slightly and withdrew. The Duke stood, looking after him with a faint frown, before turning back to his captains.

“Well. What do you think of that?” He looked around at them.

Arcolin snorted. “Anyone stupid enough to even consider that Paks could be evil, after what she’s done—” He didn’t finish.

“I wonder—” began Dorrin. “I don’t know if I mentioned it, my lord, but there was an incident in Rotengre last fall—”

The Duke threw himself into his seat again. “No. I don’t recall. About Paks?”

“Yes, my lord. Remember that we found a priest of Achrya?”

“Oh—yes, I do. Was she involved in that?”

Dorrin nodded. “I wondered at the time if Canna’s medallion had saved her. She came near being hit by a crossbow, and then the priest cut her with a poisoned dagger. Luckily I was nearby…”

“But you’re wondering if it was all luck,” suggested Arcolin.

“Yes. Perhaps I look at it differently, as a Falkian.” Dorrin gave each of them a long look. “But I must agree with the High Marshal that far: something has protected her, and now more than once.”

“She takes wounds like anyone else,” said Arcolin.

“Yes—it’s not that kind of protection, obviously. But when you think of it, as much as she’s in the front ranks, she has fewer scars than most.”

“And she’s a better fighter.” The Duke shifted in his seat. “So, then—you think something protects her, at least from some kinds of injury. Do you see her leaving the Company?”

Dorrin frowned, and paused before answering. “My lord, I don’t know. Once, I would have said no. But the Company has changed. If she’s being guided by—by something, perhaps she will need to leave.”

“She could grow in the Company,” offered the Duke. “She needn’t stay in the ranks, if it comes to that. Sergeant—even captain someday.” They all thought that over. “I know it’s unusual,” the Duke went on. “But so is she—and if she’s got the potential you and the High Marshal think she has, I would be open to the suggestion later.”

Dorrin smiled. “I’d rather her than Peska, to tell the truth, my lord.”

The Duke laughed. “Dorrin, I promise you he’ll be gone after this campaign. And you must admit he’s a good field commander.”

Dorrin grimaced. “In a way. If you like that sort.”

“I agree,” said Arcolin, with a sideways look at Dorrin. “He’s not what we want to keep in the Company, my lord. But about Paks—I’d thought she would make a good sergeant, when she’s had more experience. I hadn’t thought of more.”

“We don’t have to,” said the Duke, “until later. And I can’t see encouraging her to leave the Company any time soon. She hasn’t the experience yet to be a free-lance. But I’ll do this, Dorrin—with Arcolin’s agreement—I’ll see the armsmasters encourage her to pick up solo skills. And if anything else happens with her and that blasted medallion, be sure to let me know. All right?” Dorrin nodded, and Arcolin, and they returned to the maps.

Chapter Twenty-seven

For some days of the journey away from Sibili, Paks rode in the wagons, unable to stand without help. Between the pain in her head, the rain, and the swaying and lurching of the wagons, she was miserable enough not to regret having missed the sack of Sibili. From Volya, who came every evening to check on her, she learned some of what she’d forgotten: which night they’d assaulted the wall, which day the paladin had repelled a black cloud near them, which day the citadel had been taken. Volya’s tale was incredible—it didn’t seem possible that she could have forgotten such fighting, just from a knock on the head. She worried at her mind, trying to force the memories to return, but nothing worked. She had fought beside a paladin—he had come later and tried to heal her—and she could not remember.

Volya’s reports of the city’s sack were almost as strange, but not as disturbing; it bothered Paks less to have missed something completely than to have been there and forgotten. Volya told of rich treasure in the palace:

“Gold,” she said. “I never imagined so much. Even a gold mirror. And most of the rooms had pictures on the floor, made of little bits of rock laid in patterns: all colors. And in one room, the walls and floor were all white stone, carved in patterns of vines and leaves. When the light came in the window, it glowed. We just stood and stared; it was wonderful. But underneath—” Volya paused, and went on to describe the horrors that Sibili had concealed. Both Siniava’s palace and the temple of Liart overlay dungeons and torture chambers. They had found victims still alive, but hopelessly crippled, and on the high altar in Liart’s temple a child’s body, still warm. Paks thought at once of the girl in Cha who had feared for her little brother—was that what she’d expected?

“How many days did I miss?” Paks finally asked, when Volya had run down.

“You were out for more than a day—but from what you say, you don’t remember much from the day or so before that.”

“Huh. Not doing the Company much good.”

“No, the fighting was almost over when you went down. Oh, and Paks—you should have seen the servants in the palace—”

“Why?”

“They all had marks on their faces—tattoos,” Stammel said. “Seems Siniava marks all his own household—his personal bodyguard, too: blue or black tattoos all over the face. It should make them easy to recognize.”

Paks nodded. “It should indeed. Makes it hard for them to run away, too.”

Volya grinned. “I hadn’t thought of that.” After she left Paks realized that she’d have to quit thinking of Volya as a recruit: she and the others had come a long way since the winter. Already they had more combat experience than Paks had had in her entire first year.

By the time they passed Cha again, retracing their earlier route, Paks was walking part of the day, and had started exercising her burned hand, under the surgeons’ directions. She knew that the Halverics and Clarts were traveling with them, that Golden Company had taken a contract with Andressat to govern and control Sibili and Cha; the Count of Andressat had laid claim to the South Marches and those cities.

“That’s why he was so angry with the Westland and Pliuni troops for destroying the orchards and vineyards.” Jenits, eating lunch with Paks and Volya, took a pull at his flask. “They made a mess—hacking down trees for cooking fires—”

“They cut down orchards?” Paks was shocked. Jenits and Volya nodded. “But we don’t do things like that. What about the crops?”

“Those troops from Pliuni,” said Jenits, “want to destroy everything the Honeycat ever owned. We’ve got some of ’em marching with us now.” He made a sour face. “Huh—it’s all the Duke and the Halveric can do to keep them from torching everything we pass.”

“Then why are they with us?”

“Well—they can fight. They want to fight Siniava. That’s it, I suppose. We’ve had losses—if they’ll fight, that’s what the Duke wants. But they’re not much like us, I can tell you that.”

“Are they spread through the Company, or what?” Paks glanced around, trying to distinguish them.

“No. They’re in their own formation, under their own captain.” Jenits craned his neck to look. “You can’t see them from here; they wear green and purple.”

After marching east from Cha, along the river, they took the same shortcut across the loop, this time moving northeast. But when they rejoined the river, they forded it instead of turning toward Cortes Andres. Atop the rising ground to the east was a thick forest. Paks had heard of this—the haunt of Alured the Black, the sea pirate turned brigand.

As they neared the trees she felt grumpy and nervous at once. She was still unarmed, for the skin of her hand was not tough enough to hold a weapon, the surgeons insisted. She hated marching in back with the other wounded. Once in that cool shade, undergrowth screened the view to either side; the sunlight almost seemed green. Paks had relaxed a little when the horn call for danger rang out ahead. She felt her heart thudding; her hand dropped automatically to the sword that wasn’t there. Halveric fighters moved up from the rear to screen the

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