The Deed of Paksenarrion (101 page)

“Thank you, my lady—”

“Thank the gods, Paksenarrion, for their bounty. I have done nothing yet to deserve your thanks.”

Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of passages on the ground floor, looked her up and down. “Training Master, eh? So you’re going to become a Knight of Holy Gird, are you? Or a Marshal? Or is it paladin you’re thinking of?”

Paks felt her ears burning again. “I—don’t know, sir.”

Argalt snorted. “I’m no
sir,
not even to the newest member of the training company. Argalt: that’s my name, and that’s what you’ll call me, young woman.”

“Yes, si—Argalt.”

“That’s better. You’re no hothouse flower of a noble house—where are you from?” Paks told him. He looked at her with surprising respect. “Sheepfarmer’s daughter? That’s like Gird’s daughter herself—barring he raised cattle and grain, so the story goes. But still it means you know what work is, I’ll say, and a few blisters on the hands. Where’d you learn to wear a sword like you could use it?” When she mentioned the Duke’s name, he stared. “You were in the Fox’s company? And came
here
?
I’ll believe anything after that!” He shook his head as he led her across the courtyard, past the Lord’s Hall. “I was in the Guards at Vérella when I was young; what I don’t know about that Duke—” But Paks asked nothing, and did not expect that he would have answered if she had. He gave her a long look outside the Training Master’s office. “If you need someone to talk to, sometime, sheepfarmer’s daughter—I’ll share a tankard of ale with you.”

“Thank you,” said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned away.

The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man in dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird’s crescent embroidered on the breast. He read the Marshal-General’s note, and Cedfer’s letter, in tight-lipped silence. When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.

“If you’re to catch up with the others, you’ll have to work—and work hard. You’d best not loll about.”

Paks repressed a surge of anger. She’d never been lazy. “No, sir,” she said stiffly.

“It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer’s right about your weapons-skills. That would let us chop a glass or so off there, and give you more time in supply—though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for you, is beyond me.” Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be still. He sighed, heavily. “Very well, then. How much gear do you have?”

“Only what was in my saddlebags, sir,” said Paks. “I suppose it’s—”

“They’ll have it brought to your quarters.” He glanced for a moment at a chart on his wall. “Let me think. There’s a room on the third floor, next to the end of the corridor. You can have that, for now. It’s small, but it won’t mean moving anyone else tonight. If it’s too small, we can change things in a week or so.” If you stay that long, his tone clearly said. “You’ll need clothes; I’ll have the steward send something up. Come along.” He pushed past her to the corridor, and led the way upstairs.

The room he opened seemed amply large to Paks—larger than her room at
The Jolly Potboy,
with two windows looking out over a lower roof to a walled field. Besides a bed and chest, and a curtained alcove with hooks, it had a table, stool, and low chair. A narrow shelf ran along the wall over the table. Several blankets were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Paks had hardly taken all this in when he began speaking again.

“Students do not wear weapons except at practice,” he said, with a pointed glance at her sword. “We prefer that personal weapons be stored in the armory, but the Marshal-General has given permission for you to keep yours with you.” Paks did not want to let the magic sword out of her control; she said nothing. Just then a servant came in with her saddlebags; behind him was the steward, with an armful of clothing, all dark gray but for the blue cloak. The steward eyed her.

“You said tall, Master Chanis; this should fit near enough for now. What name do you use—Paksenarrion, or Dorthansdotter?”

“Paks is all.”

“Paksenarrion,” said the steward cheerfully. “I need something long enough it can’t be mistaken in anyone’s handwriting. Come by for measurements, or if you have something that fits well—”

Paks unstrapped her saddlebags, and pulled out her green shirt. “Will this do?”

“Good—good material, too. From Lyonya, is it?”

“No, but near there. Brewersbridge.”

The steward shook her head. “I don’t know it. Trousers, too, if you’ve an extra pair.” Paks pulled out the patched ones, which the steward took without comment, and handed over a pair of socks as well. The steward checked the number of blankets, and left the room.

“If you’re ready,” said the Training Master, “there is time to see the weapons instructors before supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon enough.”

Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddlebags behind the curtain, before following him out of the room.

“You have fought mostly in a mercenary company, I understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Short-sword or polearm?”

“Short-sword.”

“But you carry a longsword.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you used a bow?”

“In training, yes—it’s not my best weapon.”

“Polearms?”

“Only in training.”

“Mace? Axe? Crossbow? Siege weaponry?” At each shake of her head, his lips seemed to tighten. Paks wondered if he really thought all of those important. She had trouble keeping up with his long sweeping strides, and noticed little of the building around them—only rows of doors, open and shut, and the stone flags of the hallway. They came out into a small court surrounded on three sides by stables; a pile of dung centered the court, and two youths were shoveling it into a cart. Past a row of box stalls, each holding a massive warhorse, the Training Master ducked through a narrow archway into another passage. This time they emerged on the edge of the walled field Paks had seen from her windows. On their right, the stone building sprouted a long finger; the Training Master turned toward this.

It was a single room, and resembled a small grange except that it had no platform and no doors at the far end, only the one on either side. It was empty at the moment, but Paks could hear grunts and the clash of weapons from the far side. The Training Master led her through it, and out the other door.

Here were perhaps a score of fighters, all in training gray, practicing with swords and—Paks was surprised to see—hauks. To one side a burly man in blue watched them closely. He glanced over at the Training Master, and waved. Paks followed as they walked around the training area to meet him.

“This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said the Training Master abruptly. “The Marshal-General has assigned her to this class.”

Sharp black eyes met hers. “Ha. She’s no novice.”

“So I understand. If you can spare her for more time in other studies, Cieri, do so.”

“Am I to hood hawks so they may learn music?” Paks thought by the tone that this was an old argument begun again. The Training Master’s face relaxed.

“There are other skills of war, Cieri—”

“Oh, and so there are, but none of them any good if you can’t keep a blade from your guts.” He shook his head. “Never mind, Chanis, I know what you mean, and the Marshal-General too. If she can spare the time, I’ll see to it. But only if, understand that.” He cocked his head at Paks, and looked her over.

“See that she knows where to go, when you’re through,” said the Training Master. He turned to Paks. “Gird be with you, Paksenarrion. If you have any need, come to my office at any time.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Paks, still ruffled.

“Well, now.” Cieri, the weaponsmaster, was walking around her. She turned to watch him. “Where have you fought? What weapons? I see marks of a longsword on your clothes.” For the third time that day, Paks outlined her training. Cieri, at least, showed no doubt. “That’s good. Three fighting seasons with Phelan—that means you know your way with short-sword and formation fighting. And you’ve used a longsword since—very good. Many who come to us with your background cannot fight without the others in formation. Not until I’ve trained them, that is.” He grinned broadly. For all that he was younger and heavier, he reminded Paks of Siger. “What about unarmed combat?”

“I’ve done it,” said Paks cautiously. She knew that Siger himself had mastered only a few of the many styles.

“Can you fight mounted? I know Phelan has infantry.”

“I have, some. Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge was teaching me, and I fought a little with a sword.”

“Without cutting up the horse? Good. I see you’re wearing mail—Chanis didn’t give you time to change, eh? But we don’t wear mail in practice sessions—you must not come to count on it. Today I’ll test you, but tomorrow you show up in training uniform, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Paks noticed that the others were watching covertly, slowing their own practice to see what she was doing. Cieri noticed that too, and bellowed at them.

“Gird’s gut, may the ale hold out, you dolts keep gaping like that and I’ll run you all around the field ten times before supper. D’you think an enemy’d let you gaze all around like a bunch of calves in pasture? Get to your work, or—” But the tempo had speeded back up at once. Cieri picked up two swords from a stack near the edge of the practice area. “Here—we’ll start with what you’re comfortable with.”

Paks took a sword, and moved it, testing its balance. It was heavier than her own, and broader across the blade. Cieri stood casually, touched her blade with the tip of his, and leaped in so fast that she almost missed her own stroke.

“Aha!” he said. “If you were that slow with enemies, you would have more scars than you do. Don’t hold back, girl—I’m better than Cedfer, if you want the truth of it.” Indeed he was, and Paks found herself working hard to keep his blade from clashing on her mail. She had gotten used to the delicate balance of the magic sword—that responsive light spring—and she felt, at first, that she was fencing with a length of iron firewood. Several minutes later, sweating freely, she found her balance, and tried offensive strokes as well as defensive. Cieri countered them easily, but grinned even more widely. “You’re learning,” he said. “You’ve got a reach on you, too. And reasonable speed.” He tried one of the tricks she knew about, and she thrust it aside, lunging quickly to mark his tunic. “And you know something. Very good. You haven’t wasted your time.” But in a flash he shifted his blade to the other hand. Paks, confused, missed her parry, and felt the sharp blow along her side. Another, in the same place, and then she countered with a blow that drove him back a step.

She had forgotten that he wore no mail, until after a fast exchange of heavy blows she caught his arm and blood darkened the tunic. “Hold,” he said, but she had already lowered her blade. He glanced at his arm, and then at her with new respect. “You do know something. By Gird, we may have a swordsman in this class after all.”

“I’m sorry—” she started to say.

“No matter. In a Hall full of Marshals, little wounds like these are no problem. Look here—” He pulled aside the ripped sleeve to show a narrow jagged wound already closing. “You must all learn to fight, and strongly, and therefore I take a lot of healing.”

Paks was startled. “But I thought—”

He looked closely at her. “Oh. You’re not Girdish, are you? Most are. With an arm like that, you should be. It’s nothing, here—Marshals can heal themselves as well as others, and Gird does not begrudge healing to weaponsmasters.”

“Then you’re—”

“A Marshal, yes. You didn’t know? Most of your instructors here are Marshals.”

“Oh.”

“Now put away that sword you obviously know how to use—not that you can’t learn more—and let’s see what you do with staves.” Paks had never fought with staves before, and collected a quantity of bruises proving her incompetence. Cieri then tried her in archery; her form, he said, was passable, but her ability to judge windage was abysmal. She could not throw a javelin at all, and when he saw her grip on a battleaxe, he told her to put it down at once. “And I won’t have you try unarmed combat in mail just yet—tomorrow will do for that.” By this time Paks was sweaty, tired, and sore enough to be glad of a rest. “You’re beyond most of the class in sword handling,” he said, after thinking a few moments. “Some of them have had lessons for years, but no actual fighting. That’s what makes the difference. You’ll need regular practice with the sword, but instead of new tricks with it, I want to improve your other weapons skills. When you finish, you should be able to instruct with at least five weapons. More if you’re interested. Tomorrow morning, come with the others for mounted drill—do you have your own horse?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you can ride your own horse tomorrow. If it’s trained enough, you’ll bring it to every session, but we switch around. Marshal Doggal takes most of the mounted classes. Mounted work first thing in the morning, then your other studies, before and after lunch, then drill here. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. But—what about my horse? Where is he, and what about grooming—”

“You’ve been caring for your own? Good, good. You won’t do that, for awhile—this autumn session, we keep the class busy enough without, but in the spring each student is assigned a mount to care for. Just show up at the right time in the mornings, and saddle up.”

“Oh.” Paks thought of explaining Socks’s character, but decided not to.

“Now—” He looked at her closely. “I don’t mean to insult you, but the order provides adequate clothing. Leave your soiled things near the door each morning, and they’ll be cleaned.” Paks nodded. “You look to be in fair condition, but you’ll be sore and stiff with the schedule you’ve got. Hot baths are available each night. Many students prefer to bathe and change before supper—if they have time.” He looked around at the rest of the students, and shook his head. “Nearly time to quit, and they know it. As you’ve come in from traveling, and are wearing mail, I won’t send you—but we end with a run most days.” He turned to the others, and raised his voice. “Rufen!” A young man with dark brown hair stepped back from his partner, and came forward. “This is Paksenarrion; she’s a new member. Take her back to the House, and show her where things are. She’s got a horse for tomorrow, but doesn’t know where it’s stabled.”