“Never saw a keep without one,” said Paks cheerfully, thinking of Siniava’s many tricks. “Gods grant we choose the right place.”
“That,” said Zinthys with satisfaction, “is up to you soldiers. Just tell me when and where you want them frightened—I’ll take care of that.”
14
Mal, when Ambros explained the plan, seemed shrewder than Paks had expected. He spoke quietly enough, with a rumbling chuckle when amused. Paks began to think he might be an asset after all.
“So we’re to find the place first, and find sign—then she’ll lead a troop?” He gave Paks a sharp look. “Have you led troops before, lady? I don’t mean to be like Doryan, but—”
“I was acting corporal in one of the cohorts,” said Paks.
“That means yes, I take it.” He turned back to Ambros. “And what if their place is fortified? Do we try to take it?”
“No. There’s a plan to get them out—if it’s the place we think it might be, or one like it. Have you been out near the old Seriyan ruins lately?”
“Gird, no! I told the Marshal a few years ago that was a bad place—unlucky, that is. Is that where you think they are?”
“It could well be—considering the sign Paks saw a few days ago.”
“Then they’re a brave bunch, that’s all I can say. I wouldn’t stay there for a silver a day. Not even for a cask of ale.”
“And for you, that’s saying a lot. All right, Mal—I know you don’t like it. But if they’re wicked enough, it might not bother them.”
“What is it?” asked Paks. “Why are the ruins so bad?”
Mal and Ambros looked at each other. Ambros broke the silence. “It’s from before my time—I was just a boy, living over near the Lyonyan border. But there was a wizard who settled in there—built a stronghold all in one year, by magic, some said. Like most wizards, didn’t care more for bad and good than a deaf man cares for music.”
“I don’t know as that’s fair,” Mal broke in. “Master Zinthys is a nice enough fellow.”
“Who buys you ale every quarterday. But would you trust him, Mal, at your back in a fight?”
Mal considered. “Well—yes. If Sir Felis or the Marshal were there, at least.”
“I like him myself,” said Ambros. “I think he’s as honest as any wizard, but they care more for magic and money than anything else—it’s their nature. But this other wizard, Seriyan, wasn’t much like Zinthys. No. He came here, so I was told, because he wanted to rule. That’s not what he said; he said he had come to study. But he had a small horde of magical creatures that he let loose, and then he threatened worse if people didn’t pay “taxes” for protection from them. Brewersbridge had no keep then, just the grange.”
“It wasn’t Marshal Cedfer here then,” Mal put in, grinning at Paks. “Nor yet Deordtya, but the one before her. I don’t recall his name.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Ambros shortly. “He made the mistake of believing the wizard harmless when he came, and it ended with a lot of lives lost when the yeomen had to storm the place. He blew himself up, at the end, rather than be taken.”
“I hope he blew himself up,” said Mal darkly. “The way that place feels, I’m not so sure.”
“He may have left spells,” said Ambros. Paks found herself hoping that the brigands were hiding somewhere else. She did not want to meet a wizard who had only pretended to blow himself up. But she had to agree that Seriyan’s old keep was the closest of the known ruins to the blaze she’d found, and Mal agreed to go out with her the next day to take a look at the trail sign.
Mal arrived at the inn driving a sturdy two-wheeled cart with a large shaggy pony between the shafts. His big axe stood head-down in the corner beside him. Two more wheels filled the bed of the cart.
“This way,” he said quietly, downing the tankard of ale which Hebbinford brought him without being told. “This way I’m just hunting a good straight bole of limber pine for the Town Hall extension. With these extra wheels, I can haul anything we find.” Paks wondered how; she had never seen foresters at work. Mal saw her confusion and laughed loudly. Paks noticed others watching and listening. “See, lady, you don’t know everything yet.” Now his voice was louder, and more accented. “What I do is cut a short heavy piece for the axle, to bind these wheels together, and then tie them near the end of the bole. With the front end resting in the cart, and the other held by the wheels—now do you see?” Paks nodded. She started to ask why the second set of wheels didn’t fall out from under the tree trunk, and then realized that he could tie it securely to the wood that held the wheels together.
“Ride along with me,” said Mal, as if she had planned something else, “and I’ll show you some more things you don’t know about.”
“I should find Ambros—” she said doubtfully, as they had arranged. Mal laughed again.
“Oh, Ambros! By Gird, you don’t want to spend every day with him, do you? He’s a yeoman-marshal, after all. Come on, now—” He gave her an enormous wink, and swaggered back to his cart after handing one of the serving wenches his tankard. Someone laughed. Paks grinned.
“You go on ahead; I’ll catch up when I’ve got my horse ready. Which way are you going?”
“Oh, west again. I remember a few years ago, out that way, there was a straight, tall, limbless bole right near the road. Not so hard, you see, if the trees I want are next to the road.”
“Good,” said Paks. “That way I can tell Ambros I won’t be riding with him this morning.” Mal waved and went on, and she ducked into the stable to saddle the black horse. She hoped their act had gone off well. She hated to think of a spy in the village, but the evidence for such was persuasive.
She caught up with Mal before he was well into the forest on the far side of Brewersbridge; he had stopped to chat with the woman at the last roadside farm. He waved her to a stop.
“Paks, do you know Eris here?” It was the same woman Paks had met in Council. Paks began to think Mal was even smarter than she’d thought.
“Yes, I remember you,” said Paks, swinging down from the saddle. She was no longer afraid to mount and dismount in front of witnesses; the black was learning manners. “I didn’t know this was your farm.”
“It wasn’t, a few years ago,” said Eris, with a slow smile. “We used to be out there—” She pointed southwest. “But raiders—bandits—something—kept breaking our fences, and running off stock. Finally after my husband died, and the boys married, I bought this farm from a cousin, just to be closer to town.”
“It looks good,” said Paks. The small farmhouse looked in good repair, and the orchard next to it was obviously flourishing.
“Oh, it’s a good farm,” said Eris. “I miss the spring we had before—the best water I ever had, and only a few steps from the door. But when you find dead animals in it, day after day—”
“Ugh—” Paks shuddered.
“Do you like apples?” she went on. “The good ones are coming ripe now—I’d be glad for you to have some.”
“Between me and the horses,” said Paks, “we’d eat half your orchard full. I’ll buy a measure of good ones for me, and a double measure of bruised ones for the horses.”
“I would have given—”
“Eris,” said Paks, wondering as she said it whether she should have given her the Council title, “I grew up on a farm myself. Right now I have the money, and you have apples to sell.”
“Very well,” said Eris. “When you come back by this evening—or whenever—I’ll have them near the gate, under the hedge.”
“And you know I want some, Eris,” said Mal.
“You! I thought you lived on ale, Mal!” But she was laughing as she said it.