Elizabeth Moon: Divided Allegiance

“Ho, a guard! It’s that tall wench—come to the fire, girl, and be warm.” He waved an expansive arm. Paks grinned and stayed where she was.

“’Tis warm enough here, by your leave. But I heard talk of the high trails, and came near to listen.”

“What do you want with that? Are you planning to skip the caravan and go north?”

“I’d heard of several trails,” said Paks. She didn’t want to say exactly how much she knew. “And I knew someone who’d been over Dwarfwatch. But if there’s a shorter way—”

“Oh, shorter,” said another merchant. “That’s with where you’re going in the north—” He looked closely at Paks, but she didn’t say anything. After a moment he shrugged and went on. “If you go straight across at Silver Pass, you come out between Prealith and Lyonya, but there’s a good trail on the north side that will bring you west again and out near the southeast corner of Tsaia.” Paks nodded. She felt rather than saw the elf watching her. “That trail meets the one crossing from Dwarfwatch; there’s a cairn at the crossing, and a rock shelter. If you’re headed for Tsaia, the distance isn’t less, but you can travel faster alone, and the passes themselves are easier than the Dwarfwatch route. That high one—” he broke off and shook his head.

Paks followed this with interest. “I thank you, sir,” she said. “I have no great knowledge of mountaincraft; I had heard only that the pass was short.”

The merchant laughed. “Aye—it’s short enough. If you get over it. Ice in midsummer, and blizzards—dangerous always, and for one alone—well, were I you, I’d take the eastern passes, the ones we spoke of. You’ll be in mountainous country longer, but none of it as high or as cold. Does the Wagonmaster know you’re leaving?”

“Of course, sir!” Paks was angry, but she saw by the reactions of the others that no insult was meant.

“I would ask him to free you for the eastern pass,” said the merchant seriously. “Especially since you’re traveling alone.”

Paks nodded and said no more. The merchants returned to their usual topics: what product they had found in this or that port, and how well they sold; who ruled what cities, and what the recent war would do to the markets.

“What I worry about,” said one enormous man in a heavy yellow cloak, “is what it will do to the tolls. They say the Guild League spent and spent for this last year’s fighting—they’ll have to get it back somehow, and what easier than by raising the tolls?”

“They need us too much,” said another. “And they were founded to give trade a chance. The Guild League won’t rob us, take my word for it.”

“If they do, there’s the river,” suggested another. “Now Alured’s settled down to play Duke, he’ll be letting us use the river again—”

“Ha! That old wolf! By Simyits, you can’t believe a pirate’s changed by gaining a title—can you? And what have we ever got, come to that, from the noble lords and their kind? They want our gold, right enough, when a war’s brewing, but after that it’s—oh, those merchanters: no honor, no loyalty—tax ’em down, they’re getting too proud.” Paks found herself laughing along with the rest, though she, too, thought of merchanters as having no honor—like the militia of Vonja. It had never occurred to her before to wonder what the merchanters thought.

When she came off watch that night, and stopped by the guards’ fire for a mug of sib, a cloaked figure rose across the circle of light to greet her. She caught a flash of green from wide-set eyes.

“Ah. Paksenarrion, is it not?”

Paks stood stiffly, uncertain. “Yes—it is. And you, sir?”

He bowed, gracefully, but with a curious mocking style. “Macenion, you may call me. An elf, as you see.” Paks nodded, and reached for the pot of sib. “Allow me—” he said softly, and a tin mug rose from the stack beside the pot, dipped into the liquid, and rose to Paks’s hand. She froze, her breath caught in her throat. “Go on,” he said. “Take it.” She looked at the mug, then her hand, then folded her fingers gingerly around the mug’s handle. She nearly dropped it when it sank into her grip. She let her breath out, slowly, and sipped. It tasted like sib—she wondered if he had put anything into it. She froze again as another mug rose from the pile, filled itself, and sailed across the fire to Macenion. He plucked it from the air, bowed again to her, and took a sip himself. “I apologize,” he said lightly, “if I frightened you. I had heard you were a warrior of some experience.”

Paks drank her sib, wondering what to make of this. She certainly did not want to admit being frightened of a little magic, but he had seen her reaction. She set the mug down firmly, when she finished, and sat down slowly. “I had not seen that before,” she said finally.

“Evidently,” he replied. He brought his own mug back to the stack and sat near her. “When I asked,” he began again, “everyone assured me that you had an excellent reputation.” Paks felt a tingle of irritation: what gave him the right to ask about her? “You were in Phelan’s Company, I understand.” He looked at her and she nodded. “Yes. One of the other guards had heard about you. Not the usual sort of mercenary, he said.” Again Paks felt a flickering anger. “And this evening past, you said you were going north over the mountains before we reached Valdaire. Alone, I assumed—?” Paks nodded again. “I might,” he said, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap, “I might be able to help you. I know those trails—difficult for one with no mountain experience, but safe enough.”

“Oh?” Paks reached out and refilled her mug.

“Unless you prefer to travel alone. Few humans do.”

Paks shrugged. “I have no one to travel with. I’d appreciate your advice on the trail.” She was remembering Stammel’s warning about those who might seek to travel with her.

The elf moved restlessly. “If you are willing, I thought we might travel together—as far as the borders of the Ladysforest, at least. I could tell you about the trails from there.” He sat back, and looked at her from under dark brows. “It would be far safer for you, Paksenarrion, and a convenience to me. While the trails are not as dangerous as these caravan roads, all trails have their hazards, and it is as well to have someone who can draw steel at your back.”

Paks nodded. “I see. It is well thought of. But—forgive me, sir—you seem to know more of me than I of you.”

He drew himself up. “I’m an elf—surely you know what that is.”

“Yes, but—”

His voice sharpened. “I fear I have no relatives or friends nearby that you can question. You will have to trust my word, or go alone. I am an elf, a warrior and mage—as you have seen—and I am returning to my own kingdom of the Ladysforest.”

“I’m sorry to have angered you, sir, but—”

“Have you been told bad tales of elves? Is that it?”

Paks thought back to Bosk. “Yes—some.”

His voice eased. “Well, then, it’s not your fault. You must know that elves are an elder race, older far than men. Some humans are jealous of our knowledge and our skills. They understand little of our ways, and we cannot explain to those who will not listen. But elves, Paksenarrion, were created by the Maker himself to be the enemy of all evil beings. It is elves that orcs hate most, for they know their destiny is on the end of our blades: the dark powers of the earth come never near the elven kingdoms.”

Paks said nothing, but wondered. She had heard that the elves were indeed far older than men, and that elves never died of age alone. But she had not heard that elves were either good or evil, as orcs and demons were clearly evil, and saints like Gird and Falk were clearly good.