Just before sunset, a rider galloped toward them from the west. Clart Cavalry intercepted, then escorted the rider to the Duke’s tent. Paks recognized a Golden Company courier. With several friends she edged close to the Duke’s tent to pick up what news she could. The rider’s horse was lathered; one of the Clarts walked it out. Suddenly the Duke looked out of his tent and glanced around at the loiterers.
“Ah—Paks.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Find Arcolin and Cracolnya, and send them here. Then take this—” he handed her a scroll, “—to Aliam Halveric.”
“Yes, my lord.” Paks was glad to run his errands, but wished the Duke had not found her idling; she had heard his opinion of nosy soldiers before. She knew where Arcolin was, looking over wood for a catapult with one of the Halveric’s sons, but she had to ask Arcolin where to find Cracolnya.
“He’s around the city, with that other sapping crew. You’d best take a horse.” He looked around, and waved to someone leading two horses. “Take my spare; he’s not been ridden today.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paks. “And where would I find the—the Halveric?” She was not sure this was the correct form to use to his son.
“My father?” asked the young Halveric.
“Yes, sir. The Duke gave me a message for him.” She thought the younger man might offer to take it himself, but he simply nodded.
“He’s to the south, about a quarter of the way around; the sentries will guide you to the tent.”
“Thank you, sir.” The boy leading the horses had come near, and Arcolin took the reins of the black and handed them over. Paks mounted, finding the captain’s saddle very different from the ones she’d ridden before. But the horse answered heel and rein easily, and she made good time to the opposite side of the city. By the time she had given her message there and ridden on to the Halverics’s camp, it was full dark; she was careful to call her name and unit clearly when challenged. Aliam Halveric was eating supper in his tent, along with his eldest son. Paks recalled them clearly from the previous season. The Halveric smiled as she handed over the scroll.
“Ah—I remember you. I was afraid you weren’t going to give your parole, and then you made that remarkable journey—yes. Sit down; I may want to send a reply.”
Paks sat where she was bidden, on a low stool, while the Halveric read the scroll and handed it to his son. While his son read, he finished the dish of stew before him. He cocked his head at the younger man when he finished.
“Well, Cal? I think I’d best go myself, don’t you?”
“Certainly, sir. Have you any orders in the meantime?”
“No—I expect to be back in a few hours, or I’ll send word. Get me a horse, please.” The younger man nodded and withdrew. The Halveric looked at Paks. “Well—what was your name again? My memory has failed me—”
“Paksenarrion, sir, but I’m called Paks.”
“That’s right. Paks. Do you have a horse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then I won’t need another escort.” Paks flushed at the implied compliment. The younger man returned, and the Halveric stood, reaching for his helmet. Paks rose and held the tent flap aside as he walked out. She mounted and took the torch a guard offered. All around the city was a circle of watchfires and torches; she scarcely needed the one in her hand. At the Duke’s tent, one of his squires, Kessim, was waiting to take the Halveric’s. He raised an eyebrow at Paks when he recognized Arcolin’s horse, but refrained from comment. She grinned at him as she rode off to the horse lines.
The next three days were simple siegework in support of the sapping teams. No one knew what the Golden Company courier had brought. The captains discouraged questions. For Paks, it was an alternation of camp chores and stretches of guard duty—a routine that dulled very quickly. But her recruits thought it was exciting. They asked her dozens of questions about the techniques of sieges, sapping, siege engines—the same questions she had asked the year before. She told them what she knew, then sent them to older veterans.
On the night of the third day, Paks had just gone off-watch and was enjoying a hot drink by one of the watchfires before going to bed when an excited Volya appeared at her elbow.
“Paks—come here!” Paks rose reluctantly and stepped away from the fire. Volya was dancing with impatience.
“What is it?”
“Paks, someone came over the wall, and wanted to talk to the Count. Someone from inside the city—what does that mean?”
Paks thought a moment before answering. “It could mean they want to surrender—or some of them do. Or maybe the Count has an agent in the city, a spy, and he came out to report. I don’t think you should be talking about it—”
Volya nodded. “I know. That’s what Sergeant Kefer told me, and I won’t. I just—”
“You mean the sergeant told you to keep shut about it, and you came straight to me to tell?” Paks was suddenly angry; Volya flinched.
“But Paks, he wouldn’t mind about you. You wouldn’t tell anyone else, and—”
Paks glared at her. “Volya, an order’s an order. When you’re told to keep quiet, you do—you don’t tell anyone, friend, lover, or whoever. I didn’t get the reputation I’ve got by blabbing off to people or hanging around loose tongues. You say you trust me—fine, but how d’you know there’s not someone else near enough to hear, eh?”
Volya sounded near tears. “Paks, I’m sorry—I won’t do it again. I—I thought it was all right to tell
“Well, now you know it’s not,” said Paks shortly. Then she sighed. “Volya, there’s more to being a mercenary than fighting and camp work. This thing of talking—you haven’t been to a city yet, so Stammel hasn’t given you his speech on it. But we don’t talk to anyone about Company business, or anything that could be Company business. Even in an ordinary year, every tavern is full of spies. If someone knows who hired us, and what road we’re marching on, and when—d’you see?” Volya nodded. “And this year—we can’t afford any loose talk. We’re almost certainly outnumbered. Our Duke will be trying to move us to the best field for battle without alerting Siniava.”
“Yes, Paks. But—the Company is safe, isn’t it? We’re all loyal to the Duke—aren’t we?”
“I hope so. Yes. But even so—you never know who might be listening. And some can’t keep shut if they’ve been drinking. Loyal as a stone when they’re sober, but everyone’s friend when they’ve got a load of ale or wine. So when you’re told to keep something quiet, you do. From everyone. Clear?”
“Yes, Paks. Should I tell the sergeant—?”
“No. You’ve had your scolding. Just remember.” Volya nodded, and Paks waved her away. She was no longer sleepy, however, and spent the rest of that night wondering about the man who had come over the wall.
The next morning it became clear that something was happening inside the city. They could see fights on the walls, and bodies thrown over. Sentries close to the walls heard shouts and the clash of arms inside. Older veterans reminded the younger that most sieges fell by treachery and dissension. Late in the afternoon, a small party offered to parley with the Count of Andressat. Paks watched as they filed out the postern: two men in long gowns and three in armor. The Count and all three mercenary captains went to meet them. They talked for some time, then bowed and separated. As the party started back to the city, the two men in gowns fell with crossbow bolts bristling from their bodies. The armored men spun around and ran for the besiegers’ lines, while a great cry rose from the walls.
Just as that disturbance quieted, a column of smoke rose from across the city, followed by more outcry.
“The sappers,” said Stammel. “They’ve fired their supports, and in a little we’ll find out whether they breached the wall.”
“Will we go in?”
“Not around there. Halveric troops are over there; they’ll go.” They listened closely until Arcolin called them into formation. Paks noticed that her recruits did not look nervous any more. She herself felt an anxiety she did her best to conceal. This was one of the Honeycat’s own cities—what sort of traps and powers might be here? But no word came for an attack; as the red glare of sunset faded from the walls, they were dismissed again. Assault in the morning, the rumors ran.
With morning came riders of the Golden Company, and Aesil M’dierra’s senior captain. He had not finished talking to the Duke when the word ran through camp: M’dierra was at Sibili, already in position with Golden
