left home. But he, if he survived his time, would be an officer—maybe a knight. She flicked an appraising glance at his thin face, still with the unformed curves of a boy despite its leanness. She felt much older than that. The squire reddened under that brief look; she wondered if he had expected her to answer with sir. Not for you, yet, she thought. Not for you yet awhile.
The room he led her to overlooked the courtyard; two narrow windows let in the cold afternoon light. Inside were the Duke, one of the surgeons, and a man on a narrow bed. Paks wrinkled her nose at the smell. The Duke looked up.
“Paks. Good. Come on in.” She stepped into the room. “Captain Ferrault would like to speak with you,” said the Duke formally. Paks had not recognized the captain. He was pale, his face gaunt, his usually mobile mouth fixed in a grimace. The Duke, Paks saw, held one slack hand. The surgeon bent over him, gently removing bandages with a pot of sharp-smelling liquid. Paks came to the head of the bed.
“Yes, sir,” she said to the Duke. She had seen enough to know that Ferrault was dying. She knelt beside the bed. “Captain—? It’s Paks, sir.”
For a moment he seemed to stare through her, then his eyes focussed. “Paks. You—did—well. To go. I told —the Duke.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry we weren’t faster, sir, for the rest of you.”
His head rolled in a slow shake. “No matter. Did enough. I hoped—” He broke off with a gasp. Paks saw his knuckles whiten on the Duke’s hand. She heard a curse from both the surgeon and the Duke.
“Sorry, my lord,” said the surgeon. “Sorry, captain. Just—one more—layer. There.” Paks saw sweat film the captain’s face. “Umm,” said the surgeon. Paks glanced down Ferrault’s body to the wound now exposed. No doubt where the stench came from; she swallowed hard to keep from retching. Ferrault’s face was grayer now, and wet.
“You—can’t do—anything,” whispered Ferrault. It was not a question.
The surgeon sighed. “Not to cure it, no. Not so late, with that—a pike, they said? Yes. It’s gone bad, but you knew that, with the fever. But I can—” He turned to rummage in his bag. “I can make you more comfortable. If you drink much, you’ll vomit, so—” He rose and came to the head of the bed. Paks moved back.
“Will it be—?”
“Long? No, Captain. And this should make it easier. No wine; it’ll taste bad, but drink it all.” The surgeon held a tiny flask to Ferrault’s lips as he swallowed. Then he stepped back and returned to the pile of bandages. He took a clean one, dipped it in the pot, and laid it gently over Ferrault’s wound, then gathered up the soiled bandages with his bag. “My lord, that dose should ease him for some hours. I’ll be back in time to give him another, or if you have need of me I’ll be with the others.”
“Very well, Master Simmitt, and thank you.” The surgeon left the room; the Duke turned back to Ferrault. “Captain—”
“My lord. Did I tell you—the seals—”
“Yes. You broke them.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. You did the right thing. Don’t worry.”
“But—my lord—I lost the cohort—and then the seals—and—”
“Shh. Ferrault, it’s all right. It’s not your fault. You did well—you’ve always done well. Your patron Gird will be pleased with you, when you come to him. I don’t know many captains who could have held off so many with a tiny mixed force.”
“But our losses—what will you do?”
“Do?” The Duke stared at the wall a moment, then smiled at Ferrault. “Ferrault, when I’m done with him, neither Siniava nor his friends nor his followers will have a hut to live in or a stone to mark where they died. I’m going to destroy him, Ferrault, for what he did to you and the Company. We’ve already destroyed the army he brought north this year, and that’s only the beginning.”
“Can you—do all that—my lord?”
“With help. Clart Company rode with us. Vladi sent a cohort of spears. I expect Aliam Halveric to arrive any day to avenge his son. So you take your rest, Ferrault, and tell Gird we’d be glad of a little assistance.”
Ferrault smiled faintly. His eyelids sagged as he whispered, “Yes, my lord.”
The Duke looked up at Paks, now leaning against the wall. “And you, Paks, know nothing of my plans, is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You may go. Send my captains to me, please, and see if you can find the Halveric sergeant; I want to speak to him.”
“Yes, my lord.” Paks tried not to limp as she left the room, but her leg had stiffened again.
“Are you hurt?” came the Duke’s voice behind her. She turned.
“No, sir, just bruised.”
“Well, see the surgeon after you’ve given my messages. Don’t forget.”
“No, sir, I won’t.” The same squire was standing outside the room; he scowled at her and went to the door as she started for the stairs. Paks ignored him. In the courtyard she asked Vik where the Halveric sergeant might be, and he jerked his head at a group of Halveric soldiers in one corner. Paks knew a few of the faces, but was not sure of the sergeant until he stepped forward.
“I’m Sunnot,” he said. “The sergeant. Were you looking for someone?”
“Yes,” said Paks. “The Duke asked me to find you; he’d like to speak to you.”
Sunnot grimaced. “I’ll bet he would. What a mess. Where is he?”
“Up those stairs, third room on the left.”
“Oh. He’s with the captain, then. How is he?” Paks shook her head. Sunnot sighed. “I thought maybe your surgeons could do something. Well—I hope your Duke’s not too angry—”
“He is, but not with you.”
“Umm. You’re the one who got through, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Paks turned away. “I’ve got to find the captains; go on up.”
“I will.”
Paks limped into the outer yard, looking for the captains, and found them busy. Pont was in the barracks where the wounded had been moved. Cracolnya was preparing the pyre of enemy bodies, and Dorrin was in the enemy camp, supervising the looting. Sejek was dead, of a crossbow bolt through one eye. When Paks had finally delivered her messages, she struggled back to the fort. Erial, one of Cracolnya’s sergeants, was waiting for her at the gate.
“You need to see the surgeon,” she said gruffly. “The Duke’s called assembly after we eat, and we want all you walking wounded there.” Paks did not argue. Between her leg and her ribs, she was not sure she was still walking wounded.
Master Visanior looked up as she came into the barracks. “You again. Though I told you to stay out of trouble.” Paks said nothing. How could she fight and stay out of trouble? “Hmmph,” the surgeon went on. “Stubborn as a fighter always is. Well, let’s see the damage.” She fumbled at the thongs fastening her greaves, and he helped draw them off, and the boot beneath. A large, hard, dark-blue swelling throbbed insistently. The surgeon poked it; Paks clenched her jaw. “Not broken, I don’t think, but it’s taken damage. What was it?”
“Pike butt.”
“And you’ve that broken rib, too. Anything else?”
“No—nothing like that, anyway.”
“Good. If this hasn’t damaged the bone, it’ll hurt for ten days or so, but it’ll heal. Try not to hit it again. Stay off it as much as you can—keep your leg up. I’ll tell the sergeants. Have you eaten yet?”
“No, sir.” Paks had not even thought of food, or mealtimes; now she wondered how late it was.
“Then you’ll stay here until you do. Just lie down over there—” he pointed. “Someone will bring you food.”
Paks thought of trying to leave, but the surgeon’s sharp eye was on her until she stretched out on a pallet. Her leg throbbed. She closed her eyes for a moment. Someone touched her shoulder and she jerked awake. Surely she hadn’t been asleep—but it was almost dark. Torches burned in the yard; lamps, in the stable itself. A private in black and white held a steaming bowl and mug toward her. She tried to gather her wits as she reached for them; he
