“I don’t know what it is—d’you think that was ever his uniform?”
“It might have been. We’ll be in trouble if it is, and we don’t—”
“All right, all right. You take it—her—over then, if it concerns you so. Tir’s bones, I hate to be seen near such a ragbag. If it is the Duke’s, I don’t know what he’s coming to.”
“Please,” said Paks. Her legs were trembling under her, and she was afraid she might faint. “Please, we must hurry. It is important, and the Duke must know—”
The second guard grabbed her arm and swung her ahead of him. “Don’t tell me what I ’must,’ not when I don’t know who in thunder you are. We’ll go, but at my pace.”
Paks found even that hard to sustain as they threaded their way between tents toward the Duke’s perimeter. At last they were challenged by a voice she knew. She started forward, but the guard pulled her back. “Not so fast,” he said. He raised his voice. “It’s me, Arvor of the Sorellin militia, with someone who claims to be one of yours. Came in on our north perimeter, dirty as a miner and no good tale to tell.”
“Let’s see, then.” It was Barranyi holding a torch. “Who are you?”
“P-Paks,” she stammered. “Barra, I’ve got to see the Duke. Now.”
Barranyi held the torch closer. “Paks? Tir’s bones, it is you! But you were with—” she flicked a glance at the Sorellin guard.
“Well now,” he said. “Seeing as you know her, I suppose it’s all right—”
“Yes, Arvor—thanks—” said Barranyi in a rush. “Paks. Come on. What happened?”
Paks heard the guard leave, and tried to muster her thoughts. “C-call the sergeant, Barra. I must see the Duke tonight. I—I can’t explain to anyone but the Duke.”
“This late? He’s long abed; you can’t see him now. Why do you—you’re wet through!” She took Paks by the arm; Paks winced. “What’s this—a wound?” Paks nodded, suddenly too tired to speak. “You might trust me,” said Barranyi, her voice sharpening. “We trained together, after all.” She paused but Paks said nothing. “Very well, then; I’ll take you, but—”
“Sorry,” murmured Paks. “Can—can I sit down?”
“Wait. Malek!” she called back toward camp.
“Yo.”
“Mal, take over here; I have to take someone to the sergeant.”
“Sure thing.”
“Come on, Paks. Sergeant Vossik is by the fire; you need to warm up, I’ll warrant.” Paks followed Barra’s stiff back to a fire some yards away. She was shivering hard now, and stumbled repeatedly. She barely heard what Barra said about her. Vossik’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, and she had to puzzle out the meaning of his words before she could answer.
“But did you break your parole?” he insisted.
“She must have come all that way afoot,” said another voice.
“But why? Paks, tell us—”
“The Duke—” she said again. She felt herself sagging, heard a gasp from Barra, then a grunt as Barra caught her and eased her down. Her eyes closed in spite of herself. “The Duke,” she repeated. “Must see the Duke.”
“She’s wet through and cold,” said Vossik. “Not making sense. Get warm blankets, Barra. Seli, fetch a pot of sib.”
Paks tried to struggle up again; Vossik held her shoulders. “Please,” she said. “Please, sir—take me to the Duke. He has to know—right away.”
“Know what? And we’ll get you warm and dry before we—”
Paks shook her head and tried to free herself. “No—sir—must know now.” She felt tears burn her eyes.
“Know what? If it’s important, tell me—”
“Honeycat,” said Paks. “Tell the Duke—”
“What!” Vossik lowered his voice after the first bellow. “What about the Honeycat? Is that your message? Have you seen—?”
“Tell the Duke,” repeated Paks. She felt herself hauled to her feet.
“All right,” said Vossik grimly. “For that you’ll see the Duke. If this is some game, Paks—”
“No, sir. Im-important.” She shivered violently as Vossik supported her. He wrapped his dry cloak around her and called someone to help as he took her to the Duke’s tent.
The sentries there were reluctant, but Vossik overrode them. “Either you call him now, or I’ll raise a shout that’ll have half the camp up.” One of them ducked inside. The other stared curiously at Paks. A light flared inside the tent; dark shapes moved against the lighted walls. The sentry reappeared at the door and took up his post. One of the Duke’s servants peered out the opening. “He says come in,” said the man softly. Vossik pushed Paks forward into the tent’s main room. Another servant was lighting oil lamps around the room, but there was already enough light to see the Duke standing by his work table with a fur-lined robe thrown about his shoulders. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were cold.
“This had better be important, Vossik. Have you a good reason not to go through your captain?”
“Yes, my lord, I believe so.” Vossik cleared his throat. “This is Paks, my lord, of Ferrault’s cohort. She insisted she had to speak to you at once—and, sir, she mentioned the Honeycat.”
The Duke crossed the room in two strides to stare closely at Paks. “Honeycat! What do you know about the Honeycat? Why did you leave the fort? What’s happened?”
Paks tried to focus on his face. “Sir—my lord Duke—he’s coming. On the road. He has—he has a large force, sir, and—”
“Did Ferrault send you?” asked the Duke abruptly.
“No, sir. He—he’s been taken, I think.”
“Taken! Who? Not the Honeycat; the Halverics wouldn’t turn prisoners over to him.”
“Sir, they took—took the—we think they took the fort. They killed the Halverics, and took prisoners, and—”
“The Honeycat? How do you know? Did you see it? Did you escape?” Paks tried to nod, but felt herself starting to fall.
“Sir, we—we weren’t taken—we saw—” She could not get the words out. Her legs were limp. Vossik let her down gently on the carpets that overlay the tent floor. She heard the voices above her, but could not muster the energy to answer.
“Is she wounded?” asked the Duke.
“I don’t know, my lord. I know she’s wet and cold and filthy, but when she said Honeycat, I brought her straight to you.”
“Very well. Vossik, I want you to send the captains here at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And alert the perimeter, but don’t say why. And send the surgeon, and tell the cooks I want something hot at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You may go.”
Paks was hardly aware of it when the Duke’s servants stripped off her wet and filthy tunic and wrapped her in warm furs. She roused, coughing, only when the surgeon spooned a bit of fiery liquid into her mouth.
“I hate to do this,” the Duke was saying, “but we must know what message she brings. Can you tell how badly she’s hurt?”
Paks opened her eyes and tried to focus on the surgeon. He pressed a mug to her lips and she swallowed. Whatever it was, it sent warm currents through her cold arms and legs, and cleared the fog from her head.
“Exhaustion, mostly,” said the surgeon. “Maybe a broken rib or two, and this cut—sword or knife wound, but not bad. Bruises and scrapes; I’d say she’s fallen many times in the last day or so. She needs sleep, my lord, as soon as may be.” He met Paks’s eyes. “Better now? Drink the rest.”
Paks swallowed again, and then again. He took the mug away and offered another, of steaming sib. When she had drunk half of that, she turned her head to see the room around her. The Duke was dressed in his usual mail, as were the captains with him.
“There, my lord,” said the surgeon. “She’ll be able to talk with you a short while; I hope it’s enough.”