“He won’t tell you,” said Teriam softly, “but I will. He tried to get away more than once—we kept him until the curse softened him.”
“I pray the High Lord’s mercy on you, Teriam, for your deeds and your confessions.”
Back upstairs, in Sir Felis’s conference room, Ambros reddened under their gaze. Zinthys studiously ignored the others, setting wine to heat on the hearth. Sir Felis simply watched Ambros, his weathered face fixed in a neutral expression. Paks tried to see, behind that youth and inexperience, the power he had seemed to have with the prisoners.
“Well,” said Sir Felis suddenly, as if he’d made a decision. He looked at Paks. “I say again, Paksenarrion, that you did very well. Very well indeed. I am not now surprised that your Duke recommended you for advanced training. I do not think many novice commanders could have taken over a score with a dozen, and had no casualties.”
“I could not, without Master Zinthys’s help,” said Paks. “And your soldiers caught the stragglers.”
“Even so,” said Sir Felis. He looked her up and down. “And you, yourself, have no injury? I see your tunic is slashed.”
“No, sir,” said Paks. “I wear mail, of course.”
“Hmmph. Yes. Well, then, I think we’d better have a formal report to the Council—you know the sort of thing—I’ll speak to the mayor, and I expect we’ll meet tonight. You’ll be summoned. Yeoman-marshal—” Sir Felis turned to Ambros.
“Yes, Sir Felis?”
“Since some of the prisoners claim to be yeomen, I will delay trial until the Marshal returns.”
“Thank you, Sir Felis.”
“I will not promise that it will make any difference—”
“Of course not, Sir Felis. The grange understands that.”
“Good. I’ll see you later, then—will you be at Council in the Marshal’s place?”
“Yes, Sir Felis.”
“Good. Paksenarrion, do you wish to make your own reckoning of the arms recovered?”
“No, sir.” Paks saw no reason to distrust Sir Felis’s count.
“Then I’ll see you later. If you’ll excuse me—” He shrugged into his heavy cloak.
“Certainly, sir.” Paks and Ambros followed Sir Felis down the winding stairs and out to a sunny afternoon. A soldier brought their horses forward; Sir Felis had already mounted ridden off.
They were almost back to The Jolly Potboy when Ambros turned to Paks. “Can I have a talk with you?”
“Me?” Paks had been thinking about the report she would have to give to the Council; she dreaded it. “Of course—but what about?”
“Come on to the grange; I don’t want to talk about it here.”
Paks sighed. She had been up since long before dawn, and she had looked forward to a hot bath. She had not had time for more than a brief handwash before the simple lunch Sir Felis had served. But Ambros looked so concerned that she nodded finally and turned the black horse away from the inn.
“I should have thought—” Ambros said quietly, nodding to a child in the street. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”
“I’m dirty and stiff as much as tired. And don’t you still have to do whatever ceremony you were talking about?”
“Oh—yes. I’d forgotten, Gird forgive my thick head. Blast. But you’ll want to see that, even you aren’t Girdish. The Marshal would want you to be there.”
“All right.” Paks wished he’d get to the point. She saw Sir Felis’s horse and escort outside the Brewmaster’s gate as they passed.
Once at the grange, Ambros took charge quickly. “I’ll rub down the black, and put him up—with the Marshal away, we have plenty of space. You can wash up if you want—there’s plenty of water in the scullery—and if you need any bandages or anything—”
“No,” said Paks, abandoning the idea of a good soaking bath. “Just to get this dust off—” She took off her helmet and sluiced her head as Ambros led horses away. The cold water revived her; she wiped her neck with a wet cloth and had most of the grime off her hands and arms before Ambros returned.
“Now,” he said, leading the way into the grange proper. “I expect the other yeomen will be here soon—they saw us ride by. What I want to know is whether you’ll come with me when I go to seek that blackweb priest.”
“What?” Paks was completely confused.
“Didn’t you hear him? There’s a blackweb—a priest of Achrya—somewhere in that keep. I’ve got to go and—”
“Wait—Ambros, didn’t the Marshal tell you not to go after the brigands?”
“The brigands, yes. And I didn’t. This is different. A true evil, Paks—something like this—I can’t let it alone.”
“But Ambros, you’re not a Marshal. Can you fight such a thing? Wouldn’t it be better to wait for the Marshal to come back? He said to stay with the grange.”
Ambros shook his head. “What if he moves? Now we know where he is—the center of evil for this whole area—and it’s my responsibility.”
“What about your dream?”
“That’s just it.” Ambros looked sober but determined. “Paks, such a dream could be an evil sending—to keep me from doing what I should. If I don’t try—for fear of dying—what kind of Girdsman am I?”
“It could be a warning from Gird, couldn’t it?”
“Yes—but I can’t tell.”
“Then I think you should wait.” Paks stuck her hands in her sword belt. “Ambros, you don’t know anything about what’s there except what a robber said. How do you know he’s telling the truth? Even if he is, you don’t know enough. A priest of Achrya—very good so far. But alone? With other troops? Human or other?”
Ambros had been pacing back and forth; he stopped. “I—see. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s your experience, I suppose.”
“Not just that. I would go with you—but you said, the other day, that you had to obey the Marshal.”
“I have to obey Gird. Ordinarily that means the Marshal, but—” He stopped as the yeomen who had been with Paks that morning came into the grange. Paks noticed that none of them had changed from their bloodstained clothing; she wondered why. Mal winked at her, as they all came to the platform. Ambros climbed onto it.
What followed seemed strange to Paks. He called on each one to give an account for his own actions. After each recital, Ambros crossed his blade with the man’s weapon. When it came to Mal, the big man grinned as Ambros’s sword tapped his axe blade. Then Ambros inspected all the weapons, and supervised their return to the grange racks—for only Mal had carried his own. After that, they all repaired to the inn for a round of ale.
Here the others who had been involved joined them. Paks slipped upstairs for a bath and change of clothes. She put on her new clothes, enjoying the feel of good cloth. It was hard to believe that she’d been in a battle that morning—she thought back to the Duke’s Company, and laughed to herself. Very different indeed. No company chores, no guard duty at night. And the others had fought well. Perhaps she could get used to having strange companions at her side—or none. Even so, she slipped the mail shirt back on and pulled her best leather tunic over it.
She opened the door to find a girl leaning on the wall opposite. Paks recognized her as one of the junior yeomen. The girl stood away from the wall as Paks came out.
“Please—lady—could I speak to you?”
“Yes,” said Paks. “What is it?”
“You’re a fighter, aren’t you? I mean—I know you are, but isn’t that—I mean, don’t you make your living that way?” All this in a rush.
“Yes,” said Paks, trying not to laugh. “Why?”
“Well—” The girl looked down, then back at Paks. She was as tall, Paks realized, and nearly as broad-shouldered. “I want to be a fighter too,” she said finally. “I—they laugh at me here, the people in town. I want to show them—the Marshal says I’m good—”
“Umm.” Paks looked at her wrists. They were strong, already marked with training scars. “Well, I can tell you it’s possible. I did it. But—”