“He didn’t make plans. I see. We’ll be sending them word, and his pay, of course, and—do you think they’ll want his sword, or were they against his choice?”
“No, my lord; they favored it. He had five brothers at home, and six sisters. They were proud of him, he said; they’d be glad of the sword.”
“And this pendant—was that from his family?”
“No—my lord. It was—was—my gift, sir. It—it was a joke between us.”
“Then you should take it, for his memory, as well as Canna’s medallion.” The Duke scooped them up from his table and held them out. Paks stared at him helplessly.
“Sir, I—I cannot—”
“You must take Canna’s, at least; she wanted it so. And I think your friend Saben would be happy to know you have the other.”
Paks took them from his hand, and as her hand closed around them the reality of her loss stabbed her like a sword. She fumbled at the flap of her belt-pouch and pushed them in.
“Here,” said the Duke; when she looked up, he was offering a cup of wine. “Drink this. When you are calmer, you may go; I am joining the Halveric for dinner.” Paks took the cup, and the Duke caught up a fur-edged cloak from its hook and went out. The wine was sweet, and eased the roughness of her throat, but she could not finish it. After wiping her face on her sleeve, she returned to her own cohort. Vik knew already, she saw, and he told her that the Duke had released word as soon as he had told her himself.
“We miss them too,” said Vik fiercely, hugging her again. “But you, Paks—”
“We were so close,” she whispered, as tears ran down her face. “Only a few more miles, and they—” She could not go on. Arñe got up and put an arm around her shoulders; they all sat together a long time in silence.
Chapter Twenty
The next day the regular siegework began again. The Halverics moved in beside Duke Phelan’s Company, slightly narrowing the Sorellin front. This suited Sorellin, but drew catcalls from the battlements; these ceased after four men fell to the Phelani bowmen. Weapons and armor taken from the Honeycat’s force were divided among the different companies; Paks had the chance to try a crossbow (at which she nearly cut off her thumb) and a short curved blade much like the one Saben had taken.
Day by day she grew to realize how much she had leaned on Canna and Saben—Saben especially. She found herself looking for his cheerful face in the meal lines, waiting for his comment when she came off watch—missing, increasingly, that steady pressure of goodwill she had always felt at her side. They had been together from the beginning. When she went to the jacks, she remembered the trench they had dug together her first night as a recruit—and cried again, knowing it was silly and ridiculous, but helpless to hold back the tears. It was impossible that he was gone, and gone forever. She had thought of her own death, but never of his—now she could think of nothing else.
She could not talk about it to anyone. She knew that Vik and Arñe watched her, and almost hated them for it. She heard a Halveric ask Barra if she and Saben had been lovers, and did not know which was worse, the question or Barra’s scornful negative. She and Saben had shared everything but that: the early hopes and fears, the hours of work, the laughter, that final week of danger. Everything but love and death. For the first time, she wondered what it would have been like to bed him. It was something he had always wanted, and now there was no chance. But if she had—if it hurt more, to lose a lover—she shook her head, and went doggedly on with work she hardly noticed. Better not. She had never wanted to, and surely it would be worse to lose a lover. It was bad enough now.
For awhile she felt cool and remote, as if she were watching herself from a hilltop. Never care, came a whisper in her mind. Never care, never fear. But in the firelight that night, the concern in Vik’s eyes and Arñe’s roused a sudden rush of caring for them. With it came the pain again, but she felt it as a good pain: as wrenching as the surgeon scouring a wound, but necessary. Fear came, too: fear for them. She looked at her own hands, broad and strong, skilled—she could still protect, with those hands. She said nothing, and the tears came again, but somewhere inside a tightness eased.
The city had been silent now for more than a week. No more taunts over the wall, no pots of hot oil, no stones. Heads showed above the battlements occasionally, and the gates were barred, but the enthusiasm of the defenders had gone. Paks wondered if they were going to surrender.
Late one afternoon, a trio of Sorellin militia rode into the siege lines from the north; in minutes messengers came to the Duke. Soon everyone knew that they had found a tunnel from the brigands’ hideout, where Canna and Saben had been found, into Rotengre. A small group of Rotengren soldiers had come out in their midst; now Sorellin controlled the forest end of the passage.
“That must be how the Honeycat meant to relieve the siege,” said Vik.
“And why he wanted live prisoners,” said Paks. “Once he had them in the city—”
“Yes. Ugh. I wonder where the Rotengre end is. If only we could use it.”
“With an attack on the walls at the same time. Yes—or if they’re all trying to escape that way, we could just sit there and take them as they come.”
“I’d rather go in,” Arñe looked eager.
Paks grinned. “So would I. I never heard of a tunnel that long; I wonder who dug it and when.”
“The reputation this city’s got,” said Vik, “it may have been there since the walls were built. It would explain a lot of things about Rotengre.”
As dusk fell, the entire camp bubbled with speculation. They mustered after supper, and the Duke explained their plans. The Phelani would assault the wall, while the Halverics tried their ram on the north gate. Vladi had taken a couple of spear cohorts and joined the Sorellin militia for an assault through the tunnel. The remaining Sorellin militia would attack with their catapult and ladder teams. Cracolnya’s cohort would lead the Phelani assault, followed by Dorrin’s. These instructions were followed by a breathless wait in the dark.
Suddenly the Halveric’s ram battered at the north gate, and an outcry came from the gate tower above. Torches flared along the walls. As heads showed, the Duke’s bowmen let fly. Returning flights came out of the darkness to bristle in rampart and tent. Paks heard not only the regular crash of the battering ram, but the occasional stunning crack of the Sorellin catapult’s stone balls slamming into the wall itself. Horn calls and shouts from inside the city redoubled, loudest from the gate tower. Then Paks heard more distant signals, from the south side. She realized that the south gate, too, must be under attack.
Now, with others of Dorrin’s cohort, she stood at the base of the ladders as the specialists of the mixed cohort led the climbing teams up. These made it to the top before being seen, and secured the ladders as the first fighting teams came up. Paks, below, heard the scream of the Rotengre guard who first saw them, then a body slammed into the ground nearby. Those on the ladder surged upward. As soon as they could get footspace on the rungs, others followed.
“Keep your shields up,” yelled Captain Pont. “Cover your heads until you’re up.”
Paks found the ladder harder than she remembered, as she tried to balance with her shield arched over her. By the time she reached the top, the Duke’s men formed two lines across the wall, protecting access for those still climbing. She was surprised to see green-clad Halverics coming off the ladders behind her companions, but had no time to think about it. She jogged up to join the line moving toward the gate tower.
Facing them were two lines of Rotengre guards in blue, and more ran from the direction of the gate tower. The Phelani advanced; the Rotengre lines retreated, even before making contact. When they pursued and engaged, the enemy still retreated, though their swordwork was excellent.