wall.
From the streets below rose a confused clamor, and the deep chant of the Halveric foot. Paks found a stair going down, and positioned her squad to guard it. They could see very little, but she was not tempted to light a torch. They peered into darkness, with its confusing patches of wavering torchlight, and tried to interpret the noise.
Coming out from under the gate tower now were mounted troops, the horses’ hooves ringing on stone, and behind that the Sorellin foot. Far across the city Paks saw a bright blur of flame atop a tower. Now they heard shrieks from below, and again the clash and clang of weapons. Paks yearned to go down the stair and be part of it, but she knew Artfiel was right: a desperate or cunning enemy might try to climb the wall and retake the gate tower—or escape.
Gradually the noise receded toward the center of the city. There it intensified, a harsh uneven roar punctuated by occasional high-pitched outbursts. It was cold on the wall. Paks huddled into her cloak, cursing the orders that kept her idle and cold when a good fight raged. The tower door opened. Paks glanced toward it to see a tall figure stepping out on the wall. She stood, stamping her feet, as the Duke came up.
“Any trouble?”
“No, my lord.”
“Good. Foss Council militia are going to take over the wall. Bring your squad—I daresay you’d like to be in at the finish.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Very well. We’ll go back through the tower.” The Duke led them, nodding at the Foss Council captain as they passed into the tower. At the foot of the stairs, a squire held the Duke’s charger; the others who had been in the tower bunched nearby. He mounted and rode slowly up the wide street toward the battle. Paks and her squad marched on his left; two squires rode in front with torches. The street was ominously silent. Paks feared that hidden archers might shoot the Duke, but nothing happened.
As they came to the center of the city, they could see more torchlight and fires set against the walls of the old keep. This keep, the Duke had said, formed an interior defense completely separate from the outer walls. The Halveric ram battered this inner gate. Defenders crowded the wall. Fire arrows flew in both directions. Something inside the keep was burning; heavy smoke blew away on the north wind.
They had just reached the rear of the attacking lines when shrill screams broke out inside, and the men on the wall turned to look. At once the attackers flung up ladders and swarmed up the wall. Paks, waiting beside the Duke, found herself dancing from foot to foot. The gates opened, and the ram crew surged forward, followed by everyone who could cram into that narrow space. The Duke rode on, forcing a passage with his horse; Paks shoved her way alongside.
Within the gates all was confusion. Several small buildings were on fire, lighting the court with dancing yellow that glinted off weapons and armor. It was hard to tell defenders from attackers, Rotengre blue from Halveric green or Foss Council gray. Paks started yelling the Phelani battle-cry after nearly being spitted by one of Vladi’s spearmen.
The fight raged until every defender lay dead in the court or passages of the keep. Even then the noise and confusion continued, for the attackers turned to plunder. Paks had never seen anything like this, or imagined it. She expected the captains to call them all to order, but instead they urged on their troops or ignored them.
Fights broke out between militia and mercenaries over bales of silk, caskets of jewels, kegs of wine and ale —only then did the officers step in to restore peace. At first, Paks stayed out of the way, carrying water to some of the Duke’s wounded until wagons came to take them back to camp. But when Vossik found her standing in an angle of the inner wall, he took her arm and led her upstairs.
“This is where we make our stakes,” he said laughing. “Don’t worry—the Duke said we could sack the keep. Try not to get in fights, is all. Look—here’s a good place to start.” He shoved open the door of a small room that had been a study. Scrolls littered the floor around an overturned desk, its drawers scattered. “These things always have secret compartments,” said Vossik. “And militia are hasty. Watch—” He wrenched a leg off a chair and smashed the desk apart. A handful of loose jewels bounced across the floor. “That’s what I meant,” he said. “Go on. Take ’em.”
Paks scooped up the little chips of blue, red, and yellow: the first jewels she had ever held. Vossik looked at them critically.
“I’ll take this—” he picked out a red one and a blue one, “as my share for showing you how. Get busy now, or these damned lazy militia will get all the good loot.” He left Paks alone in the room. She put the stones in her pouch, and looked at the smashed desk. Was there another compartment? She picked up the chair leg.
By dawn, Paks had prowled through most of the rooms in the keep. Her pouch bulged with coins and jewels. She had a strip of embroidered silk wrapped around her neck, and a jewel-hilted dagger thrust into one boot. She could not bring herself to destroy furniture, so most of her finds were bits and pieces that had rolled out of sight of earlier plunderers. Now she headed downstairs, hoping to find something to eat. Along the way she passed drunken, sleeping fighters snoring beside the dead. Paks wrinkled her nose at the stench of blood, sour wine, vomit, and smoke. In the courtyard, a circle of soldiers were cooking over the remnants of a burning shed. Every one seemed to be draped in stolen finery: velvet and fur cloaks, bits of lace and silk that might have been shawls, gold and silver chains and bracelets. Paks looked around for someone she knew. These were all militiamen from Sorellin and Vonja.
“Where’s Duke Phelan’s Company?” she asked one of them.
His mouth was full of sausage, but he pointed toward the keep gates. Paks made her way out into the streets.
“There you are,” said Vik. He had a green velvet cap with a feather atop his helmet. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No.” Paks yawned. “Have you? I wish I could sleep.”
“Here—” Vik handed her a roll and a hunk of cheese. “I tried some of the food from their kitchen, but this is better. What’d you find in there—anything good?”
Paks nodded, her mouth full of bread.
“We’re supposed to clear the northwest quadrant today, but what we find goes to the common store, worse luck.” Vic shook his head, then grinned. “Though I’ve as much as I can carry now.”
Paks swallowed noisily. “I’ve got some jewels, and money, and this—” She indicated the strip of silk. “Did you see those militia?”
“Furs and things? Yes—well, they have baggage wagons to go home in. How do you like my new hat?”
“Ummm.” Paks thought it was as silly as a lace shawl, but didn’t want to say so.
“It’ll travel well, rolled up,” he said seriously. “Except for the feather, and any barnyard cock will give me a new one.”
“Yes—well—it’s nice, Vik.” Paks yawned again and ate the cheese. She emptied her water flask. A haze of smoke hung over the city; the wind had dropped. “When do we start—?”
“When the captain gets back. Gah—I’m sleepy too.” Vik settled against the wall and put his head on his knees. After a moment Paks squatted beside him. She looked around. Maybe a third of the Company was visible along this stretch of wall; most slumped against it or each other, and looked asleep. Some were chatting quietly. Bundles wrapped in a variety of unlikely things—curtains, bed linens—lay among them. Paks had not thought of that.
She did not realize she’d fallen asleep until Captain Dorrin’s voice woke her. She yawned again as she pushed herself up. She was stiff and cold; others looked worse than she felt. She was glad she hadn’t been drinking all that ale and wine.
Unlike the chaos of the night before, the day’s sack was systematic and careful. Paks worked with a squad of ten, assigned to go through buildings along one street. They began with a house, smashing its locked door, and opening every door of every room from cellar to garret. When they knew what it contained, they reported to a sergeant, who told them what to load in which order.
Paks carried out one armful after another. Bed linens, cook pots, clothes from clothes presses, a roll of fine wool from a room with a loom in it. Her companions brought the loom, a sackful of scrolls, dishes and spoons, shoes and boots and hats, a patterned carpet, a trunkful of uncut velvet—everything they could move. As the rooms emptied, they thumped the walls, listening for any sign of a secret hideaway. Paks felt strange, rummaging around
