know

the carpets that overlay the tent floor. She heard the voices above her, but could not muster the energy to answer.
"Is she wounded?" asked the Duke.
"I don't know, my lord. I know she's wet and cold and filthy, but when she said Honeycat, I brought her straight to you."
"Very well. Vossik, I want you to send the captains here at once."
"Yes, my lord."
"And alert the perimeter, but don't say why. And send the surgeon, and tell the cooks I want something hot at once."
"Yes, my lord."
"You may go."
Paks was hardly aware of it when the Duke's servants stripped off her wet and filthy tunic and wrapped her in warm furs. She roused, coughing, only when the surgeon spooned a bit of fiery liquid into her mouth.
"I hate to do this," the Duke was saying, "but we must know what message she brings. Can you tell how badly she's hurt?"
Paks opened her eyes and tried to focus on the surgeon. He pressed a mug to her lips and she swallowed. Whatever it was, it sent warm currents through her cold arms and legs, and cleared the fog from her head.
"Exhaustion, mostly," said the surgeon. "Maybe a broken rib or two, and this cut—sword or knife wound, but not bad. Bruises and scrapes; I'd say she's fallen eou