Behind a wide desk sat the dark bearded man who had accepted their surrender. Without his helmet and mail he seemed smaller: almost bald, with a fringe of graying dark hair, a round weathered face, broad muscular hands. He gave her a long look from dark eyes.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I noticed you—you didn’t want to chance damaging your blade, did you?”
Paks blushed. “No—sir.”
“Sign of a good warrior,” he said briskly. “Name, please?” He held a pen, poised over the desk.
Bosk had said they should give their names. “Paks, sir.”
He ran his finger down the parchment roll on the desk. “Ah—there. You’re a first-term, I see.” He looked back up at her. “It’s harder, the first time you’re captured. I daresay it’s bothered you.”
Paks relaxed a bit. “Yes, sir.”
“You signed on to be a warrior, not to surrender,” he went on. “Still, it does happen, and it’s no shame to know when you’re overmatched. We don’t think worse of your captain for seeing the obvious. To be honest, we’re glad not to have to fight it out, knowing what we know of your Company.” He paused; a slight smile moved his lips. “I imagine you’ve been wondering whether it’s honorable to give your parole—” Paks nodded. His smile broadened, not mocking, but friendly. “I thought so. Well, I won’t argue against your conscience. I’ve given mine on occasion—if that matters. It’s only until you’re ransomed. You may match swords against us another season at the command of your Duke, or quarrel with my men in Valdaire next winter. They haven’t been teasing you, have they?”
“No, sir. They haven’t bothered us at all.”
“That’s good. They know, you see, that it might be the other way next time. Now—” he went on more briskly. “I’ll need your answer. Can you swear to remain a prisoner under command of my company until ransomed, without rebellion or escape so long as you’re honorably treated?”
Paks paused a moment, but she trusted him in spite of herself. “Yes, sir, I agree.”
“Very well.” His voice held more warmth. “And I and my commanders give our word that you and your companions will be honorably treated, well fed and housed, and be subject to the authority of your captain, under my designated representative only. Now what that means,” he continued, less formally, “is that we won’t suddenly sell you to slavers, or turn you over to another company of mercenaries. We agree to be fully responsible for your welfare, just as your Duke would be.”
“Yes, sir,” said Paks. She found this confusing. It seemed like an extra trouble to both sides.
“I’m telling you this because you youngsters need to understand how we northern mercenaries deal with one another under the compact. We are often rivals, and sometimes hired enemies, but we have our own code, which we will not change for any employer. Your Duke and I and Aesil M’dierra started it years ago, and now most good companies abide by it. The others—well, they can be paid to do anything. If we are to stay honorable, the newest members of our companies must understand—and that means you, in your first term. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paks. She met his eyes and surprised a puzzled look on his face.
“You need not answer if you prefer,” he said slowly, “but would you tell me where you’re from?”
“Three Firs,” said Paks promptly.
He looked blank. “Where is that?”
“It’s—well—all I really know is it’s a day’s journey from Rocky Ford, and west of Duke Phelan’s stronghold.” Now she was puzzled by his interest.
“Oh. The reason I asked is that you reminded me of someone I once knew; I wondered if you were related. But she came, if I remember, from Blackbone Hill or something like that.”
Paks shook her head. “I never heard of that place, sir. It wasn’t near Three Firs.”
“Well, then—you may go.”
Paks nodded, and turned away, surprised at how much better she felt. That evening their daggers were returned to them—with plenty of warnings about misuse. With her dagger once more at her side, Paks felt much more secure. She found her hand returning to it again and again.
Two days later, Aliam Halveric rode away with two of his cohorts marching behind; the siege engines went with them. His captain allowed the prisoners to practice marching drill in small units, and troops of both companies went out on work details for wood, water, and food. The Halverics hardly seemed to be guarding them, as they worked just as hard as the Phelani. They all bathed in the river, and washed clothes along its banks. At first Paks was very stiff with them, but as she saw her sergeants and corporals chatting with their Halveric colleagues, she began to listen. She knew nothing about Lyonya, where most of the Halverics came from. They spoke of elves as if they’d all seen them and worked with them.
As the days wore on, the Phelani were allowed even more freedom of movement inside the bounds Ferrault received from the Halveric captain. Paks saw Ferrault and the Halveric, who seemed even younger than Ferrault, playing some board game in a sunny part of the court one morning. They were laughing together; the Halveric captain shaking his head.
To Paks’s delight, small groups could go to the river or the bramble patches without an escort. The berries were now ripe, and she enjoyed the hours she spent picking them. Vik didn’t like it—too hot, too prickly, too tedious—but she, Saben, and Canna gathered pail after pail of dark-red berries that both Halverics and Phelani were glad to eat.
Chapter Fourteen
They were deep in the brambles one afternoon, grousing at thorns as they stuffed themselves with ripe berries, when they heard a signal from the Halverics’ bugler. They stopped to listen.
“Not for us, whatever it is,” said Canna. The signal for their return was four long notes, three rising and the fourth the same as the first.
“Could be a messenger from the Duke,” suggested Saben, standing to peer through the tops of the brambles. They were south of the fort, even with the southeast corner of the wall; they could see only a short stretch of the road leading west from the gate.
“I think it’s too soon,” said Canna.
“What can you see?” asked Paks. She was pouring berries from her pail into a sack they’d brought along.
“Not much. But—wait—do you hear that?”
They did not so much hear it as feel it, a growing rumbling along the road to the south. They could see nothing, because of the angle of the woods, but as Paks stood, she could see sentries moving on the fort walls. Other work details, nearer the fort, were turning to look back down the road. The sound began to separate into rhythmic components that sounded like horses and marching feet. A deep-toned horn called from somewhere on the road. The Halverics’ bugle rang out again. A horseman came in sight around the angle of wall, riding out from the fort; Paks could see something glittering on his shoulders, and his green cloak. She thought it was the captain’s horse, and told Canna.
“Maybe we should go back,” said Canna. She bounced up and down on tiptoe, trying to see over the brambles. Paks and Saben could just see through the upper thorny branches.
“Let’s wait,” said Paks. “Whatever it is—it’s odd. And they haven’t called us. Look, Saben; isn’t that—”