- Chapter 24






p {text-indent:2em;margin-top:0;margin-bottom:2px}
h1 {page-break-before:left}






Back | NextContents
Chapter Twenty-four
Their first test of the city gates proved them to be well-defended; the army pulled back to encircle the city and organize a siege. By the next afternoon, they had constructed portable shelters to protect the sapping teams, and had them in place. Several sapping crews began work, spaced around the wall. Paks spent her time helping to set up the Duke's camp. Like the other experienced veterans, she had been assigned a night guard slot.
Just before sunset, a rider galloped toward them from the west. Clart Cavalry intercepted, then escorted the rider to the Duke's tent. Paks recognized a Golden Company courier. With several friends she edged close to the Duke's tent to pick up what news she could. The rider's horse was lathered; one of the Clarts walked it out. Suddenly the Duke looked out of his tent and glanced around at the loiterers.
"Ah—Paks."
"Yes, my lord."
"Find Arcolin and Cracolnya, and send them here. Then take this—" he handed her a scroll, "—to Aliam Halveric."
"Yes, my lord." Paks was glad to run his errands, but wished the Duke had not found her idling; she had heard his opinion of nosy soldiers before. She knew where Arcolin was, looking over wood for a catapult with one of the Halveric's sons, but she had to ask Arcolin where to find Cracolnya.
"He's around the city, with that other sapping crew. You'd best take a horse." He looked around, and waved to someone leading two horses. "Take my spare; he's not been ridden today."
"Thank you, sir," said Paks. "And where would I find the—the Halveric?" She was not sure this was the correct form to use to his son.
"My father?" asked the young Halveric.
"Yes, sir. The Duke gave me a message for him." She thought the younger man might offer to take it himself, but he simply nodded.
"He's to the south, about a quarter of the way around; the sentries will guide you to the tent."
"Thank you, sir." The boy leading the horses had come near, and Arcolin took the reins of the black and handed them over. Paks mounted, finding the captain's saddle very different from the ones she'd ridden before. But the horse answered heel and rein easily, and she made good time to the opposite side of the city. By the time she had given her message there and ridden on to the Halverics's camp, it was full dark; she was careful to call her name and unit clearly when challenged. Aliam Halveric was eating supper in his tent, along with his eldest son. Paks recalled them clearly from the previous season. The Halveric smiled as she handed over the scroll.
"Ah—I remember you. I was afraid you weren't going to give your parole, and then you made that remarkable journey—yes. Sit down; I may want to send a reply."
Paks sat where she was bidden, on a low stool, while the Halveric read the scroll and handed it to his son. While his son read, he finished the dish of stew before him. He cocked his head at the younger man when he finished.
"Well, Cal? I think I'd best go myself, don't you?"
"Certainly, sir. Have you any orders in the meantime?"
"No—I expect to be back in a few hours, or I'll send word. Get me a horse, please." The younger man nodded and withdrew. The Halveric looked at Paks. "Well—what was your name again? My memory has failed me—"
"Paksenarrion, sir, but I'm called Paks."
"That's right. Paks. Do you have a horse?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then I won't need another escort." Paks flushed at the implied compliment. The younger man returned, and the Halveric stood, reaching for his helmet. Paks rose and held the tent flap aside as he walked out. She mounted and took the torch a guard offered. All around the city was a circle of watchfires and torches; she scarcely needed the one in her hand. At the Duke's tent, one of his squires, Kessim, was waiting to take the Halveric's. He raised an eyebrow at Paks when he recognized Arcolin's horse, but refrained from comment. She grinned at him as she rode off to the horse lines.
The next three days were simple siegework in support of the sapping teams. No one knew what the Golden Company courier had brought. The captains discouraged questions. For Paks, it was an alternation of camp chores and stretches of guard duty—a routine that dulled very quickly. But her recruits thought it was exciting. They asked her dozens of questions about the techniques of sieges, sapping, siege engines—the same questions she had asked the year before. She told them what she knew, then sent them to older veterans.
On the night of the third day, Paks had just gone off-watch and was enjoying a hot drink by one of the watchfires before going to bed when an excited Volya appeared at her elbow.
"Paks—come here!" Paks rose reluctantly and stepped away from the fire. Volya was dancing with impatience.
"What is it?"
"Paks, someone came over the wall, and wanted to talk to the Count. Someone from inside the city—what does that mean?"
Paks thought a moment before answering. "It could mean they want to surrender—or some of them do. Or maybe the Count has an agent in the city, a spy, and he came out to report. I don't think you should be talking about it—"
Volya nodded. "I know. That's what Sergeant Kefer told me, and I won't. I just—"
"You mean the sergeant told you to keep shut about it, and you came straight to me to tell?" Paks was suddenly angry; Volya flinched.
"But Paks, he wouldn't mind about you. You wouldn't tell anyone else, and—"
Paks glared at her. "Volya, an order's an order. When you're told to keep quiet, you do—you don't tell anyone, friend, lover, or whoever. I didn't get the reputation I've got by blabbing off to people or hanging around loose tongues. You say you trust me—fine, but how d'you know there's not someone else near enough to hear, eh?"
Volya sounded near tears. "Paks, I'm sorry—I won't do it again. I—I thought it was all right to tell you anything."
"Well, now you know it's not," said Paks shortly. Then she sighed. "Volya, there's more to being a mercenary than fighting and camp work. This thing of talking—you haven't been to a city yet, so Stammel hasn't given you his speech on it. But we don't talk to anyone about Company business, or anything that could be Company business. Even in an ordinary year, every tavern is full of spies. If someone knows who hired us, and what road we're marching on, and when—d'you see?" Volya nodded. "And this year—we can't afford any loose talk. We're almost certainly outnumbered. Our Duke will be trying to move us to the best field for battle without alerting Siniava."
"Yes, Paks. But—the Company is safe, isn't it? We're all loyal to the Duke—aren't we?"
"I hope so. Yes. But even so—you never know who might be listening. And some can't keep shut if they've been drinking. Loyal as a stone when they're sober, but everyone's friend when they've got a load of ale or wine. So when you're told to keep something quiet, you do. From everyone. Clear?"
"Yes, Paks. Should I tell the sergeant—?"
"No. You've had your scolding. Just remember." Volya nodded, and Paks waved her away. She was no longer sleepy, however, and spent the rest of that night wondering about the man who had come over the wall.
The next morning it became clear that something was happening inside the city. They could see fights on the walls, and bodies thrown over. Sentries close to the walls heard shouts and the clash of arms inside. Older veterans reminded the younger that most sieges fell by treachery and dissension. Late in the afternoon, a small party offered to parley with the Count of Andressat. Paks watched as they filed out the postern: two men in long gowns and three in armor. The Count and all three mercenary captains went to meet them. They talked for some time, then bowed and separated. As the party started back to the city, the two men in gowns fell with crossbow bolts bristling from their bodies. The armored men spun around and ran for the besiegers' lines, while a great cry rose from the walls.
Just as that disturbance quieted, a column of smoke rose from across the city, followed by more outcry.
"The sappers," said Stammel. "They've fired their supports, and in a little we'll find out whether they breached the wall."
"Will we go in?"
"Not around there. Halveric troops are over there; they'll go." They listened closely until Arcolin called them into formation. Paks noticed that her recruits did not look nervous any more. She herself felt an anxiety she did her best to conceal. This was one of the Honeycat's own cities—what sort of traps and powers might be here? But no word came for an attack; as the red glare of sunset faded from the walls, they were dismissed again. Assault in the morning, the rumors ran.
With morning came riders of the Golden Company, and Aesil M'dierra's senior captain. He had not finished talking to the Duke when the word ran through camp: M'dierra was at Sibili, already in position with Golden Company and the Pliuni volunteers. Westland troops were at Sibili as well. Paks felt a rising excitement. She did not doubt Cha would fall, and after it the Honeycat's home city, Sibili. Paks thought of him looking from his palace windows to see the banners of his enemies.
She squinted against the early sun and saw the city wall crowded with men. Smoke rolled up from the sapper's work near the northwest corner of the city. Paks saw archers lean to shoot into the roofed shelter; their own archers replied. An outcry rose from the main gate tower: Siniava's black and yellow banner sagged from its pole, slipped back toward the wall. Someone up there waved a smaller flag; Paks could not see the colors. The Count's herald blew a long blast. It was answered from the tower, and followed by even more noise from within the walls.
By the time they entered the city, Paks had heard that a faction favoring Andressat had opened the gates. Siniava's men still fought, but they were hampered by the factions opposing them. Despite the warning, Paks had not imagined how chaotic this could be. She soon found out. Just as they came to the first side street, a body of armed men rushed out to form a line across it. These were Siniava's, armed with pikes. They had scarcely engaged the enemy when another band—bowmen in plain leather with a twist of blue and gold on their helmets—charged out of a building behind the enemy line and fired into the back of the pikemen. Fifteen or so fell at once, hit squarely in the back at close range. One arrow hit Paks's shield with enough force to drive the head through; another struck someone behind her. She heard the yell, half pain, half fury. The enemy fighters whirled to meet this attack, and the front ranks of Paks's cohort charged, trying to run them over before the archers made another dangerous shot.
Several more fights interrupted their progress to the city's center. Twice they fought their way out of attempted ambushes. Bodies littered the streets: men, women, children, animals, caught in the street fighting and left behind when the flood of violence passed. At last, beyond a mass of frightened people crammed into a large square, Paks caught sight of the Halveric banner.
As her cohort spread around its side of the square, a small boy broke away and darted toward the street they had left. Rauf made a grab at him and missed; Paks swung her shield across his path. He ran into it headlong, and slipped to the ground, crying. Paks sheathed her sword and reached down to help him up. She heard a cry from the crowd as the terrified boy tried to twist away from her.
"Here now, I won't hurt you," she said. The boy screamed, flailing at her with pudgy fists. "Stop that," she added. He froze in her grip, staring at her with wide eyes. "Now—what did you run for? Don't you know you should have stayed with—your sister, was it?"
"I'll take 'im, Paks," said Rauf. "His sis is all upset—" But as Rauf reached out, the child started fighting again.
"I'd better—" said Paks. "Now, lad—be quiet—you're not hurt, and you won't be." He calmed again, and Paks glanced around for the girl. She was standing only a few yards away, held there by a serious-faced Keri. "Let's go back to her now, lad—and you stay with her, you hear?"
"But—but my puppy!" He choked on the words and started to cry.
"Your puppy? You lost your dog?" His accent was thick, but Paks thought she understood.
He nodded. "He was mine—my very own—and he's not here. He got lost."
Paks thought of the dogs she'd seen, dead in the gutters. "Lad—you stay with your sister. Find your puppy later—not now."
"But he's got lost. He—he'll be frightened without me." Paks thought it was the other way around, but knew it would do no good to argue.
"Even so—What's your name?"
"Seri. Seriast, really."
"Well, Seri, even though your puppy may be frightened, you stay with your sister. She'll help you find your puppy later. Now promise you'll stay with her—" The boy nodded finally. Paks thought he was the same age as her youngest brother, the year she'd left home. She put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the girl. "Come along now." The girl grabbed him and held him close.
"I tried to tell her, Paks, that you wouldn't hurt him," said Keri, sounding worried. "I don't know why she thought—" Paks waved him to silence. The girl looked up, her eyes blurred by tears.
"I think he'll stay with you now," said Paks. "But keep a close grip on him for a few hours." The girl nodded, tightening her grasp until the boy squealed.
"Please don't take 'im," she begged. "Please don't—he won't harm ye none."
"We won't take him. What would we want with a child that size?" But the panic on the girl's face made Paks uneasy for days. What were these people used to, that they feared intentional harm to so small a child?
The next day, as Halveric Company rode away to Sibili, Paks found herself hard at work in a warehouse, cataloging plunder for the Duke's Company. This time, at least, she did not have to drag it out, but counting sacks of wool and goat hair, and barrels of wine, beer, oilberries in brine and oil was a hot, dusty, boring job. They finished this chore in one day; the next was spent loading supplies for Sibili and repairing damaged equipment. Paks got a new shield, as did Keri, and Volya had snapped a sword tip against a wall. Jenits came up while Paks was helping Volya wrap the grip of her sword; he had a lumpy bundle of shiny yellow silk.
"Wait until you see this," he said, dropping it on the ground. It clinked. He worked at the knot one-handed. Keri reached to help. "Thanks. There: look at that." They looked at a miscellaneous collection of bracelets, rings, coins, and little carved disks of ivory or shell. Jenits grinned. "That's what I get for being one-armed right now—not strong enough for the heavy stuff. Kefer had me working through the goldsmithies and jewelers' shops with him, and he said to take this much—and to share it with my friends, if I wanted to keep any. I knew that you, Paks, were stuck in those warehouses, and Keri and Volya hadn't found anything better than a stray silver, so here I am. Take your pick."
"Is it really gold?" asked Volya doubtfully.
"I think so. It's soft, like gold, and it doesn't look like copper. It's heavy."
Keri reached over and picked up a ring with a pale green stone. "I wonder what this is."
"I don't know. But let's split it up, before I lose my generous impulses. Paks, you choose first; you're the veteran."
Paks looked over the small pile. "I could take this bracelet for my sister," she said tentatively. It was made in a pattern of linked leaves, with tiny blue stones between them. "We'll take turns," she went on.
"Go on, then. Keri?"
"I'll take this ring."
"I like this," said Volya. She had found a little gold fish, arched as if it were leaping, with a loop formed by the dorsal fin to hold a chain.
Jenits held out his left hand, with a heavy gold ring set with onyx on the first finger. "I cheated," he said. "I took my favorite out first." They laughed and went on choosing. When they'd finished, Jenits folded the square of silk and tucked it into his tunic. "I feel much safer how," he said. "I was afraid I'd have a greedy fit, and you've done all the fighting. By the way, Paks—"
"Hmm?"
"My arm doesn't hurt any more—when can I come back to regular duty?"
"What did the surgeons tell you?"
"Oh—well—six weeks altogether. But it's been three, and it doesn't hurt. I don't want to miss Sibili, and I feel well enough. I thought you could say something to the sergeants."
Paks looked up from Volya's sword and shook her head. "Jenits, it's up to the surgeons. You won't do us any good if you try to fight and it's not healed. Likely it'd come apart at the first stroke, and you'd be worse off than ever. You can ask the surgeon—"
Jenits scowled. "The last time I asked him, he said to quit pestering. Bones heal at their speed, he said, and not for wishing."
"That sounds like Master Simmitt. He's the sharp-tongued one. You won't miss Sibili anyway. We're all marching—"
"But I'll miss the fighting. And if Siniava's there—"
"You wouldn't have a chance at him anyway. You'll see enough fighting, if you stay whole."
"I hope so. To break an arm, my very first—" Jenits broke off as Stammel came up; he squatted beside them with a sigh.
"Well, Jenits, is your arm holding up?"
"Yes, sir. I was just wondering—"
"No, you can't fight with us at Sibili. Not unless we're longer taking that city than I expect. Paks, the Duke's enrolled a few men from Cha—Andressat's faction, of course—and we'll have six of 'em in our cohort. You've gotten these well broken in. I'd like you to take on one of the new men."
Paks thought of several questions, but when she met Stammel's brown eyes she was guided by their wary expression. "Yes, sir. When?"
"Now." Paks rose when he did, and left the rest where they were. When they were out of earshot, Stammel had more to say. "This is new, Paks, taking new men during a campaign. The captain said it's because he wants us at full strength. I suppose that means he'll be recruiting all season. These men, now—the Count vouched for them, and they look like fighters, but of course we don't know anything about them. If you start having doubts, let me know at once." He shot her a hard glance, and waited until she nodded. "Another thing—down here they don't have many women fighters. You heard what the Count said. Well, I thought if we take these men, they'll have to get used to our ways. That's one reason I wanted you to help. Clear enough?"
Paks nodded, though she still felt confused. It was hard to imagine strangers—outsiders—southerners as part of the Company. But she could see that Stammel had no answers, and possibly even more questions, so she asked nothing. He sighed again and led her to a group of about twenty men standing with the captains. Three of them had mail shirts, and four had bronze breastplates. The rest wore leather armor. They were all muscular and looked fit enough. Several of Paks's friends stood nearby: Barra, Vik, and Arñe. Vik raised his expressive eyebrow but said nothing. Stammel turned away, and came back in a few minutes with three more of Paks's cohort. He spoke to Arcolin, who pointed out six of the strangers. They followed Stammel.
"Paks, this is Halek," Stammel said. Halek was several fingers shorter than Paks, with sandy hair and mustache, and pale eyes. Stammel went on. "Halek, she'll show you where to eat and sleep, and what you're expected to do—"
"She?" Halek's tone was derisive. Paks felt a prickle of anger. "What do you think I am, some little boy to take orders from a nursemaid?" Paks clamped her jaw shut. Stammel gave the man a cold stare.
"Either you follow orders, Halek, or you go explain to the captain that you don't want to join us—and why." The man opened his mouth, but Stammel gave him no chance to speak. "No argument. Obey, or leave."
Halek glanced sideways at Paks and flushed. "Yes—sir."
"Come along," said Paks, and walked off without looking at him. She felt his resistance, then a slackening as he gave in and followed her. She was glad she was taller. When they had walked some strides she spoke over her shoulder.
"Our cohort—Arcolin's our captain—is loading today. When did you eat last?"
"This morning. Early." He sounded grumpy.
"Then we'll eat now." Paks angled toward the cooks' tent. "What weapons do you use?"
"Sword," he said. "Not like yours—longer, and not so wide. Or the curved blade Siniava's men carry."
"Are you used to formation fighting? Can you use polearms?"
"No. Where would I learn that? The only organized units around here are Siniava's, and I wouldn't fight for that." The man spat, then lengthened his stride to come up with her. "Listen—are you really a soldier, not a cook or something?"
Paks glared down at him and he reddened. "Yes, I'm a soldier—as you'll find out soon enough. More of one than you, I daresay, if all you've done is play around with a dueller's weapon. I hope you can learn formation fighting, or you won't be any use to us at all."
"Your tongue's sharp, anyway," he said.
"You can test my blade later," said Paks. She led Halek through the serving line, then to a loading crew. He was strong and willing to work; Paks tried to think better of him. By midafternoon the loading was done; they went in search of the armsmasters. Siger was already working with two of the other newcomers, these assigned to Dorrin's cohort. A number of the Duke's men stood around watching. It was always a treat to see the wizened little armsmaster drive a much bigger opponent around the practice ring. Finally he called a halt, and the two men, puffing and sweating, moved out of the ring.
"Not enough marching," grumbled Siger to their backs. "More wind's what you want, and then an old man like me couldn't make you lose breath." He turned to the circle of watchers. "Enjoying yourselves, eh? Well, you all need a workout. Suppose you, there—and you—" he pointed, "get busy with swords, and you four with pikes—" The crowds melted away. Paks and the others with new men stayed. "Ah yes," said Siger when he saw them. "What have we here? Let's see your paces." He beckoned to Halek, who stepped into the ring. "Sword?" asked Siger. "Polearms?"
"Sword," said Halek. "But not that short one. I've used a longer one, or the curved—"
Siger grinned at him. "You'll learn. That's what I'm for, and Paks will teach you a lot." He handed Halek a blade. "Now—are you used to a shield?"
"I've used one."
"We'll start without. Go slowly until you get used to the length." They crossed blades and Siger began his usual commentary. "Hmm. I see you've done more fencing than military—that stroke won't work with this blade. You don't have the length. No, and you can't dance about like that in formation, either." He tapped Halek's ribs when an opening came. "When you don't have a shield, your blade must do its work. A little faster now—yes." The clatter of blades speeded up. "No, you're still jigging around too much. Stop now—" As Halek lowered his blade, Siger looked around and motioned to Paks and several others. "Form a line with him," he said. "Paks, come over here and take my shield side. Now—what's your name?"
"Halek."
"Halek, good. Now you'll see what I mean about staying in formation—these on either side will protect your flanks, as you protect theirs. If you stay in line with them, you'll be fine. Clear?"
"Yes. But there's three of us, and only two of you—"
Siger glanced at Paks and smiled slightly. "That's no problem to us. Paks, put a banda on; we don't want you stiff at Sibili." Paks stepped to the pile of bandas and returned to Siger's side. Facing her was Sif, of Dorrin's cohort, with Halek in the middle and Vik on the far end. She found she could hold her own against him easily, with strokes to spare for Halek. Siger, despite Vik's aggressive attack, had breath and arm to spare, as usual. He continued his commentary on Halek's swordsmanship and found time to correct the rest of them.
Halek kept trying to shift to one side or the other, but found himself locked between his companions and his opponents' swords. Finally he seemed to get the idea, and began working with Vik and Sif. Sif, now that Halek was doing better, pressed harder. Paks was acutely aware of her unprotected shield arm. She found herself countering strokes rather than pressing her own attack. Halek almost made a touch on her. He grinned. That, thought Paks, is a mistake. She slipped the leash on her anger, forcing a startled Sif back, and back again, and giving Halek two good thumps with her blade. Siger moved with her, stroke for stroke, and they pushed the others to the edge of the ring.
"Hold," said Siger. As they lowered their blades, he said, "Halek, you'll need to practice this way every day. Your bladework is fair, considering your experience, but your cross-body strokes are weak; that's why you shift so. Come back here in a half-glass with a shield, and we'll start again." He turned to Paks. "Tell Stammel that Halek needs the time with me, and see if they'll release you, too." Paks nodded.
"Come on, Halek," she said. "We'll get you a shield from the quartermaster."
"What about a sword?"
"Not until I say you're ready," said Siger.
Paks and Halek walked back toward the quartermaster's wagon. Halek was silent for a few yards, then said gruffly. "You're—you're good with a sword."
"I ought to be," said Paks cheerfully. "Siger spent enough yelling and putting bruises on me." She felt good.
"Mmph. Well—I didn't think you would be. I've never seen women fighters before."
"Siniava doesn't use them at all?"
"Oh, I hear he's got a few girls—they duel, and that, at banquets and the like. And of course there's women with his army, but not for fighting." He chuckled. Paks felt herself getting hot again.
"Things are different in this Company," she said firmly.
"I can see that." He walked on a few paces in silence. "But—I don't see how—why—a woman would want to be a fighter. It's hard work—dirty—you can get killed—" He sounded genuinely puzzled.
Paks found herself suppressing a laugh. "Hard work? Were you ever on a farm? Working? No, I thought not. This is no harder than farmwork I was doing at home, and it's no dirtier than butchering sheep. As for getting killed—women die having babies, if it comes to that." She glanced at him to see his reaction; his face was furrowed in a frown. "Besides," she went on, "I like fighting. I'm good at it, and I enjoy it, and I get paid for it. I'd make a very bad farmer's wife."
"Well, but—aren't you going to marry someday?"
Paks shook her head. "No. Some do, but not me. I never wanted to."
"I just can't—are there many women like you in the north?"
Paks shrugged. "I don't know. Some. You saw Captain Dorrin, and Arñe at lunch. Maybe a fourth of us in this Company are women."
"I see." He still looked puzzled.
 
Back | NextFramed