“What about Pargunese?” asked Kieri. They froze, staring at him. He went on. “The Pargunese won’t want me as king of Lyonya for several reasons. I defeated the Sagon of the west, many years ago—using someone else’s army, but I commanded. They know I will be a strong king, and they’ll have no chance to gain ground anywhere. And they hate elves.”
“But that would mean war between Pargun and Tsaia,” said Hagin. “Would they risk that?”
“If they could raid, and get back—with, perhaps, Verrakai’s connivance—perhaps not. And after all, it’s not Tsaia’s king they’re after.”
“Umm. You think Verrakai would let them through?”
“Yes—and blame the whole thing on them, as well.”
“Would the Pargunese be stupid enough to fall for it?” asked Lieth suddenly.
“You mean, what would they gain? Well, they’d not have me to deal with—and they don’t like me. And perhaps Verrakai has given or promised something else. A foothold on this side of the border? Gold? I don’t know, but just how many Pargunese cohorts could the Sagon move if he wanted to?”
“Could he move through Lyonya?” asked Marshal Sulinarrion of the Kings’ Squires.
“Not without starting real trouble,” said Garris. “We have garrisons all along the river—they’ve tried that before.”
“The Sagon of the west has eight cohorts, they say,” said Suriya. “But half of those are stationed along the northwest—”
Kieri laughed. “Yes—and I’m the reason. That leaves four—no more than two will be close enough to meet us, I daresay. So—a couple of Verrakai cohorts, a couple of Pargunese cohorts—and who will command those, I wonder?—and no more than one of Konhalt. What of Liart, Marshals? How many followers will they bring?”
High Marshal Seklis frowned. “I would have said there were no Liartians in Vérella, my lord. Yet there were. Gird knows how many are hiding in the forests.”
Kieri shook his head. “They let the rabbits run, companions, knowing they had hounds. They did not know, perhaps, that these rabbits had teeth.” The others laughed. “Indeed, my lord,” ventured Marshal Hagin, “you have the name of a fox, not a rabbit.”
“Indeed, Marshal, I shall have a name worse than that before we are done.” Kieri smiled. “But let’s take heart: though they oppose our seventy or so with their four or five cohorts, they may not suspect my own marching behind. Two against four sounds better. Despite the slow progress of our escort, I judge those heavy horses will do their work well when it comes to battle.”
“I hope so.” High Marshal Seklis let out a long sigh. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I would like to pray in the grange—”
“And I will join my prayers to yours, Marshal, if they are sent as I think.” For a moment everyone was silent, thinking of the captive by whom they were free and able to travel. This would be her second night of torment.
She woke cold and aching in a murky featureless light that made her doubt her senses. For some time she was not sure whether she was alive or dead: whatever she had expected was not this dim fog and cold. Fragments from a dream wandered through her mind: someone’s hands, warm and kind, easing her cramped muscles. A gruff voice, gentled by time, soothing her fear. But this vanished. She felt space around her, as if she were outside in an open place, but she could not see anything but fog. She blinked several times. Then she tried to move. Strained muscles and joints protested; she caught her breath, then moved again. Something soft and warm cushioned her tender head; she managed to get a hand up and felt stubbly hairs growing back in, the shape of a hood covering them, tender lumps and cuts that made her wince. Her fingers explored, found a bundle supporting her head, the cloak that covered her nakedness. When she passed her hand before her face, she could see it; at least she was not blind.
She moved her legs again. Stiffness, whether from lying on cold ground or the torture, she could not tell. But she could straighten them, and when she ran her hands where the burning stones had been, no wounds remained. Her hands moved without pain, as if the bones had never been broken. She pushed herself up, running a swollen tongue over dry lips. Distant sounds: wagon wheels, a bawling cow. Thin snow patched the frozen ground. She found the bundle that had been under her head. It was clothing—her own, torn off her by the guards. Someone had mended it crudely, sewing wooden buttons in place of the horn ones, patching the torn pieces with bits of strange cloth. Underneath it was a small packet of bread and meat, and a flask. Paks pulled the stopper free, and tasted: water, and pure. She drank it down, wincing as the cold liquid hit her raw throat. Then she threw back the cloak, and struggled into the clothes, shivering, not bothering to look at herself and notice what had and hadn’t healed. Wrapped once more in the cloak, she tried to think.
Alive, surely: she could not imagine any afterlife where she would find old clothes mended, some bruises still dark, and bad wounds gone entirely. Alive and free, outside the city by the sounds, and with someone’s goodwill by the clothes and food. She chewed a bit of meat slowly, her jaws sore. Alive, free, clothed, fed—what more could she want? She thought of several things. Warm would be nice. Knowing what had happened. Knowing where she was, and what day it was, and where the king was—all that. She staggered to her feet. Her unknown benefactor had not provided shoes or boots—she remembered that her boots had been cut away. Socks she had, but she couldn’t walk far in winter with socks alone.
Standing, she realized that she was lower than the surrounding ground, in a broad ditch or depression. The slope showed dimly in the fog. She took a couple of stiff steps toward it, glad to find she could walk at all. Something dark showed on the ground nearby. She stumbled that way, and nearly fell over the corpse.
It lay crumpled on the ground, already cold, the face like gray stone in that uncanny light. Paks stared, shaken out of her uncertain calm. Surely she should know that face. A light wind wandered through the depression, robbing her of the little warmth she’d made and stirring the dead woman’s black hair. Barra. The corpse wore red, bright even in that light: a red cloak, red tunic, over black trousers and boots. The hand still held a sword. Gingerly, Paks turned the stiff body over, wincing at her own pain. A dagger hilt stood out in its chest, another in the neck. Frozen blood darkened the tunic. Paks swallowed a rock of ice in her throat. She looked at the ground. All around the snow was scuffed and torn, stained with dirt and blood both. She touched the dagger hilts, lightly, then the sides of her own cloak. She found the thin leather sheaths where those daggers would fit.
She shuddered. No memory returned to guide her: had she thrown those knives, and killed the one who had come to aid her? But she could not believe that Barra had had that intent. Had she fought Barra? But then where had the cloak come from, and the food? A trick of the wind brought her the sound of footsteps: she froze, crouching beside the corpse. The footsteps came nearer, the steady stride of someone certain of the way and unafraid. Then a soft whistle, decorating a child’s tune with little arabesques. Then the quick scramble down the slope, and she could see a shape looming in the fog. It moved to where she had been, and called softly.
“Paks? Hell’s wits, she’s gone. And she can’t have gone far.”
Paks tried to speak, but made a harsh croak instead. At that the shape came near: a tall man in black. He carried a couple of sacks.
“There you are. I daresay you don’t remember me—Arvid Semminson?”
But Paks had already remembered the debonair swordsman in Brewersbridge who claimed to be on business for the Thieves Guild. She nodded.
He came nearer. “Are you sure you should be walking around?” His voice was less assured than she remembered, almost tentative.