Elizabeth Moon: Divided Allegiance

“What? I don’t believe it.” Cam dropped her arm. “You were in the Red Duke’s Company? When?”

“A—a couple of years ago.” They were all watching now, eyes bright in the firelight. She swallowed, looking for a way out of their circle.

“What happened? Get thrown out?” Cam’s grin faded as he watched her.

“No, I—” She looked into the fire.

“Tir’s gut, Paks, you make a short tale long by breathing on it. What happened?”

“I left.” She said that much, and her throat closed.

“You left.” The senior, a lean dark man who claimed to have fought with the Tsaian royal guard, confronted her. He looked her up and down. “Hmm. You don’t get scars like that from not fighting, and you’re too old to have been thrown out as a recruit, and not old enough to be a veteran. But you’re scared, aren’t you?”

Paks nodded, unable to speak.

“Is that why you left Phelan?” She shook her head. “When did you—no, those scars are too new. Something happened—by the look of it, within the past few weeks.” She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze, but felt it through her skin. No one spoke; she could hear the flames sputtering against a sleety wind, and the hiss of sleet on the wagons.

“All right,” he said finally. She opened her eyes; he had turned, and faced the others. “I think she’s told the truth; no one lies about serving with Phelan and lives long to tell it. She’s got the marks of a warrior; something’s broken her. I wouldn’t want to carry that collection myself. Let her alone.”

“But Jori—”

“Let her alone, Cam. She has enough to live with. Don’t add to it.” With that he led them away to one side of the fire. Paks went on with her work, but spent most of that night awake. She began to realize that she could not pass as a laborer; her scars would always betray her past. People she met would expect things—things she no longer had—and each meeting would be like this.

Two days later, a band of brigands struck the wagons. They were deep in a belt of forest, where the guards could not see far, and they had dragged Keris Sabensson from his horse and cut the traces of the first team before the guards got into action. The drovers reacted quickly, defending their teams and wagons with the long staves they carried; the other laborer ran forward and caught Sabensson’s horse. Paks froze where she was, terrified. She could not move, could not help or run. And when the fight was over, and the trader, head bandaged, was settled in the first wagon, he fired her.

“I’m not having any damned fools here,” he said angrily. “Stupid, cowardly—by all the gods I’d rather have a drunken swineherd to depend on. Get out! Take your pay—not that you’ve earned it!” He threw a few coins out of the wagon; one hit Paks in the face. “Go on—move!” He poked the drover, who prodded the oxen into motion. Paks stepped back, ignoring the coins at her feet. On the second wagon Cam smirked at her, but she hardly noticed. She stared blankly ahead as one wagon after another passed her, and the oxen blew clouds of steam.

At the last, Jori, now riding the trader’s horse, stopped. “Paks, here.” He handed her a small leather bag. “It isn’t much—what we—I mean—” He touched her head. “I know what kind of soldiers Phelan has. You be careful, hear?”

She stood a long time in the track, holding the bag, until she finally thought to tuck it into her belt and start walking.

At the next town, they had heard of her from the trader, still angry. She trudged past the grange without looking at it, and went on, going the way that the trader had not gone. She had not dared enter an inn, but had bought bread from a baker. At the town beyond that, after a night spent in a ruined barn, she found work in a large inn.

“Not inside,” said the innkeeper after a look at her face. “No. You won’t do inside. But if you’re not afraid of work, I can use someone in the yard. Haul dung, feed, clean stalls—you can do that?” Paks nodded. “Sleep in the shed—in the barn if it’s not full. You get board and a copper crown a week.” Paks thought dully that she must be back in Tsaia—Finthan coins were crescents and bits, not crowns. “Can you work with big horses?” She shook her head, remembering the disaster in Fin Panir when she had been unable to groom Socks, let alone ride him. Somehow her fear transmitted itself to horses, and made them skittish. “Too bad; it’s a chance for tips. Well, then, stay out of the way. The grooms’ll be glad to have the dirty work taken off them.”

So they were. Paks hauled dung from the barns twice a day, pitched straw, bedded stalls, carried feed. Work began before daylight, and continued as late as the last person came to the inn. The shed she slept in was by the kitchen door, and half-full of firewood; it backed on the great fireplace, and she thought she could feel a little warmth in the stones, but that was all. She had no place to wash, and no reason to—the innkeeper was clearly surprised when she asked. She did not mention it again. As for board, the innkeeper was more generous than many: bread, soup and porridge, and a chance at the scraps. Not that much was left after the kitchen help, indoor help, and the rest of the stable help took their share. She hid her own pack behind the firewood, and half-forgot it was there or what was in it.

She noticed that her scars from Kolobia had begun to fade again, as mysteriously as they darkened. This time, however, the pain did not fade with the color. It continued as a bitter bone-deep ache that sapped her strength. She did not think about it; she didn’t think of anything much, but whether she could lift another shovel-full. Winter’s grip strengthened; even within the courtyard there were days when the wind blew snow into a white mass that made it hard to breathe. She wore all her clothes, and still woke stiff in the mornings. Trade slowed, in the bitter cold, and the innkeeper told her she could sleep in the barn, now half-empty. It was warmer there, burrowing in straw, with animals heating the air.

She hoped to stay there all winter, but one night two drunken thieves drove her away. It began when they arrived, and handed their mule’s lead-rope to one of the grooms. The tall one caught sight of Paks and nudged the other. She saw this, and ducked behind a partition, but heard their comments. Late that night, they came out to the barn, “to look at our mule,” as they said. The grooms were gone; one to the kitchen, where he had a lover, and one to a tavern down the street. Paks had gone to sleep in a far stall, carefully away from the mule. They found her.

“Well, well—here’s a pretty lass. Hello, yellow-hair—like a little present?” She woke to find them standing over her. The tall one whirled something shiny on a ribbon; the other one carried a branched candlestick with two candles. She looked around wildly. She was trapped in a corner stall; they stood in the door, chuckling. She scrambled up, backing away from them.

“By Simyits, I think she’s scared. Surely you aren’t a virgin, sweetling—why so frightened?” The shorter man came nearer. “Kevis, are you sure of her? It’s easy to tell she works in the stables.”

“Oh, I think so. It’s the ugly ones and poor ones that appreciate presents. See this, sweetheart? It’s a nice shiny ring. All for you, if you just—”

Paks jumped for the gap that had opened between them, trying to scream. As in a dream, little sound came out; the tall man grunted as she bumped into him, and grabbed her. His hand clamped over her mouth. “Now that’s not nice, pretty lass—behave yourself.” She struggled wildly, but the other man had set the candlestick on the stall partition grabbed her as well. “Quiet down, girl; you’re not going anywh—Damn you, you stinking—” Paks had managed to get a finger between her teeth, but his other hand gripped her throat. She choked; the shorter man twisted her arms behind her.