“Then why didn’t you stick with water?”
“Oh, that was my brother.” His face grew solemn, but Paks thought she could sense the laughter underneath. “He said a yeoman of Gird must learn to drink like a man. So I did.”
“If that’s your reason,” said Ambros, “you should be a kuakgannir—you don’t drink like a man, you drink like a tree.”
They all laughed. Hebbinford brought Paks her platter of sliced meat and gravy. Mal grabbed a slice and stuffed it in his mouth. She looked at him.
“It’s luck,” he said. “It’s your good luck if someone else eats the first bite.”
Paks shook her head, and began eating. By the time she was through, the room had almost emptied. Ambros and Mal had gone out together. Sir Felis, Paks knew, would be coming in later for her report. She asked Hebbinford for another of the apple tarts, and settled back comfortably. The black-clad man was still in the room, and met her eyes. She had not talked to him since the afternoon before the Council’s summons; now he came to her table.
“May I sit?”
Paks nodded, her mouth full of apple tart. She reached for her mug to wash it down.
“I don’t mean to pry,” he said. “You seem in good favor now; I hope for your sake that is true. But if anything is going to be done about that attack on the caravan—and if you are going to be part of it—I wish you’d consider my offer to come along. You might well want someone who was not—let’s say—from here.”
Paks looked at him a moment before answering. “Sir—Arvid, didn’t you say?—” He nodded, smiling slightly. “You seem to be telling me that these people can’t be trusted. Is that so?”
“I don’t think I’d put it like that. I do think that those who live in small villages are more trustworthy to others of the village than to strangers. Haven’t you found that to be true, in your travels? That these village folk stick together?”
“I suppose.” Paks took another swallow from her mug, and prodded the remains of the tart. “It might be a reason not to trust them fully, but—pardon me—why should I trust you?”
He gave her a suggestion of a wink. “Ah—I knew you knew more than you showed at first. That mountain traveling is enough to scramble anyone’s wits. Now I don’t have anything to say about their character—everyone knows how honest the Girdsmen are—at least to Girdsmen.” When Paks didn’t rise to this, he smiled a little and went on. “But you aren’t Girdish. Or of this village. I don’t think they’d lie, exactly, but they might shade the truth. And if it came to your skin or theirs—?”
“I see your point,” said Paks quietly. “But you have still to answer mine.”
“My dear,” he began, as he drew his dagger and carefully trimmed his fingernails with it. “You should trust me only because it is in your interest, as well as mine. I am neither Girdish nor a native here—therefore I am unlikely to sacrifice you for a brother’s reputation or a friend’s life. I don’t expect you to trust me as you trusted your companions in Duke Phelan’s company—of course not. But I have no good reason to kill you—and several to keep you alive.”
“And they are?” asked Paks curiously. She picked up the rest of her tart and ate it, waiting for his answer. His eyes narrowed. He resheathed his dagger.
“I told you before that our interests might march together. I think they do. I wish the brigands no luck; I would be glad to see them dead. You need not know why. Obviously, no one official is going to encourage me to go after them—I’m not an experienced soldier, and that’s what it takes. But if that is the charge they gave you, then I would be glad to assist. Perhaps to make sure it is done thoroughly.”
“Have you a grudge against them?” asked Paks, honestly curious now. “Have they done you or your family an injury?”
“I will not tell you that at this time.” Arvid turned a little, and signalled Hebbinford, who came over with a sharp glance for both of them. “Wine, sir, if you please.” Paks shook her head, and the innkeeper moved away. “I perceive, lady, that you are of sufficient experience to have caution—but insufficient to recognize an honest offer. Nonetheless it stands. My word you would have no reason to trust—but I will tell you honestly that I will not kill you, and I will defend you within reason, if you accept me as one of your company. If you were wise enough to know what I am, you would know what that is worth.”
Paks frowned, not liking the bantering tone or the subtle insults. It reminded her too much of Macenion. She looked up at him again. “If such a command is offered me, and if I accept you—what other suggestions would you have?”
His brows arched. “You ask much, with nothing given.”
“I do? What of you—you ask my trust, with no evidence of your character. I have had such chances, sir, as make me distrust most strangers.”
“But Girdsmen.” His tone was sour.
“Most soldiers have found Girdsmen to be honest, at the least, and usually brave as well. I don’t know your allegiance, either to gods or lords.”
Arvid sighed. “I am a guild member in good standing. As such I obey my guildmaster, in Vérella. It is an old guild, long established there—”
“What craft?” asked Paks.
He laughed. “What—do you think the Master Moneychanger here tells everyone when he travels what his guild affiliation is? Don’t you know that some guilds bind their traveling members to secrecy? Do you want to bring down on me that very plague of thieves you think I represent?”
“No—” Paks flushed, confused.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have laughed. I understand your suspicion—and it does you credit. Any experienced adventurer is suspicious. But I cannot tell you my guild—at least not without asking—at this time. I cannot tell anyone here. I can only tell you what I have told you. In my judgment—and I am not without experience in the world myself—it is in both our interests to cooperate. I have an interest in those brigands—I want to see them removed. Does that sound like a thief or worse? You, I believe, have the Council’s permission to mount an attack on them. And you could use someone at your back who has no reason to wish an honest witness dead. Suppose they are actually living in town—related to one of the Council members. Do you honestly think they’ll thank you for capturing such as that? Let you take the risk, yes. Let you kill and capture them, yes—perhaps. But let you live to take the credit, when it’s their own? I doubt that much. If the brigands really are strangers, then you have no problem. But otherwise—”
Paks nodded slowly. She was not truly convinced, but she had worried that the spy the Council wanted her to find might turn out to be someone they liked. And, as well, they had asked her to involve the other adventurers in town if she could. Surely this Arvid Semminson was an adventurer.
From the hill west of the keep, the crooked path down the moat was clearly visible, as were the signs of age and decay: stones from the outer wall tumbled into the moat, leaving ragged gaps in the wall through which the battered interior could be seen. Paks, concealed behind a thick-leaved but prickly shrub, stared down at the broken walls and waited for the diversion Sir Felis had promised. She had a motley group: Mal and several other yeomen of Gird, including Doryan, the two traders she’d met some days before, who said they wanted to avenge the attack on the caravan, a servant of theirs whom they said was a good bowman, one of Eris’s sons (a Falkian, Mal had reported sadly, but a good man), and Arvid. The sun rose higher, burning off the last of the mist from the moat and swamp around. Paks insisted that her group stay well back in cover, and refused to let them talk or light pipes. A subdued grumble followed these commands.
“Stands to reason,” muttered the heavy-set bowman, “that if they could see us, we could see them. We can’t see a thing, through these leaves. We could smoke, at least.”