together.
“Now where’s he going?” asked Paks.
“The river. There’s nothing down there, but—” Stammel stopped and looked thoughtful.
“What?”
“I’ll ask the captain—I thought I remembered something.”
By nightfall it was obvious what Siniava had been making for: an old and partly ruined citadel reminiscent of Cortes Andres, built high on a rock bluff where the Imefal met the Immer. A great stone bridge spanned the Imefal below the citadel walls. Siniava had posted a rear guard here, but as the combined mercenary and militia forces came nearer, they withdrew before the archers were in range. Arcolin led his cohort across the bridge first, and swung right around the citadel, up a slope of broken rock to the forest that lay beyond its massive walls on the south side.
There they found their advance scouts talking to a company of archers in russet leather. Alured the Black, teeth flashing in his dark face as he grinned at Arcolin, waved the captain over.
“So—he’s well in the trap, eh? Where’s your Duke?”
“Coming,” said Arcolin. “How has it gone here?”
“Easily. He wanted nothing but to put a wall between himself and trouble.”
“You could not keep him out?”
“Out? But, Captain, your Duke wants him alive. I’d have had to kill him to hold him—if I could.”
“I see.” Arcolin looked up at the walls. “Well, he’s caught now, and if we have a stiff fight to get in, still —”
“It is about that, Captain, that I must speak to your Duke.”
Paks heard no more before Stammel moved them farther around the citadel, to meet the troops coming the other way. Soon a solid line circled the walls, and camps were laid out at a little distance.
Paks was waiting in line to eat when she caught sight of a tall man in Marshal’s robes coming along the lines from the Vonja position. With him was another in bright red over shining mail—the paladin, thought Paks. They were chatting with different soldiers as they moved along. Paks didn’t know if she wanted to talk with them or not. What little she remembered about her conversation with the High Marshal was unsettling. She saw Stammel smile as they spoke to him and looked away.
“Ah—Paksenarrion.” They were in front of her. It would be rude to ignore them. Paks met the High Marshal’s eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir Fenith, here wanted to meet you—awake, that is. He is the paladin you fought beside in Sibili.”
Fenith had dark hair and wide brown eyes. He grinned at Paks. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. Your help came at the right time.”
Paks felt herself blushing. She wished she could remember what had happened. Without the memory, she could not
“But tell us,” Fenith went on, “how has the fighting been, where you were?”
They listened closely, and encouraged her to continue when she faltered, as she told about the weeks of pursuit and fighting. Not until then, telling it, did Paks realize how short the time had been. She felt they’d been marching forever, yet the spring green of the trees was just darkening. She had seen newborn calves even this past week. Paks wondered where the High Marshal and paladin had been. She did not dare to ask.
“I’ll be glad to see the end of this,” said Fenith, when she had finished. “It was necessary, but these realms will suffer for it.”
“Yes.” The High Marshal’s face settled into grim lines. “Evil has been wakened that will take much work to lay. And not only by Siniava.” Paks felt a threat she did not understand. He looked at her, and smiled. “Does it seem strange to you that a High Marshal of Gird and a paladin should be regretting a war?”
“A little—yes—”
“Remember what I told you, in Sibili. Gird fought as a protector, to ward his people against evil, both natural and supernatural. Not for plunder or pay—” Paks felt a flicker of anger. “No, I’m not insulting your Duke or you; I know his cause in this. But you’ve seen the ruined farms and homeless wandering folk. That will take long years to heal, that and the breach of law and trust that lets brigands roam as they will. That’s what we want to see an end of.” Paks slid her gaze to the paladin; he smiled at her.
“High Marshal, Paksenarrion is our ally—not a novice yeoman in the barton. She fights for honor in this—as do we.” Paks relaxed a little. The paladin, she thought, was much friendlier than the High Marshal. “Tell me,” he asked, “have you had any help from the medallion you carry? Do you still wear it?”
“Yes, sir, I do wear it. I’m uncertain what the help would be like. I remember the High Marshal telling me it saved my life, but I don’t remember that day at all.”
“Do you ever feel anything—warmth, or cold, or such?”
Paks considered telling him about the first time she’d handled it, when Canna was wounded, but decided against it. Not in front of the High Marshal. Nothing had happened recently. She forced down the memory of that weight on her chest before the ambush—she’d been very tired. She shook her head.
“If it does—if anything strange happens, if you feel anything—you’d be wise to let one of us know. It could be important, to you and to all of us.” With a casual wave, the paladin turned away, and the High Marshal followed. Paks stared after them, her appetite gone.
“What was that about?” asked Jenits.
Paks shook her head. “I’m—not sure.”
Jenits stared after the paladin with open admiration. “I’d like to have mail like that. I wonder how he keeps it so shiny. It makes even the Duke’s look dull. Do you suppose I’ll end up a paladin, Paks?” He grinned at his own joke, and thumped her arm. Paks laughed, easing her tension.
“About as soon as I will.”
Shortly after dark, all those in Arcolin’s cohort who wore the Dwarfwatch ring were called to his tent. There they found the mercenary commanders, Alured the Black, and a group of Halveric soldiers that Paks recognized from Dwarfwatch.
“I have a special mission for you,” the Duke began. “You have known the treachery of the Honeycat longest; I assume you want him dead the most.” A murmur of anger and assent followed. “Good. Our ally Alured tells me there’s a secret passage between the citadel and the outside. He knows where it begins, in the dungeons under the inner keep, and where it comes out, in the forest.” Paks felt a surge of excitement. She imagined them breaking in, finding Siniava in his chamber—
“He’ll know of it, surely,” Alured said, his rough accent breaking into her fantasy. “I sent a man to his army, when your Duke said, and he’ll have told them the secret, as if he found it himself. I’ve used the passage a few times myself. It’s narrow, but sound. You can wait at the outer end, for him to try an escape, or you can go in. If he’s barred the opening, on the inside, you’d have trouble breaking in. And if he’s got a wizard, you’d need a wizard to break the lock.”
“Has he a wizard, Alured?” asked the Duke. Alured was silent a moment before answering.
“He’s got someone in a long fancy gown. Might be a merchant or banker—a high guildsman. Or it could be a wizard. I don’t know.”
“Mmm. We’ll wait, and let his well-known selfishness lead him out the bolthole.” The Duke looked around at the soldiers. “I want you to keep watch over the forest end of the passage.
