"Surely we can trap them." Dorrin rested both elbows on the table. "If we clear the room, we can have archers ready to pop the first ones through. That hole isn't big enough to let more than two out at once."
"If we knew what they're planning—" began Arcolin. The Duke interrupted.
"Exactly. Paksenarrion, you have more experience in this than we have. You recognized the lady as an agent of Achrya, and you have dealt with her agents and clerics before. What can we expect?"
For an instant, as they all watched her, Paks could say nothing. She was the youngest there, the lowest rank—how could she advise them?
"My lord, I am not sure what you already know—"
"Don't worry about that. Start at the beginning."
"Well, then—Achrya, the webmistress, is not high in the citadels of evil, according to my teachers in Fin Panir, but she involves herself directly with men and elves, and is therefore more familiar. She delights in intricate plots, and ensnares men to evil deeds by slow sorceries of years. Where Liart—the Master of Torments—prefers direct assault and torture, Achrya spins web within web, and likes the struggles of the victim as much as the final meal, so they say." Paks paused for a breath. She hated speaking directly of Achrya or Liart either one. "She hates the elves most, it is said, because they see clearly, and her arts cannot fool them—and Girdsmen and Falkians, because they will not compromise with evil for any immediate good. Her plots cannot prosper in peaceful, well-kept lands, so she is always brewing plots and treacheries. Just so might a normal spider encourage clutter in a house, to make its web-spinning easier, if it could keep the housewife from sweeping."
"But what of that shape-changing?"
"I'm coming to that. Some of her clerics have the power to change shape, both from one human form to another, and from human form to that of her icon: the appearance of a giant spider. I saw that in Kolobia, and heard of it at Fin Panir."
"Are all her clerics human, then? I thought you had seen kuaknom in Kolobia—"
"Yes, that's true. The elves that turned from the High Lord—some say when the first of the Kuakkganni sang to the First Tree—worship her."
"But what will she do here?" asked Dorrin. "Will she know her cleric's been killed? And Venner?"
"It depends. I don't know how her clerics contact her. I was taught that Achrya, unlike more powerful deities, does not know all that occurs by her own powers. She depends on her agents for information. If that's true, and Venner and his sister were her only agents here, then she might not. But she might know when her cleric was killed—I can't say. What she will do, when she finds out, depends on what resources she has near here. The orcs, yes—but even for her they are undisciplined and careless fighters. And we still don't know why she influenced Venner here—at least I don't. How long had he been steward?"
"Since the old steward was killed—at the same time as Tamarrion," said the Duke. "He had been injured, as a recruit, and became assistant steward. He was so for several years, as I recall, and then after the massacre—well, he knew the job."
"From what he said last night," said Arcolin, "that was his doing as well."
The Duke nodded, his face grim. "I expect so. I wonder if he was her agent from the beginning."
"Surely not. The Marshal wouldn't have missed that."
The Duke looked at Paks, a clear question. She answered. "No, my lord, he wouldn't have missed it if Venner had been committed to her then. But Achrya gains adherents in subtle ways. At first he may not have realized what he was doing—"
The Duke flushed. "Arranging a massacre? How could he not?"
"I didn't mean that, my lord. Earlier. We don't know—perhaps he had cheated someone, or told a minor lie: I have heard that she makes much of that. Or he may have been told lies, about you, that justified him to himself, in the beginning. By the time he realized whose service he had joined, it would have been too late."
"Are you saying it was not his fault?"
"No, my lord. Unless he was spelled the entire time, he was responsible for his decisions. I meant that he may not have intended any evil when he joined the Company . . . may in fact have slipped into evil bit by bit. Perhaps the massacre that killed your wife was the first overt act of evil. The Marshal was killed, too: could it be that the Marshal was beginning to suspect something? That the attack was aimed as much at him as at her?"
"No!" The Duke stiffened, then sat back. "It couldn't be. Yet—"
"She might have noticed, too, my lord," said Dorrin. "Being as she was. And she would be more in the steward's way than the Marshal."
"But we still don't know why Achrya spends her strength here," Paks went on.
"The northern border—it was always important—" But Arcolin did not sound convinced.
"So long a time," the Duke mused. "If Venner was in truth part of a long-laid plan—by Tir, that's more than sixteen years she's been plotting. Against me? Against this holding? We know that she supported Siniava in Aarenis."
Cracolnya shifted in his seat. "If it's to clear this holding for another invasion from the north, why didn't she strike while you were in Aarenis with the whole company?"
"That's when the orc trouble began—"
"Yes, but not enough to wipe us out. Just enough to discredit you. I'd like to know who Venner knew in Vérella. And why you, my lord? I'm not saying you're no threat to evil in this realm, but I'd not have thought you that important, begging your pardon."
"Nor I," said the Duke with a smile. "By the gods, captains, I admit I've been trying to strengthen my position in this kingdom, but I wouldn't have thought I'd succeeded well enough to flurry a demon. Or, for that matter, that my deeds were so good."
"Why didn't Venner simply stab you one night?" Cracolnya went on. "Or is that my nomad heritage showing? It should have been easy enough, with all the hidden passages we've found."
"That's not Achrya's way," said Paks. "She prefers to spoil rather than destroy utterly. Her minions could have killed me in Kolobia, easily enough, but they wanted to make a spoiled paladin, or a useless coward, rather than kill me." She was surprised to find she could speak of this easily. "Whatever her plans here, they will be devious and intricate—the cleric's stab was desperation, not the original intent, I would say."
"Mmph. I wonder. The witch kept me from paying enough attention to the orcs. I should have been thinking why they would come, and why they acted as they do. I've fought orcs before, and they never behaved like this. If she sought to distract me long enough for them to burrow into the stronghold, what then? Death, I expect." He looked around the table. "We need not understand all her motives, I think, to know we are opposed. But how can we foresee what she will do? Will we be attacked by orcs, or by other monsters of her will?"
"My lord, she will not risk herself against a ready foe: Achrya sends others to do her fighting. Orcs we can expect. If she has men or kuaknom nearby, they may attack as well, or she may withdraw, and try to plan other coils. Most importantly, she may have other agents within the stronghold or nearby. Those we must find, and quickly."
"You found none among the servants—"
"No, Captain," said Paks to Arcolin. "But I am not sure enough yet that I would. Great evil, yes, but—"
"That brings up another point," said the Duke. "How did you happen to turn up here just when you were needed? And what are you? Can you tell me that you came merely to bring back my ring?"
"No, my lord." Paks looked at him soberly. "While with the rangers in Lyonya, I had a sudden feeling—a call, it seemed—that you had need of me. I did not know why, but I knew I must come."
"And did you know you had these powers? Making light, finding evil, healing?"
"Yes. But I am not sure how to use them all yet, my lord."
"Are you a paladin, then, Paks?" asked Dorrin, fingering her Falkian pin.
"Both the rangers I was with and the Kuakgan in Brewersbridge think so," said Paks slowly. "I have no other explanation for the powers. They must come f
rom the gods—from the High Lord, I believe. But the limits of the gifts I do not know. I think, my lord," she said, turning to the Duke, "that you should call a Marshal or paladin from Vérella or Fin Panir—someone who knows how to use these things—and be sure your Company is free of traitors."
"You do not trust your own gifts?"
Paks tried to think how to explain her reserve. "My lord, I trust the gifts, but not yet my mastery of them. You would be wise to make use of another's experience, as well."
"I see." The Duke looked around the table. Arcolin was frowning, rumpling a bit of cloth in his hand. Dorrin sat still, hands out of sight. Pont leaned back in his chair, looking half-asleep. Cracolnya glanced from the Duke to Paks and back. The Duke looked at Paks. "You may not know, but I refused to have a Gird's Marshal in the stronghold after my wife was killed. I have always blamed them for her death—for hiring me and most of the Company away, so that she was left without enough guard, for the Marshal's weakness that day, that he did not save her. It has seemed to me that they claim to protect the weak and helpless, but in fact do not."
"My lord, having lost your wife and children, such bitterness is understandable."
"Mayhap. You do not know all I said to the Marshal-General when I found out about you. For that, too, I blamed them. But you do not, I think?"
"No, my lord. As any Girdsman is the natural enemy of Achrya's plots, I went into that peril knowingly. Certainly Girdsmen—the Marshal-General included—can make mistakes, but those I have known were honorable, if sometimes narrow."
"But they did not heal you. They sent you out alone and helpless—"
Paks laughed. "My lord, you remember they would have sheltered me. I insisted on leaving when I did, despite the Marshal-General's plea. True, they did not heal everything. They did, however, heal the worst of the evil, though it left scars. And—look now. What have I lost? You've watched me fight. If there is wisdom outside the grange as well as within, the Marshals have never claimed differently."
"And you—having suffered under them—would ask me to call them in? Knowing what you do of my past?"
"I know little, my lord, but what you have said here. I cannot imagine them asking you to take the Company elsewhere if they had known of your lady's peril. I cannot imagine the Marshal here doing aught but fighting to the death to save her and your children. Your anger I can understand, and your bitterness—in all honesty, my lord, during those terrible months last winter, I was bitter myself. But it seems now that you—and the Girdsmen—and your family—were all victims of a long-laid plot. A plot so cleverly hidden that not until last night did anyone—even you—recognize the traitor within. I daresay Achrya was pleased when you barred Marshals and paladins from your gates."
The Duke had one hand before his face, and his voice was muffled. "By the gods, I never thought of that. I never thought—but—that she was dead, and I had not been here to ward. And the little ones—"
"And then," mused Dorrin, covering his confusion, "in all the years her influence could act to corrupt the Company. With no one here who could detect evil directly, we could slip, bit by bit, into her ways."
"But that didn't happen," put in Paks. "This Company is honorable—"
"Not as it was," said the Duke, looking up now. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. "Not as it was, Paksenarrion; you never knew it before. When Tamarrion was alive, and a Marshal lived here—" He stopped and drew a long breath. "Well," he said finally. "I have been wrong. I have made as big a mistake in this as any I ever made. It was not the fault of Gird or Gird's followers, and I was blinded by my rage." He looked around the table again. "Do you agree, captains?"
They responded to the new timbre of his voice, straightening in their chairs and nodding. Arcolin spoke first. "My lord Duke, we have followed you in all things—but I confess I was long uneasy with your quarrel with Gird, and I would be pleased to have a Marshal here again."
"I also," said Dorrin quickly, her face alight. "Even as a Falkian."
"I wonder if they'll come," said the Duke. "After what I said to the Marshal-General, she may let us stew awhile—"
"I doubt that," said Cracolnya, grinning. "She'll be too glad to be proved right."
The Duke shook his head. "It will be some while, after these years, before I can learn to think anew. But our enemy now is Achrya, not Gird, and at least we know it. Paksenarrion, you have saved more than one life here. And, with your powers, you must see that you won't do as a corporal. I want you with me—as squire, perhaps?—until this knot is untangled."
"That's right," grumbled Arcolin with a grin. "Just let me get her trained as a good corporal, and then take her away. What am I supposed to do now, conjure one out of thin air?"
"You have plenty of good soldiers. Until a Marshal or paladin comes, she's the only one who might be able to detect another of Achrya's agents." The Duke turned to her. "Paksenarrion, will you accept this?"
"My lord, I came to serve you in whatever need I found. I will do whatever you ask until the gods call me away."
"Good, then. Stay by me. Have you any idea where the nearest Marshal of Gird might be?"
"No, my lord. The nearest grange, as you know, is at Burningmeed, two days south of here. But when I came through, that Marshal had gone on a journey; I don't know when she'd be back. It might be quicker to send a messenger straight to Vérella."
"I dislike such an open move—if Achrya's agents are watching, they'll surely know something has happened."
"I suspect Achrya knows," said Cracolnya. "That one would have spies everywhere, despite our care. 'Tis almost a full day's turn gone, since her cleric was killed. She'll either strike, or vanish to plan again."
Chapter Eleven
An immediate consequence of her new assignment was separation from the rest of the cohort. Stammel was unsurprised when she came to pick up her things from the barracks that night.
"You aren't a common soldier any more," he said bluntly, his composure recovered. "You can't pretend to be. If you need a friend, I'm here, but I'll take your orders the same as I would Arcolin's or the Duke's."
Paks shook her head silently. She could think of nothing to say.
"One thing you've got to be clear on," he went on. "I saw you retreat from this in Aarenis. If you mean to be a paladin—or a commander at all—you must accept being alone, clear through."
Paks found her voice. "The Kuakgan said something like that. I know it's true—I can obey only my own gods, now. But—"
"It takes getting used to. Yes. And you're young. But not as young as all that. Our Duke commanded a cohort at your age—that was all the Company he had then. And Marrakai gave him command—have you heard this?"
"No," said Paks, interested suddenly. She knew very little about the Duke's past.
"You can't stay long, so I'll hurry the tale, but it's worth telling. His first independent contract with the crown of Tsaia was in support of an expedition to Pargun. The crown prince commanded in the field, and the Duke—a captain then—had wangled a direct contract so that he ranked with the other independent commanders, dukes and counts and such. They didn't like that, so I hear. Ask Siger, some time: he was there. They were at the Pargunese border, east of here, when the prince called a conference one night. All the commanders in one tent—and their bodyguards. A force of Pargunese made it through the lines from the rear, and killed nearly all of them. Our Duke was knocked cold; the prince was killed; Marrakai—the most powerful baron, then—was badly wounded.
"Marrakai was widely believed to have ordered the attack—no love lost between him and the crown, so most men thought. The camp fell apart—the prince's commanders quarreling over command, and the steward threatening to go back to Vérella with his body—and our Duke took command, just by shouting louder than the others, according to Arcolin. Then Marrakai called him in, and gave him command of the Marrakai troops—five fighting cohorts—to attack the Pargunese and avenge the prince. So he did, and routed them, and brought bac
k the head of the Sagon, the Pargunese western commander. That was his first big command, and that's when he got this grant, and the title. The next year, it was, he began recruiting in the north, and I remember seeing him come through my hometown. I was too young, then, but I didn't wait about long."
"I had wondered how he got this land," said Paks.
"You talk to Arcolin, now—he was our Duke's junior, hired away from the Tsaian Guards, when he first came to Tsaia. Siger knew him before that; he was one of Aliam Halveric's sergeants in the old days. That's where our Duke got his first training."
"Do you know where he came from? Before that?"
Stammel shook his head. "No. No one does, unless the Halveric. I tried asking Siger once, and near lost an arm. I wouldn't advise it." He looked at her, smiling now. "You go on now, and do what you came for."
Paks had hardly stowed her few belongings in a cupboard when she heard the Duke's voice in the passage, asking if she was back. She went out quickly, and followed him into his study. Cracolnya and Valichi were there; the other captains were not.
"The more I think about it," the Duke said without preamble, "the more I think Venner was involved in most of what happened here. Val mentioned that trouble you had with the corporal—what was his name? Stephi?" Paks nodded. "It seemed fairly clear he'd been drugged, and at the time that potion was the best source. But if Venner could become invisible, as I understand he did during the fight with you—" He paused, and Paks nodded. "Yes, then he could have drugged the ale as he brought it, and drugged the potion bottle as well."
"I still don't see why, my lord," said Cracolnya, after shooting a hard glance at Paks. "Why would he cause such commotion, and run such a risk, to get Stephi in trouble?"
"It wasn't Stephi, I daresay," said the Duke. "It was Paks—if she was going to become a paladin—"
"Why not just kill her, then?" Cracolnya sounded half-angry. "I'm sorry, my lord, but it seems entirely too roundabout—"
"He had no access to recruits," said Valichi quietly. "He never came out of the Duke's Court, but to visit the villages, and rarely then. He couldn't have marched into barracks without being challenged—"