“Not yet, my lord. She came just this evening.”
“Well, then. You might stay with the Company, Paksenarrion, until you have decided how you will travel. The state Aarenis is in, going alone would not be wise. I’ll be sending someone back to Valdaire a little later, if you wanted to wait—” The Duke had more advice, but none of the condemnation Paks had feared. He seemed more tired than anything else, a little distracted, though kind. She shook his hand, and returned to the cohort area with Arcolin, a little let down at how easy it had been.
Stammel was waiting. “You go on to bed. Tomorrow—”
“But tomorrow is Sord—”
“No. That’s the day after. And you won’t march with us. I’ll have something for you to do—”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me! I’m still your sergeant! By the time you get into Sord, you’ll be free of all this. Now get over there and go to sleep.”
That night Paks slept through to daylight without waking.
2
“From Duke Phelan’s Company, eh?” Paksenarrion nodded. The guard captain was a burly dark man of middle height. “Leaving the Company?”
Paks shrugged. “Going home for awhile.”
“Hmm. Wagonmaster says you want to leave the caravan halfway—?”
“It’s shorter—”
“Mmm. Wagonmaster talked to your sergeant, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’ll do, then, I suppose. Do you handle a crossbow?”
“Not well, sir. I have used a long-bow, but I’m no expert.”
The guard captain sighed. “Can’t have everything, I suppose. Now listen to me—the caravan starts making up day after tomorrow, and we’ll leave the day after that or the next, depending on how many merchants join up. I’ll want you here by high noon day after tomorrow, ready to work. You come in drunk, and I’ll dock your pay. We have to watch the wagons as close in the city as on the trail. Don’t plan on sleeping that night. Be sure to get some armor; the caravan doesn’t supply it. I’d recommend chainmail. The brigands we’ll run into along the coast use powerful bows. That leather you’re used to won’t stop arrows. You can buy mail from us, if you want.” He cocked his head at her. “Clear so far?”
“Yes, sir. Be here at noon day after tomorrow, with armor.”
“And not drunk.”
Paks flushed. “I don’t get drunk.”
“Everyone gets drunk. Some know when. And by the way, no bedding with the merchants; it’s bad for discipline.”
Paks bit back an angry retort. “No, sir.”
“Very well. See you day after tomorrow.” He waved her off. As she left the room, she passed two armed men in the hall outside; one of them carried a crossbow.
“I can’t believe you’re going.” Paks had hoped to slip out quietly, but Arñe, Vik, and other friends had found her. “What’ll you do by yourself?”
“I won’t be alone,” she said. “I’m doing caravan work—”
“Caravan work! Tir’s gut, Paks, that’s—”
“Some years the Duke does some. You know that.”
“Yes, but that’s with us—with the Company. To go out there with strangers—”
“Arñe, think. How many strangers are in the Company this year?”
“You’re right about that. But still—we’re—we’re your friends, Paks. Since I came in, you’ve been my friend.”
“Yes, but I can’t—”
“Is it that Gird’s Marshal? Are you going to join the Girdsmen?”
“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. I’m just—” Paks stared past them, trying to say it. “I’m taking leave—we’re all owed leave—and I might come back or I might not.”
“It’s not like you.” Vik scowled. “If it was Barra, leaving in a temper, I could understand it, but you—”
“I’m leaving.” Paks glared at him. “I am leaving. I have talked to Stammel and Arcolin and the Duke himself, and I’m leaving.”
“You’ll come back,” said Arñe. “You have to. It won’t be right.” Paks shook her head and walked quickly away.
As she was leaving the camp, one of the Duke’s squires caught her. “The Duke wants to see you before you go,” he said. She followed him to the Duke’s tent. Inside, the Duke and Aliam Halveric were talking.
“—and I think that will—Oh, Paksenarrion. The Halveric has a request to make of you.”
“My lord?”
“Since you are going north—I understand you are planning to cut across the mountains?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“If you’d be willing to delay your journey home long enough to carry this scroll to my steading in southern Lyonya, I will pay you well. It won’t be much out of your way if you take the eastern pass.”
“I would be honored, sir.” Paks took the scroll, in its protective leather case, and tucked it into her belt pouch.
“Come look at this map. You should come out of the mountains near here—if you go north, you’ll come to an east-west trail that runs from southern Fintha all the way to Prealith. You’ll find Lyonyan rangers, if you’re in Lyonya, or traders on it in Tsaia, and any of them can tell you how to find it.” He pointed it out on the map. “Tell them Aliam Halveric’s, or they’ll send you north to my brother or uncles. You don’t want to go that far out of your way. When you come there, be sure you give it to my lady: Estil, her name is, and she’s several hands higher than I am. Your word will come to her sooner than a courier going back up the Immer, I think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I can trust you, I’m sure, to tell no one of this. There are those who would be glad to steal that scroll, and cause trouble with it.”
“No, sir, I will tell no one.”
“I thank you. Will you trust my lady to pay you, or would you take it now?”
“Of course I will trust you—your lady, sir. I have not delivered it yet, though I swear I will.”
“Phelan says you may seek work in the north; is that so?” Paks nodded. “Well, then, Estil may be able to help. She will do what she can, I promise you.”
“Paksenarrion,” said the Duke, extending his hand. “Remember that you are welcome in my hall, and in my Company, at any time. May the gods be with you.”
“Ward of Falk,” said the Halveric. Paks left the tent half-unwillingly. It was hard to think that she had no right here anymore. If anyone had stopped her then, and asked her to stay, she might have changed her mind. But she saw none of her friends, and passed through the sentries without challenge. As she neared the city gates, the thought of the journey ahead drew her on.
She moved quickly through the crowded streets of Sord. Now that she was out of the Duke’s colors, in rough brown pants and shirt with a pack on her back and a longsword at her side, she heard no more of the catcalls that bothered her so. It felt very strange, being in trousers again after so long. Her legs were hot and prickly. The longsword, too, rode uneasily at her hip. She pushed it farther to the back, impatient. The pack was heavy . . . she had thought it was too hot to wear the chainmail shirt, and warm woollen clothes as well were folded into the pack. She cocked an eye at the sun, and strode on.
At the inn, the caravan master bustled about the court; three wagons were already loaded. He grunted as he saw her, and jerked his head toward the inn door. Paks looked and saw the guard captain there.
“Ha,” he said. “You’re on time.” He looked her up and down critically. “Where’s your mail?”