"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?"
"In my pack, sir," said Paks.
"Best wear it," he said. "With all the confusion around here, I wouldn't trust leaving it anywhere. Then you can put your gear in that wagon—" He pointed. "For now, just patrol around the packed wagons. As soon as some of the others arrive, I'll organize guard shifts."
By the time they had been on the road a few days, Paks felt more comfortable with the other guards. She still did not feel like trusting them in a bad fight, but she found them much like other soldiers she had known. A few outcasts of this company and that militia, but most were reliable and hard-working. Some had never been anything but caravan guards, and had no skills beyond aiming a crossbow. Others were well-trained, and had left respectable military units for all sorts of unimportant reasons. Drinking, fighting, and gambling topped that list.
Days passed. It was hotter on the Copper Hills track than any place Paks had yet been; the others told her this was the hottest part of the year.
"The smart ones take the spring caravans," said one, hunkered in the shade of a wagon one noon.
"When there is a spring caravan," said another.
"Yes, well, what can you expect of merchants?"
"High prices." A general laugh followed this. Paks sweltered in her chainmail, and looked east, toward the distant line of ocean. On some of the higher ground, when the heat haze didn't blur it, she could see sand and water form long, intricate curves. It looked cool out there. Finally she asked someone why they didn't travel closer to the ocean.
"Where are you from?"
"The north," she said. "Northwest of Vérella."
"Oh. That's inland, isn't it? You don't know much about the sea. Well, if we went closer to the sea, we'd get down in the worst country you can imagine. Sand—have you ever tried walking through sand?"
"I walked on a little bit of beach, between Immerdzan and—"
"No, not a beach. Dry sand—loose sand. It's—oh, blast. It's—it's worse than a dry plowed field." That Paks could understand, and she nodded. He went on. "So think about these wagons—the wheels sink in, and the mules labor. We labor. And then it's swamp. Sticky, wet, salt marsh. And more sand. And it's not cool—it's beastly hot, and the water is salt, and everything stinks. Ycch."
"And don't forget the pirates," put in another of the guards.
"I was coming to that. Pirates—they call it the robber's coast, you know."
"But how do pirates live there?"
"Some people like eating crabs and clams and things. There's plenty of that shellfish. There are fresh-water springs here and there, so they say. A few miserable shacky villages. And the pirates have ships, and can sail away."
Despite the ominous name of robber's coast, and the caravan master's precautions—or because of them—no bandits showed their faces, and the caravan crawled steadily northward without trouble. Paks practiced the crossbow, and impressed the other guards with her fencing. She, in turn, spent plenty of time spitting out dirt after trying unarmed combat with the others. They had tricks she had never
seen in the Company.
Finally she saw a smudge on the horizon ahead, where the Dwarfmounts crossed the line of the Copper Hills. As they came closer, she could see that the mountains ran east of the present coast line, and saw the angle of shore change from sand and mud to rock again.
"That's the Eastbight," said a merchant, when he saw her looking. "If you sail, you have to get well out for the best currents.
"And where you don't ever want to go," added one of the guards, "is over there—" He pointed to a wide bay that lay in the angle. "That's Slaver's Bay. If there's a robber on the coast, there's ten in Slaver's Bay. It'd take a Company the size of your Duke's to keep you safe in that place."
"I've traded there," objected another merchant. The guard looked at him.
"Well," he said finally, "They must not have liked your face—or your fortune."
The caravan had reached the crossroads, and turned west for the pass through the Copper Hills into the Eastmarches of Aarenis. Paks began to look at her map again, hoping she could find the trail that led to the eastern pass of the Dwarfwatch. The other guards kept suggesting that she find a companion, but she was reluctant to ask anyone; she didn't want everyone on the caravan to know where she was going. Finally they took it on themselves to look.
* * *
"If you want a traveling companion, there's another that's leaving us at the Silver Pass." Jori, some years older than Paks, had been one of the most insistent that she find a companion.
"Oh?" Paks kept working at the crossbow mechanism. "Who is it?"
"That elf." She looked up, startled. She hadn't known there was an elf with the caravan. Jori grinned wickedly. "Proud as elves are, you won't have to worry about 'im bothering you."
Paks ignored that. "What's he leaving for?"
Jori's smile faded. "Oh—says he's going to the Ladysforest. You know, the elf kingdom. But he'd be going part of the way with you."
"Huh." Paks set the crossbow down and stood up, stretching. "Where is he?"
"Over there." Jori cocked his chin at the group around the big fire. "I'll introduce you, eh?"
"Not yet. I want to see him first."
"In the gray cloak, then," said Jori.
He looked to be a fingersbreadth shorter than she was, Paks thought, and he didn't look like the elves she had seen, but for something a little alien in the set of his green-gray eyes, and his graceful way of moving. His voice held some of the elven timbre and music.
"No, I have business in my own kingdom," he was saying to a merchant of spice.
"But don't you fear the high trails alone?" asked another.
"Fear?" His voice mocked them and his hand dropped lightly to the golden hilt of a slender sword. The merchants nodded and murmured. Paks looked closely at the sword. Very slender—a dueller's blade, she thought. If he had not been elvish, she would have suspected bravado rather than confidence in that word. He was slender and moved lightly. She could not tell, for the strange billowing style of his tunic, whether his shoulders were broad enough for a practiced warrior. His hands were sinewy, but she saw no training scars or calluses. Was it the firelight, or did elves not callus? One of the merchants looked up then and noticed her.
"Ho, a guard! It's that tall wench—come to the fire, girl, and be warm." He waved an expansive arm. Paks grinned and stayed where she was.
"'Tis warm enough here, by your leave. But I heard talk of the high trails, and came near to listen."
"What do you want with that? Are you planning to skip the caravan and go north?"
"I'd heard of several trails," said Paks. She didn't want to say exactly how much she knew. "And I knew someone who'd been over Dwarfwatch. But if there's a shorter way—"
"Oh, shorter," said another merchant. "That's with where you're going in the north—" He looked closely at Paks, but she didn't say anything. After a moment he shrugged and went on. "If you go straight across at Silver Pass, you come out between Prealith and Lyonya, but there's a good trail on the north side that will bring you west again and out near the southeast corner of Tsaia." Paks nodded. She felt rather than saw the elf watching her. "That trail meets the one crossing from Dwarfwatch; there's a cairn at the crossing, and a rock shelter. If you're headed for Tsaia, the distance isn't less, but you can travel faster alone, and the passes themselves are easier than the Dwarfwatch route. That high one—" he broke off and shook his head.
Paks followed this with interest. "I thank you, sir," she said. "I have no great knowledge of mountaincraft; I had heard only that the pass was short."
The merchant laughed. "Aye—it's short enough. If you get over it. Ice in midsummer, and blizzards—dangerous always, and for one alone—well, were I you, I'd take the eastern passes, the ones we spoke of. You'll be in mountainous country longer, but none of it as high or as cold. Does the Wagonmaster know you're leaving?"
"Of course, sir!" Paks was angry, but she saw by the reactions of the others that no insult was meant.
"I would ask him to free you for the eastern pass," said the merchant seriously. "Especially since you're traveling alone."
Paks nodded and said no more. The merchants returned to their usual topics: what product they had found in this or that port, and how well they sold; who ruled what cities, and what the recent war would do to the markets.
"What I worry about," said one enormous man in a heavy yellow cloak, "is what it will do to the tolls. They say the Guild League spent and spent for this last year's fighting—they'll have to get it back somehow, and what easier than by raising the tolls?"
"They need us too much," said another. "And they were founded to give trade a chance. The Guild League won't rob us, take my word for it."
"If they do, there's the river," suggested another. "Now Alured's settled down to play Duke, he'll be letting us use the river again—"
"Ha! That old wolf! By Simyits, you can't believe a pirate's changed by gaining a title—can you? And what have we ever got, come to that, from the noble lords and their kind? They want our gold, right enough, when a war's brewing, but after that it's—oh, those merchanters: no honor, no loyalty—tax 'em down, they're getting too proud." Paks found herself laughing along with the rest, though she, too, thought of merchanters as having no honor—like the militia of Vonja. It had never occurred to her before to wonder what the merchanters thought.
When she came off watch that night, and stopped by the guards' fire for a mug of sib, a cloaked figure rose across the circle of light to greet her. She caught a flash of green from wide-set eyes.
"Ah. Paksenarrion, is it not?"
Paks stood stiffly, uncertain. "Yes—it is. And you, sir?"
He bowed, gracefully, but with a curious mocking style. "Macenion, you may call me. An elf, as you see." Paks nodded, and reached for the pot of sib. "Allow me—" he said softly, and a tin mug rose from the stack beside the pot, dipped into the liquid, and rose to Paks's hand. She froze, her breath caught in her throat. "Go on," he said. "Take it." She looked at the mug, then her hand, then folded her fingers gingerly around the mug's handle. She nearly dropped it when it sank into her grip. She let her breath out, slowly, and sipped. It tasted like sib—she wondered if he had put anything into it. She froze again as another mug rose from the pile, filled itself, and sailed across the fire to Macenion. He plucked it from the air, bowed again to her, and took a sip himself. "I apologize," he said lightly, "if I frightened you. I had heard you were a warrior of some experience."
Paks drank her sib, wondering what to make of this. She certainly did not want to admit being frightened of a little magic, but he had seen her reaction. She set the mug down firmly, when she finished, and sat down slowly. "I had not seen that before," she said finally.
"Evidently," he replied. He brought his own mug back to the stack and sat near her. "When I asked," he began again, "everyone assured me that you had an excellent reputation." Paks felt a tingle of irritation: what gave him the right to ask about her? "You were in Phelan's Company, I understand
." He looked at her and she nodded. "Yes. One of the other guards had heard about you. Not the usual sort of mercenary, he said." Again Paks felt a flickering anger. "And this evening past, you said you were going north over the mountains before we reached Valdaire. Alone, I assumed—?" Paks nodded again. "I might," he said, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap, "I might be able to help you. I know those trails—difficult for one with no mountain experience, but safe enough."
"Oh?" Paks reached out and refilled her mug.
"Unless you prefer to travel alone. Few humans do."
Paks shrugged. "I have no one to travel with. I'd appreciate your advice on the trail." She was remembering Stammel's warning about those who might seek to travel with her.
The elf moved restlessly. "If you are willing, I thought we might travel together—as far as the borders of the Ladysforest, at least. I could tell you about the trails from there." He sat back, and looked at her from under dark brows. "It would be far safer for you, Paksenarrion, and a convenience to me. While the trails are not as dangerous as these caravan roads, all trails have their hazards, and it is as well to have someone who can draw steel at your back."
Paks nodded. "I see. It is well thought of. But—forgive me, sir—you seem to know more of me than I of you."
He drew himself up. "I'm an elf—surely you know what that is."
"Yes, but—"
His voice sharpened. "I fear I have no relatives or friends nearby that you can question. You will have to trust my word, or go alone. I am an elf, a warrior and mage—as you have seen—and I am returning to my own kingdom of the Ladysforest."
"I'm sorry to have angered you, sir, but—"
"Have you been told bad tales of elves? Is that it?"
Paks thought back to Bosk. "Yes—some."
His voice eased. "Well, then, it's not your fault. You must know that elves are an elder race, older far than men. Some humans are jealous of our knowledge and our skills. They understand little of our ways, and we cannot explain to those who will not listen. But elves, Paksenarrion, were created by the Maker himself to be the enemy of all evil beings. It is elves that orcs hate most, for they know their destiny is on the end of our blades: the dark powers of the earth come never near the elven kingdoms."