The man paled a little. “Sir, please! I swear it’s the truth. We left early this dawn, the landlord can tell you. And the road was dry; we made good time. Old Cobai—that’s the master—he didn’t want to stop for nooning in that stretch of woods, so we pressed on, eating on the seat as we drove. I had just finished my pickle when I heard the noise. Coming back, sir, I fair beat that mule to a lather.”
Ambros gave Paks a quick look; she could not tell his meaning. But something made her speak up. “How badly are you hurt, can you tell?”
The man looked at her gratefully. “They poked me some, lady, and I fell hard before that. I wrapped my own shirt on it—this is off a guard—” He indicated his bloodstained shirt.
“Well, you’d best let us see. Yeoman-marshal, is there a surgeon in town?” She hoped she was right to use his title.
“Yes,” said Ambros. “At the keep, with Sir Felis.” He looked aside. “We’ll need clean cloths, and water—it’s too bad the Marshal is gone.”
“That’s what they counted on, no doubt,” said the driver. Paks, meanwhile, had unwrapped the rag he had bound to his head; underneath was an ugly gash. She thought it looked bone-deep.
“It’s no wonder they thought you dead with that head wound,” she commented. “What’s your name?”
“Jeris, lady. Jeris Angarn, of Dapplevale in Lyonya. Do you know it?”
“No. Be steady, now.” Paks helped Ambros uncover the man’s other injuries—mostly bruises but for two shallow gashes in side and back. “You’re lucky, Jeris. They could easily have killed you.”
“I know it.” He shifted uneasily as they began to clean the wounds. “It—ouch!—sorry. If that mule hadn’t bucked, they might have got me sure; they had horses. I don’t deserve it, that’s the truth, but that’s luck. It comes as Simyits pleases—”
“You think Simyits has more power than the High Lord?” asked Ambros. “Is that what you learned in Lyonya?”
“Oh, sir—in Lyonya, I was a boy, and had a boy’s faith. But I’ve been on the roads near twenty years, now, and I’ve seen good luck and bad come to all. As for the High Lord, he made the whole world, so I hear, if it wasn’t Sertig instead, but what does he have to do with a mule driver? The good men, you might say, died today—they that was brave, and tried to fight. And here I am, alive a bit longer, and able to give you word, because a mule bucked me off on my hard head. Does the High Lord extend his power to make a mule buck?”
Paks stifled a laugh. She had heard of Simyits only as the thieves’ god, and the gambler’s patron, but the muleteer seemed honest if not brave. Ambros, however, was sober, and crouched down to meet the man’s eyes.
“If the High Lord wanted your mule to buck, Jeris, be sure he could do it. But there is one more near us than that—Gird Strongarm, a man once, like you. He had a hard head himself, and it’s said he knows how to convince another. I would not call it luck alone, if I found myself alive, when my companions were all dead—and a mule nearby to ride on, despite the blood-smell. Does your mule love you so, to buck you off, escape capture, and then return for you?”
Jeris’s face furrowed as he tried to think. “Well—now—I see what you mean. To be honest, I wouldn’t have thought that donkey-spawn would stay near new dead like that. But why would Gird, if he wanted me alive, dump me on my head first? Why not save the whole caravan and set fire to the brigands?”
“Why is there winter? Why does water flow downhill only?” Ambros sounded even more like a Marshal. “The High Lord lets men deal with men, as often as not. As for you, perhaps Gird knew your mule could not outrun their horses—or perhaps he was seeking an entrance into your hard head, and tried knocking first.”
“Peace, Ambros,” said Sir Felis from the doorway. “You can convert the man later, but for now I’d like to know what happened.” Behind him a surgeon carried a cloth bag of gear; Master Zinthys, in still another robe, followed him, and smiled at Paks.
When the man had told his tale again, and the surgeon had settled him in one of the inn’s rooms, Sir Felis, Zinthys, Ambros, and Paks conferred in a small room opening off the kitchen.
“Hundreds of brigands I simply do not believe,” said Sir Felis. “They haven’t stolen enough food and forage for anything like that number. In this case they killed twenty, and captured several—we aren’t sure how many. But out of ambush, that wouldn’t take more than a score of well-armed, disciplined troops. Perhaps fewer. Certainly I don’t think they can have more than—” he paused, looked up at the lamp, and thought a moment. “Thirty, I’d say. And fewer horses than that. Most of the caravans they’ve hit have been carrying dry goods, weapons, that sort of thing—not food.”
“Yes, but now what?” asked Ambros. “You know Marshal Cedfer said I couldn’t go—what do we do now?”
Sir Felis looked at Paks. “It’s your choice, since you accepted the task—but if you want advice—”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I would say let me take a troop out there, as everyone expects, and pick up the bodies. Contrive some reason for riding that way yourself tomorrow—not just riding, something else—and see if you can find a trace of the wagons’ movement. I won’t even look; it’ll be dark by the time I get out there with my men. If you find it, don’t be in too much hurry to follow it up. They’ll be watching the road pretty closely for a day or so, I expect. Give them time to relax. Then—if it’s where we think—go after them.”
Paks shook her head. “By your leave, sir, I have another thought. An assault on a keep—even a ruined keep—is no easy matter. We tried that once in Aarenis. Why not try to frighten them out—catch them at their bolthole?”
“The game trail you’re thinking of?”
“Yes, but close by the keep. If a show of frontal assault—”
“With what?” asked Sir Felis. “I can’t give you a troop.”
“No, but Master Zinthys might have some magical means.” She glanced at him. “Macenion—the part-elf I was traveling with—had some illusions. I thought perhaps—”
Zinthys looked pleased, though Ambros frowned. “In fact, Lady Paksenarrion, illusions are a specialty of mine. Far less dangerous to the onlooker than, say, real firebolts.”
“And easier to do,” muttered Ambros softly. Zinthys glared at him.
“Young sir, if you think it is easy to produce even illusory fire, I suggest you try. My old master, who is well-known in the arts, always said that a fine, convincing illusion was far more difficult—because reality carries its own conviction, and saves its own appearances. If you make a flame, it is a real flame, and you don’t have to worry, once you’ve got it. But an illusory flame can go wrong in many subtle ways—even such a thing as forgetting which way the wind is blowing, so that it flickers the wrong direction.”
“Sorry,” said Ambros, staring at the table. Paks thought he didn’t sound sorry at all. She smiled at Zinthys.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said, “But could you make something to scare them out—something to make them think a large force was coming at them?”
“I might do,” said Zinthys, still obviously ruffled. He twitched his shoulders and glanced at Sir Felis. “It would be easier if I had a small matrix to work on, as a pattern.”
“A what?”
“A form—a framework—or, in plain terms, if I had a few real men-at-arms, that I could simply multiply in illusion, rather than creating the whole thing out of my head. It’s easier to keep them in step, you see.”
Paks didn’t see, but nodded anyway. Sir Felis made a steeple of his hands. “How many, Zinthys?”
The mage looked at him, considering. “Oh—a half dozen, say?”
“Four.” Sir Felis set down his mug. “Four is plenty to save your hide if it doesn’t work, and I can’t waste the time of more.”
“Four,” repeated Zinthys cheerfully. “You’ll see, Lady Paksenarrion—I’ll do you an illusion that’ll have them running out the back door for cover—by the way, how do you know there is a back door?”