Paks scooped up the little chips of blue, red, and yellow: the first jewels she had ever held. Vossik looked at them critically.
“I’ll take this—” he picked out a red one and a blue one, “as my share for showing you how. Get busy now, or these damned lazy militia will get all the good loot.” He left Paks alone in the room. She put the stones in her pouch, and looked at the smashed desk. Was there another compartment? She picked up the chair leg.
By dawn, Paks had prowled through most of the rooms in the keep. Her pouch bulged with coins and jewels. She had a strip of embroidered silk wrapped around her neck, and a jewel-hilted dagger thrust into one boot. She could not bring herself to destroy furniture, so most of her finds were bits and pieces that had rolled out of sight of earlier plunderers. Now she headed downstairs, hoping to find something to eat. Along the way she passed drunken, sleeping fighters snoring beside the dead. Paks wrinkled her nose at the stench of blood, sour wine, vomit, and smoke. In the courtyard, a circle of soldiers were cooking over the remnants of a burning shed. Every one seemed to be draped in stolen finery: velvet and fur cloaks, bits of lace and silk that might have been shawls, gold and silver chains and bracelets. Paks looked around for someone she knew. These were all militiamen from Sorellin and Vonja.
“Where’s Duke Phelan’s Company?” she asked one of them.
His mouth was full of sausage, but he pointed toward the keep gates. Paks made her way out into the streets.
“There you are,” said Vik. He had a green velvet cap with a feather atop his helmet. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No.” Paks yawned. “Have you? I wish I could sleep.”
“Here—” Vik handed her a roll and a hunk of cheese. “I tried some of the food from their kitchen, but this is better. What’d you find in there—anything good?”
Paks nodded, her mouth full of bread.
“We’re supposed to clear the northwest quadrant today, but what we find goes to the common store, worse luck.” Vic shook his head, then grinned. “Though I’ve as much as I can carry now.”
Paks swallowed noisily. “I’ve got some jewels, and money, and this—” She indicated the strip of silk. “Did you see those militia?”
“Furs and things? Yes—well, they have baggage wagons to go home in. How do you like my new hat?”
“Ummm.” Paks thought it was as silly as a lace shawl, but didn’t want to say so.
“It’ll travel well, rolled up,” he said seriously. “Except for the feather, and any barnyard cock will give me a new one.”
“Yes—well—it’s nice, Vik.” Paks yawned again and ate the cheese. She emptied her water flask. A haze of smoke hung over the city; the wind had dropped. “When do we start—?”
“When the captain gets back. Gah—I’m sleepy too.” Vik settled against the wall and put his head on his knees. After a moment Paks squatted beside him. She looked around. Maybe a third of the Company was visible along this stretch of wall; most slumped against it or each other, and looked asleep. Some were chatting quietly. Bundles wrapped in a variety of unlikely things—curtains, bed linens—lay among them. Paks had not thought of that.
She did not realize she’d fallen asleep until Captain Dorrin’s voice woke her. She yawned again as she pushed herself up. She was stiff and cold; others looked worse than she felt. She was glad she hadn’t been drinking all that ale and wine.
Unlike the chaos of the night before, the day’s sack was systematic and careful. Paks worked with a squad of ten, assigned to go through buildings along one street. They began with a house, smashing its locked door, and opening every door of every room from cellar to garret. When they knew what it contained, they reported to a sergeant, who told them what to load in which order.
Paks carried out one armful after another. Bed linens, cook pots, clothes from clothes presses, a roll of fine wool from a room with a loom in it. Her companions brought the loom, a sackful of scrolls, dishes and spoons, shoes and boots and hats, a patterned carpet, a trunkful of uncut velvet—everything they could move. As the rooms emptied, they thumped the walls, listening for any sign of a secret hideaway. Paks felt strange, rummaging around in someone else’s clothespress, carrying away a stranger’s empty garments.
In a small room under the eaves, Paks found a string of tiny bells under the short bed; when she shook them, they gave a faint musical chime. A child’s toy. She looked out the window, across the street, and saw a bolt of blue cloth unwinding as it fell. Erial shouted from below, angry. Paks turned away. She felt a vague pain in her head, and wondered if it came from the smoke still hazing the city.
Down in the cellar someone found a hollow-sounding panel and smashed it. Behind was a row of wine-casks, and a little iron-bound coffer. With much grunting and heaving they got these up the stairs. Erial ducked into the house to check it and came out nodding. They passed to the next building, and the next. Not all were as rich as the first, but by midday they had piled two wagons full of loot. Other companies were clearing their assigned sections, and wagons were lined up coming and going from the different camps.
All afternoon the work went on. Houses, shops, and warehouses, with a few craftshops. Paks found a secret passage in one shop, following it to a vault full of fancy leathers and fabrics. In the next house along, Paks heard a thin wail behind a wall on the third floor. For a moment she thought of saying nothing about it, but her squad leader had heard it too. Behind the false wall a thin girl of perhaps fourteen clung to an infant less than two months old; she wore only a rough shift, and an iron ring circled her neck. Her eyes were blank with fear.
“Just a slave,” said Aris, the squad leader, in disgust. “Come on out, we won’t hurt you.” The girl shivered, but did not move. “Come on.” He reached for her arm, and the girl threw herself at Paks, holding up the baby, who began to cry. Aris gave Paks a wry grin. “Your problem now, Paks. Take her to the captain.” He turned away. Paks reached gingerly toward the baby, and the girl let go so fast that Paks almost dropped the child. It screamed louder, and the girl cried out in a strange language and fell to her knees.
“It’s all right,” said Paks, convinced that it wasn’t. “I won’t hurt your baby. Here, you take—” she tried to hand the baby back, but the girl was kneeling, and would not look up until Paks touched her shoulder. Even then, she would not stand, and Paks had to fold the girl’s arms around the child before she would take it. “Now come,” said Paks softly, and tugged her shoulder; the girl started crying. “Look,” said Paks, “I won’t hurt you or your baby, but you must come.” The girl kept crying, and made no move to reply. Paks straightened to ease a cramp in her back, and glanced around. By just so much the crossbow bolt missed her as it passed over the kneeling slave to stick quivering in the wall. A crack showed in the back of the recess. Paks stared a split second as it widened, then yelled as she swept out her sword and charged.
Behind her she heard the girl shriek, and the clatter of boots as her squad came to her aid. Her sword smashed the half-open panel, and she grabbed the crossbow lefthanded, jerking it away from the dark-robed man who stood in a second recess. She freed her sword from the shattered panel as he reached to his belt for his dagger. Huddled beside him was a woman in a silk gown, and behind were a youth and a girl, both richly dressed.
“Come out of there,” said Paks grimly. The man shook his head, and said something she could not make out. He had the dagger out, and held it as if he knew how to fight. Paks did not like the cramped space; she started to step back. The man spoke again, and a blow from behind knocked her off balance as a thin arm crooked around her neck. At once the man struck. Paks deflected the blow with her sword, feeling a sting on her knuckles, as the four of them rushed her. She heard a shout from behind, then a scream. The weight fell from her back; the arm no longer choked her. She half stumbled backwards; two of her squad were beside her, swords drawn.