The prisoner closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t—dammit, man, I never thought to be a robber. Not back when I—I had land once myself. A few cattle, enough. If I hadn’t come here—”
“What about ‘here’?” asked Arvid, who had come up softly behind Paks. “What’s so special here?”
“I—” The man seemed to choke, shook his head, and said no more. Paks pushed herself up. All of her group could travel as they were; of the brigands, four that might live could not walk. Those whose wounds were mortal she despatched herself, not trusting the others to give a clean deathstroke. But she told the others to gather the weaponry, such as it was: she had always hated stripping bodies, and had avoided it most of the time. She had the yeomen supervise the prisoners in making litters for those who could not walk.
“Paks, what about those that got away?” Mal swung his bloody axe slowly in his hand.
“We’ll have to track them. They’re all wounded.” Paks sighed. “I don’t know how many—”
“I thought four or five. There’s a couple down there still—” He jerked his head toward the slope.
“I’d better go—”
“No. You stay here—I’ll take Doryan. You don’t need him here.” Paks started to protest, but thought better of it. She was sure Mal was trustworthy.
He had just started down the hill when five horsemen broke from the woods on the south side of the keep. Paks saw a flurry of motion in the bushes near them, and then four of the horsemen charged, driving out the remnant of the robbers. That was over in a few seconds. Zinthys rode across the slope to greet her.
“Well done, Lady Paksenarrion,” he said cheerfully. “Sir Felis will be pleased.”
“You too. That was a real show, that—” Paks stopped short, wondering if she should reveal his work as illusion. Zinthys grinned at her confusion, and spoke up.
“Most people find a fireblast alarming,” he said casually. “I sent the rest of the troops back when we found the main keep empty—you seemed to have everything well in hand back here.”
Paks wondered what he would have said if she’d blurted out the truth, but merely smiled. “I’m glad you thought to send a few around back for the stragglers.”
“Oh, of course. I see you have quite a few prisoners—how about transport?”
“If you could have someone send a cart or wagon out from town—and Master Travennin is wounded. It would be better for him to ride—”
“Certainly. Why don’t I see to moving your mounts back along the road—then you can come out the way we came in. It’s easier traveling.”
“Fine.” Paks looked around. The prisoners had rough litters ready, covered with their cloaks. They loaded the wounded, and prepared to march out. Zinthys rode off with a wave of his hand; the soldiers from Sir Felis’s command joined her, flanking the party. One of them offered his horse.
“No, thank you,” said Paks. “I’ll walk to the road.” He shrugged and moved back into position. She wondered if she should have taken his offer.
“I wonder,” said Arvid quietly at her side, “that you are unhurt. Didn’t you know that a sword broke on your armor?”
Paks thought back to the fight—it hardly deserved the name of battle. “I don’t—oh—I remember a blow in the side—”
“Yes. I was just behind you then. It was a fair blow, and the man was as heavy as you, or more. I thought you’d get a broken rib out of it, at the least.”
Paks took a deep breath, feeling nothing. “No,” she said. “It must have caught at an angle.”
Arvid shook his head. “I saw it. Either you’re a good bit tougher than I thought—which is unlikely—or your armor has great virtue. Where did you get it?”
Paks gave him a straight look. “I found it,” she said. “In a ruin.”
“Hmm. That’s a good sword, too.”
“Yes.” Paks looked around. Everything seemed to be secure. Mal was moving up beside her. He had wiped the axe blade on something; it was clean.
“The others are dead,” he said. “Too bad hurt to make it; the riders trampled some of ’em. I did it quick.” He looked past Paks at Arvid. “You fight good, for a city man.”
Arvid laughed easily. “Do you think all soldiers begin in a farmyard?”
Mal’s forehead creased. “Nay, not that, sir. But the ones I know all did, and the city men I know are mostly merchants. This lady, now, says she comes from a farm. Isn’t that so?”
Paks nodded.
“Many good things come from cities,” said Arvid.
“Oh, I didn’t mean any different. I know that. Fine clothes, and jewels, and that. But there’s more thieves in cities, too. My brother always said that wealth draws thieves like honey draws bees.”
“I suppose.” Arvid didn’t sound interested; he turned to Paks. “What are you going to do now?”
Paks shrugged. “First things first. Get the prisoners to Sir Felis. Then he can find out how they’ve been operating, and if they’ve had contacts in town.”
15
Sir Felis met the party coming into town. Ambros was with him, as were several other yeomen. Some of the townspeople cheered; Paks felt her face redden. She was glad she had the black horse; at least she didn’t have to look up at Sir Felis.
“You’ve done well,” he said, after a quick look at the group. “None of your men killed—or even badly hurt—”
“My arm—” began the merchant. Sir Felis gave Paks a quick look of amusement, soldier to soldier, before speaking to the man.
“I’m sorry, sir; I didn’t see. The surgeon has been alerted; he’s at the inn.”
“Good. It was a terrible fight—”
Paks saw one of Sir Felis’s men roll his eyes. She choked down a laugh. Her knees felt shaky. In the stir around them, the black horse began to fidget. She met Ambros’s gaze.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Went well.” She worked the black horse over to the side of the road near him. “They all came out the bolthole, just as we thought. Your yeomen are good fighters—steady.”
Ambros smiled. “I know. The Marshal’s trained them well. I’m glad they were willing to go with you.”
“What now?”
“Well—Sir Felis will take them to the keep. I suppose he’ll ask you along. The Council’s heard; of course they’re happy about it. Do you think you got them all?”
“Twenty-one came out; we left eleven dead and have ten prisoners. Unless some stayed in the keep—and I wouldn’t have, with what Zinthys did.” Mindful of spies, Paks did not elaborate on that.
“They don’t—they don’t look so bad,” said Ambros thoughtfully.
“Who, the brigands?”
“Yes. I thought—”
Paks glanced at him. “They’d all look like orcs?”
He flushed. “I know I don’t have your experience—”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t mean that.” Paks found herself annoyed with his sensitivity. “I was surprised myself, if you want to know. The only brigands I’d seen, in Aarenis, looked as vicious as they were. These men look like any poor farmer or soldier. The leader—that one in the litter there—he said something about not wanting to be a robber—”
“Eh, once he’s caught, what’d you expect him to say?” The uninjured merchant had pressed close to Paks’s side. “He’s not likely to admit he’s been a thief from birth.”
“He hasn’t been,” said Arvid, with a certainty that made Paks wonder.
“How do you know?”
“Lady, I, like Master Zinthys, prefer not to reveal all the sources of my knowledge. But I will tell you that had he been a thief from birth, he would not have been in that keep.”
“But how do you know?” Both Paks and Ambros stared at Arvid. He smiled, bowed, and passed on toward the inn.
“That one,” muttered the merchant, idly putting his hand on the black horse’s neck. It jerked aside; by the time Paks had it calm again, the merchant and most of the group had passed. Sir Felis beckoned; Paks moved the black horse beside his at the tail of the procession.