“Quick!” said a voice. Someone pulled at her. “Help with these reins. Don’t let ’em take off again.”
“Mmph.” Paks shortened the reins and blinked heavily. Varne held the reins she’d dropped.
“I’ve got the nearside reins,” the woman went on. “We’ve got to get them up. Where’s the whip?”
Paks looked around and found the whip still in its socket. She slithered over and managed to reach it. She glanced back into the wagon. Most of the hay had bounced forward in their final crash. Callexon still clung to the rear board, bow in hand, his splinted leg apparently straight. He waved at Paks.
“I’ve got two, so far,” he said. “If you can smooth the ride a little—”
Effa and the unconscious man lay tangled in the hay. Paks turned back to the mules. All but one were standing already, quietly enough; she flicked the whip at the arrow-struck mule, and it finally struggled up, not too tangled in harness. Paks looked at Varne. “Do you want me to take those reins?”
The woman gave a wry grin that creased the salve on her blistered face. “Depends—nothing like a little excitement to clear out a dose of numbwine. Maybe I should take all the reins and let you check on the others.”
Paks handed over the reins, and slid back into the hay. She found the driver first; she was dead. The veteran with the head injury snored heavily, but Effa was also dead, her stubborn face wiped clean of all expression. Paks tried to straighten the injured man on top of the hay. Her leg hurt a lot; when she looked at it, the bandages were soaked with blood. She burrowed into the hay for the medical supplies, and wrapped more bandages around it. She felt nauseated and faint, and broke into a sweat trying to pull herself back to the driver’s seat.
“I see someone,” called Callexon.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” muttered Varne. “Blast! Not even a sword among us.”
Paks took out her dagger. “Calle’s got the bow, and I have a dagger—”
“With those, it’s not enough. I wonder how many—”
“It’s ours!” yelled Callexon. “Hey—Arvid!”
Paks looked back. A limping figure in maroon and white stood at the top of the bank. “Any more alive?” he called.
“Yes—but the wagon’s broken.”
“So I see.” The man limped down the bank, chest heaving.
“What about them?” asked Callexon.
“Driven off for now. Tir’s gut, I never thought even the outlaw companies would attack a sick train.” He clambered up to peer in the wagon. “Hmmph. We’ll have to clear you out before we can mend this. Can any of you walk?”
“I can,” said Varne. Callexon shook his head.
“Let’s see.” Arvid climbed in and worked his way forward, checking the bodies first, then Paks’s leg. “We’d best deal with that.” He tore off another length of bandage and tied it tighter than Paks had managed. “Now you,” he said to Varne.
“I’m no worse than I was.”
“No? Let me have the reins, and see your hands.” He tied the reins to the wagon frame, and looked her over. “You’ll do—after a dose of numbwine. Now—” he climbed down. “—to get these mules unhitched.”
Paks sank back in the hay and her eyes fluttered shut. She roused to find Vanza beside her, calling her name.
“Yes—what—”
“Paks, we have to move you out of this wagon. We’re going to carry you in a blanket—don’t struggle.”
She felt the blanket tighten around her, then a swooping sensation that made her want to fight her way to her feet. Instead she lay still. Above her were voices, Vanza’s among them.
“We’d better send word to the Duke—”
“—that’s the fastest. And isn’t there a Baron Kodaly or something near here?”
“Yes—off east a bit; he claims this forest. Don’t forget—”
“—wheelwright, and a smith, and supplies—”
“—never heard of anything like this in all the years—”
“—Marshals or priests or something, if you can—”
“—what they thought they’d get out of it—”
“—and coffin wood—”
“—forward to Valdaire, too, but we can’t spare another—”
Paks sank into unconsciousness.
Her next waking was a confused struggle through dark corridors with shadowy opponents who faded away as she came near. Far ahead was a blur of light and a clamor of sound; she came to it in bursts of random motion. Finally her vision cleared. She was lying on the ground under a tree. The surgeon knelt by her injured leg, shaking his head.
“—don’t think I can do more, my lord,” he was saying. “Too much blood loss, and this additional bruising—”
Paks felt a cold twinge of fear. Was that her leg about which he had no hope?
“Very well,” said a voice from above and behind her. “We’ll try a healing. Master Vetrifuge?”
“At once, my lord.” A gray-bearded man in black and green robes stooped beside the surgeon and laid his hands on Paks’s leg. A warming tingle ran from his touch through the wound; it did not hurt. The surgeon bent to look.
“That’s better.” He looked at her face and found her watching. “She’s awake, my lord. We might try the potion.”
“Go ahead,” said the voice behind her. The surgeon took a small flask from his robes and brought it to Paks. He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and lifted her head until she could drink.
The lip of the flask was icy cold, and the two swallows of liquid in it burned her throat, but gave her the same warming tingle as Vetrifuge’s hands. Her leg did not hurt any more, nor the bruises where she’d hit the footboard. Her nausea had gone too. The surgeon’s face, watching her, was clear in every line; she could see the dust on his eyelashes. He turned to look at her leg.
“Ah—that’s more like it. Rest and food will be enough now. Thank you, Master Vetrifuge.”
“My pleasure, Master Simmitt,” said Vetrifuge, with a mocking smile. “Glad to know there are yet a few things in which wizardry can aid the science of surgery.” The surgeon reddened, and seemed to swell in the neck.
“Others need your skills,” said the third voice, with enough bite that both men froze an instant.
“Yes, my lord; right away.”
As Paks watched them stand and walk off, a mail-clad figure moved to her side and sat. When she looked back, she was face to face with the Duke himself. Paks gulped. This close she could see a few silver hairs in his fox-red beard; his nose was sunburnt and peeling; his eyes were the gray of sword-steel, just barely blue. Her eyes dropped. His cloak was fastened with a silver medallion; it was dusty. His gloves were gray kid, sweat-stained.
“First,” said the Duke, “you need to drink this, and eat a little; then I want to know what happened. What you saw.” Paks dragged her eyes back up and saw once more the gold-tooled wineskin she’d seen the night of the battle. “Try to sit up.” Paks found she was weak, but able to rise on one elbow. She took the wineskin. “It’s watered,” said the Duke. “It shouldn’t knock you out. Here—have some bread.” He bit the end off a loaf and handed her the rest. Paks tore off a hunk and took a swallow of wine. She wondered how long she’d slept, and when the Duke had arrived, but under his eye she ate as he directed.