruddy living countenance before her to the pale fixed expression she had seen on so many dead. “It was a dream,” she managed to say. “And not all dreams are true.”
“I know.” He nodded, seeming more at ease. “I know that. But I thought—I thought I’d like to see my father and mother again.” He looked sideways at her. “Do you think less of me for that?”
“No. Of course not.” But she felt older than a boy who had seen his parents within the past half-year, who had been home a year ago.
“I wondered—you being a soldier, and all. You’ve seen more fighting than I have. To be honest, I’ve never faced an actual enemy.”
Paks did not know what to say. She did not feel like boasting of her experience. She thought, as she often did these days, of her own home, and wondered for the first time if she would see her own family again. But she had had no troubling dreams, and had no fears. She smiled at Ambros, hoping to reassure him. “You fight well, Ambros, in practice; I expect you’ll fight well when need comes. I hope it is not as soon as you fear. Will you tell the Marshal of this dream?”
“I would have, if he had not left already. Yes, he must know, in case it is an evil sending. I thank you, Paks, for not laughing at me.”
They were back at the inn in time for a late lunch; Paks persuaded Ambros to eat with her. She had decided to show him the scrolls from the elfane taig; if she had not laughed at his bad dreams, perhaps he would not laugh at her slow reading. But they ate slowly, and it was near midafternoon when she started upstairs to get the scrolls. She had them in her hand when a disturbance in the street below brought her to the window.
A yelling crowd surrounded a bloodstained man bareback on a fat mule. As Paks watched, Ambros erupted from the inn door, followed by Hebbinford. The crowd spotted him, ran to him.
“Robbers!” she heard. “Robbers! The caravan!” The man on the mule slid off sideways; two men caught him, half-carried him toward the inn. Paks saw Sevri’s red head move through the crowd and take the mule by the bridle. She waited to see no more, but turned away and ran quickly downstairs.
Hebbinford and Ambros bent over the man, who half-lay in a chair near the fireplace, his clothes torn and bloody. Paks saw the black-clad man leaning quietly against the wall behind several others, who were chattering loudly. He caught her eye and smiled; Paks felt herself blushing. Ambros glanced up and saw her.
“Paks, good. Come here, will you?” Paks moved through the group, aware of curious glances. She had seen, from above, that Ambros commanded more of their respect than she’d thought—at least when the Marshal was away.
“What is it?” she asked.
“This man says he was a teamster on the caravan that left this morning. They were attacked by brigands on the west road, and all the guards were killed.”
Paks looked at the man—a stocky, darkly tanned man of medium height—and wondered just where on the west road. Ambros was asking more questions; she could not hear the soft answers. Hebbinford began clearing the others out of the room. Over his shoulder he said, “I’ll tell the mayor.” Paks wondered who would be sent to Sir Felis.
With the room empty and quiet, Paks could hear the man’s replies to Ambros’s questions—hundreds of bandits, he said shakily. Hundreds and hundreds, with horses and bows and swords. They took the whole caravan, every animal and wagon, and killed all the guards, and—
“How did you escape?” asked Ambros. “Isn’t that one of the caravan mules?”
Paks would not have thought the dark face could darken, but it did. “I was the last wagon, sir. I heard a noise—that stretch of road has an evil name, you know—and so I cut the lead offside mule free, and—”
“Ran for it,” finished Ambros, with the same tone Paks thought the Marshal would have used.
“Well, I tried.” Paks watched the man’s face as he took a long difficult breath. “But that Simyits-damned son of a Pargunese jackass bucked me off, that he did. And ran away, after dumping me flat in the midst of it all. So I lay there too stunned to run or fight, and I reckon that was best, in the end. One of ’em poked me a little, but I made shift to lie still and be quiet. I heard ’em talking, telling each other to be sure all the guards were dead. Then they tried to catch my mule, but they couldn’t lay a finger on him, so they went off. I waited a bit—and I was some sore, too, sir—and then when I did sit up there was that damned mule not a length away, heehaw-ing at the blood smell. Then he came to me, and thank the luck for that. I counted all the guards’ bodies, sir, and so I know—”
“What about the merchants, and the other teamsters?”
“The teamsters are all dead, gnome and man alike. I didn’t see the merchants’ bodies, but I doubt they live.”
“Hmm.” Ambros sounded, again, very like the Marshal. “Where was this? It seems to me you’re back soon and luckily with such a tale.”