Sheepfarmers Daughter (12 page)

Beyond that hole, they were back in ankle—deep mud, but the change of pace had rested them. Now they slogged on together, all three units chanting one song after another. "Cedars of the Valley" gave way to "The Herdsman's Daughter" after many verses. On the left, trees thinned to pasture, and across the fields Paks could see a river as gray as the sky. The road edged toward it. Soon she could see a cluster of cottages huddled near the road. As they neared them, the road firmed. Paks could feel gravel through her sodden boots. They came to a paved square, streaming in the rain. Around it were larger buildings: an inn, a tall building with wide doors painted blue and red, several large houses. Stammel halted the column. Paks shifted her shoulders under her wet cloak and wondered if they would get anything from the inn. She looked around. The square was empty but for them; their mules were caked in mud to the belly, and the other units looked as muddy as she was. Her legs ached. She tried to see out the other side of the square, where the road humped itself up — a bridge, she thought. This must be Littlebridge.

A short time later, they marched out, having seen the inside of the inn very briefly, while downing fresh rolls and mugs of hot soup. That interval of warmth and dryness helped, but all too soon Paks was back out in the rain, lining up behind Vona's unit, with Kefer's behind her.

They started briskly across the square and over the narrow humped bridge beyond it. On the other side were more houses, some large, and craftshops. Then the houses dwindled to cottages flanked by gardens, and the gravelled road softened to mud.

The rest of that day was a matter of endurance. At times the rain slackened, but mostly they marched before a chill, wind—driven rain. Mud was always with them: now thicker, and clinging to their boots with every step, now thinner and splashing like water. They passed sodden little villages, too small for an inn, and wet farms that seemed half—melted into the ground. Every two hours they halted for a brief rest and change of position. By midafternoon, they were numb with fatigue, stumbling along the road like drunks. Paks ached from head to heel. She no longer worried about her sword rusting, or where they would sleep. She put one foot ahead of the other with dogged intensity. As the light faded, her unit shifted again from last to middle, this time with no pause for rest.

"We've got to get them to Fiveway," she heard Stammel say, but she did not look up to see who else was nearby. They started again, lurching in the mud. Soon it was too dark to see anything but the nearest ranks and the road beneath. Then that faded. They marched on in the darkness more by feel than sight. The last singers lost heart and the marching songs died away. Paks could not have said how long they'd marched — it seemed like half the night — when a line of dim orange lights broke the darkness ahead. She could not tell how far away they were, nor how big — they were merely blurs that brightened step by step. After awhile, she realized that they were square: windows, she thought suddenly, with lights behind them. At once she felt even colder and stiffer than before.

Soon she could see light reflected on the wet road outside the windows.

The road firmed under her feet: gravel again. She heard the crisp hoof—beats of the captain's horse passing on the right. Torches flared ahead, wavering in the wind. By their light she could see wet pavement, the fronts of buildings, the gleam of steel. An abrupt challenge rang out before them. Stammel called a halt. She heard voices, but could not distinguish the words. She shivered. The torches came nearer; now she could see the men holding them, and the armed men behind. She slid a hand to her sword hilt. Stammel appeared, carrying a torch now. In its dancing light his face was strange; she could not read its expression.

"We've got shelter near here," he said. "Vona's unit will pick up food at the inn. Paks, yours will unpack the mules. Follow Devlin; he knows where to go."

Paks did not think she could follow anyone anywhere, but when Devlin came with a torch, she found she could still pick up her feet. They turned down a lane beside a high stone wall, and came out in a field, onto short wet grass. Not far away Paks sensed a large structure looming against the sky. Devlin led them to it: a barn, stone below and wood above, easily large enough for all of them. The mules were already tied along one end, and the skinner had lighted other torches; a warm glow spilled out to meet them.

Once inside, the relief of being out of the wind and rain was enormous. The barn was almost empty, but for hay in one corner. Paks wanted to fall headlong in that hay and sleep, but Devlin prodded her to come unload the mules. She and the others stumbled over and pulled off the packs. Kefer's unit, meanwhile, began placing torches high in wall brackets away from the hay. Then they laid out sleeping areas. Their final chore was setting up lines for drying their wet clothes; the barn had hooks built in, and Devlin handed out rolls of thin cord. By this time, Vona's unit had brought the food, plentiful and hot despite the trek from the inn.

Long loaves of bread that steamed when they were broken — crocks of butter — kettles of savory stew — Paks ate at first hardly noticing what she put in her mouth, but as she warmed up she realized how good it was. Mug after mug of a strange hot drink not so bitter as sib. Bowl after bowl of stew. Suddenly she was nearly asleep, nodding as she sat. She glanced around. Devlin and Bosk were gathering empty platters and pots; she wondered if they would make the trip back tonight to the inn. She met Stammel's eye and braced herself for the order to go back — but he smiled and told her to get some sleep. When she tried to get up, she found she had stiffened from that brief rest. She barely made it to a heap of hay and an empty blanket, falling into a deep sleep before she could review any part of the day.

The next morning rain still fell in curtains. Captain Pont decided to delay at least a day, and the barn filled with drying clothes. Everyone felt stiff and grumpy at first, but by noon they were all awake enough to be restless. Paks even welcomed a walk through the rain to the inn for food. A caravan bound for Verella had come in; great wagons blocked the streets, and the inn was full of wet and disgruntled merchants.

"Camped!" she heard one exclaim to the landlord, as she led her file toward the kitchen. "By Simyits, we weren't camped. We were stuck — flat stuck! Gods blast your count or whatever you've got down here! I pay toll on this passage every year, and he hasn't set stone on the road since my father died." Paks glanced at the speaker, a tall, powerful man in mud—stained leather with a gold chain around his neck and a ring in each ear. The landlord, shorter and plumper, had a fixed smile on his face. "You can tell him for me," the big man went on, "that the Guild League can find another way north, if it comes to that." Then Paks was in the kitchen, dodging a squad of agitated cooks to the table where their food was laid ready. She noticed on her way back out that the landlord had escaped from the tall man, and was leading a party of velvet—clad ladies up the stairs.

When she mentioned the incident to Stammel, he laughed. "That'd be the wagonmaster," he said. "Let's see — it might be the Manin family caravan, or maybe Foss Council. Did you notice what they carried?"

"No, sir. What's the Guild League he mentioned?"

"Guild League cities, that is. Those on the north caravan route, not the Immer route." Paks felt that this explained nothing. Stammel noticed her blank look. "Don't you know anything about the south, about Aarenis?"

"It's where some spice comes from, and fancy embroidery," said Paks.

"Umm. That's not enough. We have time for better. Have you heard of the Immerhoft Sea, that lies south of the land?" Paks nodded. Jornoth had mentioned it. "Across the Immerhoft was Aare, the old kingdom. Those people settled islands in the Immerhoft, then sailed on to find a great land they called Aarenis, the daughter of Aare. They settled it, and spread, and the land was divided among great lords and their children. In time they spread to the Dwarfmounts, driving the elves ahead of them, and found passes to the north. That's what we call the south —Aarenis is what it's called when you're in the south — from the Immerhoft to the Dwarfmounts. These same folk settled the western kingdoms of the north."

Paks frowned. "I thought the Eight Kingdoms were settled by seafolk and nomads from the north. My grandfather — "

"Was probably a horse nomad. In part, they were. But all these groups met in the Honnorgat valley. The eastern kingdoms, those below the great falls, have more seafolk. Tsaia and Fintha have more nomads. And Lyonya and Prealith have elves. But most of the folk in Tsaia and Fintha came from Aarenis long ago." Paks nodded, and Stammel went on. "There's a great trade between Aarenis and the Eight Kingdoms and most of it comes through the pass we'll use, up the Vale of Valdaire. Long ago it came by water, up the Immer and its tributaries. Southbound trade sailed from Immer ports to Aare itself. But Aare is a wasteland now, and the sea trade goes to other lands — I don't know where myself, and the tales are strange enough. Anyhow, for one reason and another, a group of cities agreed to build a new trade route, a land route. Some say the river trade was taxed too heavily by the lords and cities along it, and some that river pirates made it too dangerous. I think myself that these cities traded more with the north, and for that a land route was needed anyway. So their merchant guilds joined in the Guild League, and they built the road and maintain it, and they send their caravans north each year, and we send ours south. The wars in Aarenis come partly from rivalry between the Guild League cities and the river cities and old lords."

"Which side are we on?" Effa had come near to listen, with several others.

"Whoever hires us," said Bosk, leaning on the wall nearby.

Stammel nodded. "He's right. The Duke makes a contract with some—one — a city or a lord, whoever will pay his price — and that's who we fight for."

Effa looked shocked. "But — surely the Duke wouldn't make a contract with just anyone."

"Well — no. We're a northern company, after all: an honorable company. He has his standards. But we've fought for one city against another, and for a lord against a city, and the reverse. It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean, we're an honorable company?" asked Barra. "Aren't all companies much alike?"

"Tir, no! I wish they were. The good ones — mostly northern — agree on some things — we won't harbor each other's criminals or traitors, we won't torture prisoners, we treat prisoners fairly, and so forth. We don't steal supplies from peasants, or destroy crops if we can avoid it. We compete, but we know there's wars enough to keep us all employed; we don't try to kill each other off, except in battle. And that's our business. But there are some others — " Stammel paused, and looked around the group; more recruits had come to listen to him, and Captain Pont lounged nearby. "Captain Pont will bear me out—"

Pont nodded, his long face splitting in a grin. "Surely. The south is full of so—called mercenaries. Most of'em are robbers that blackmail some poor town into hiring them to keep order. Some are fairly honest hired blades in summer, and robbers in winter. A few are fairly well—organized and independent, but downright nasty — "

"The Wolf Prince — " muttered Stammel.

"y es — the Wolf Prince. He's definitely a bad one. Uses poison, assassins, and anything else he can think of. Tortures prisoners and sells "em to the searovers. Takes ransom only in coins or hard jewels, and only within three days. We broke into his stockade one year — were you there, Stammel?"

"Yes, sir." Stammel picked up the tale. "He'd captured a patrol of the Sier of Westland's light cavalry, and chained them all in the open, without food or water. Three were alive when we broke in, and only one lived to make it back to Westland, with all we could do."

"But didn't you kill him?" Effa broke in.

"No. He'd gotten away a few days before; we never did know how he got through the lines." Stammel paused, his face grim. "Then there's the Honeycat. Calls himself Count of the South Marches, I think it is, and runs four companies or so along the coast and up the Immer valleys. There's a bad one. We'll probably come against him again this campaign. He's not exactly a mercenary, in the usual sense. He stirs up wars; they say he has factions in every city, and has even bought out some of the guilds. He hates the northern companies, because he can't scare us or bribe us."

"Why is he called Honeycat?"

"It's what he's like, they say — sweet words, soft voice, and then claws in your belly."

"I've heard of him," said Barra suddenly. "Isn't he the one that hung the witwards of Pliuni upside down from the city gates?"

"Yes, but it wasn't the witwards. It was the priests of Sertig's Anvil and the Lord's Hall. That's why five priesthoods have banned him — not that he cares; he believes in none of them. Some say he worships the Tangler or the Master of Torments, and others say he follows the Thieves' Creed. Whichever, he's bad clear through. His captains are as bad as he is."

"Is that why we're going to fight him?" asked Effa. Stammel glared.

"Haven't you been listening at all? We're a mercenary company; we fight for pay. If we do fight the Honeycat, it'll be because some enemy of his hires us. We have nothing to do with good and bad — not that way, I mean."

Paks was still thinking about something Stammel had said earlier. "You said the honorable companies treat prisoners well — "

"Yes. Why?"

"Well — how do we — I mean, isn't it dishonorable to surrender? And for the others? I thought we just fought until — "

"No, no," Stammel interrupted. "We're hired fighters, not fanatic hotheads. We fight hard when we're fighting, but if our Duke or captains tell us to quit, we quit. Right then. You remember that, or you won't make it back to wherever — Three Firs. There's no sense in losing the whole Company out of pride."

"But don't we owe it to whoever hired us?" asked Saben.

"No. The Duke hired
you
— remember your oath to him?" He looked around until they all nodded. "You agreed to obey the Duke, and his captains — no one else. That's where your honor lies. Somebody who has a contract with the Duke, that's between the Duke and him. Our honor is between the Duke and us."

"It — it doesn't happen often, does it? Being surrendered, I mean, and captured?" Paks still could not imagine it.

"No. Not to us; the Duke's careful. He won't take a contract where we don't have a chance. But it has, and it may again." Paks sat frowning at her bare feet as the talk went on around her. It had never occurred to her that they might surrender; she did not like that idea at all. Effa was still arguing, talking about St. Gird and the honor of a warrior, and Arñe, as usual, was trying to shut Effa up.

"Effa," said Pont finally, "if you wanted to be that sort of warrior — a paladin or something like that — you should have talked to your Marshal about joining a fighting order — "

"He said I should get experience," said Effa, red—faced.

"You'll get that here," said Pont. "And even Marshals and paladins, Effa, must follow orders — "

"But they don't surrender! They fight to the death — "

"Not always," said Bosk. "I've known them to retreat: any good warrior must learn when to withdraw."

"You've seen that?"

"Yes. Think of the legends; Gird himself retreated once, at Blackhedge, remember? If you finish your service with us, and join a fighting order, you'll see — fighting's fighting, Effa — war doesn't change. If Girdsmen never backed out of a fight, they'd all be dead." Effa looked unconvinced, but subsided.

Late that afternoon the rain stopped. By next morning, the clouds had cleared. They were on the road early. When they fetched breakfast from the inn, well before dawn, they learned that another caravan had come in the night before, from the east.

"You might's well go across the fields," the landlord told Captain Pont. "We've wagons wall to wall in town, and stuck on all the roads in. You'll not harm plowed or planted ground if you swing east a bit and then south: that's fallow this year.

So they made good time on the turf for some distance. They climbed a long gentle slope. The view opened around them: pastureland nearby, and blocks of woodland in the distance. Something along the woods edge was in bloom; puffs of white that looked like plum blossom. As they topped the rise, Paks noticed an irregular cloud bank to the south and east.

"There they are," said Stammel cheerfully.

"What?" Paks could not see anything cheerful about more clouds.

"The mountains — that's the Dwarfmounts."

"They're not very big," she said doubtfully. "I thought they were big mountains."

Stammel laughed. "They are. We're a long way from them. Keep watching."

Day by day the mountains crawled above the horizon, showing themselves taller and taller. Eastward the highest peaks were snow—covered from tip to foothills below—but even the western end of the range was higher than anything Paks had seen. The tales went round the fires at night: those dun—colored hills were home to gnomes, the princedoms of Gnarrinfulk and Aldonfulk. The mountains themselves sheltered tribe after tribe of dwarves: Goldenaxe, Axemaster, Ironhand. Rich dwarves, immensely rich with the gold and silver and gemstones they delved from the mountains' roots.

Now the road swung west, along the line of the range, and west again, as they climbed higher into the hills. The mountains seemed to dive into the earth just west of their path. "That's the pass," explained Stammel. "And just beyond is the Vale of Valdaire." Here the road was busy. They passed caravans headed north, great wagons pulled by powerful mules, each with its armed guard atop, and a squad or so of men—at—arms marching before and behind the train. They saw more dwarves, traveling in troops, heavily armed, peering up at the humans suspiciously from under their bushy brows. Elves here and there — single travelers, mostly, but once a small band of elven knights, who hailed the captain in silvery ringing voices that thrilled the ear like harpstrings lightly plucked.

As the road rose higher over every hill, Paks could see behind them the great tumbled rug of forest and field that sloped from the mountains to the Honnorgat. Far away north was Verella of the Bells, and upriver from that Fin Panir that she had never seen. And somewhere very far north and west, beyond the Honnorgat and at the springing of one of its minor branches, were the moors above Three Firs and the low stone house where she'd been born. The miles to the Duke's stronghold had seemed no barrier to return, nor the crossing of the great river, nor the miles since. But when she looked up at the mountains' snowy wall, she felt that crossing them would be to leave the land of her home.

As she mused, someone noticed the blue shadow to the west. Still many miles away, it hung a blue curtain on the sky — the arm of a great mass of mountains that bordered Aarenis on the west. The pass south lay between the two ranges.