The Deed of Paksenarrion (144 page)

“Arcolin heard part of it—the Duke said his oath to his men came first, and that he’d had no reason to expect trouble. It was the only time in twenty years he’d failed in the slightest part of his oath to the crown. Then before they could forbid him to go south again, he said he was staying in the north. He’d gotten profit enough, and was short of men. So that winter—winter before last—he routed out the orcs nearby, and recruited replacements for the losses in Aarenis, and that summer recruited some more. He had to get rid of many who’d joined in the south. By this spring he was nearly up to strength. He sent one cohort east to Pargun to help man border forts, but he stayed here.”

“So he’s been here over a year.”

“Yes, except for those weeks with you in Fin Panir. It’s the longest he’s been here since Tamar was killed.”

“How is he?”

Kolya looked away. “Oh—well, I suppose. He’s kept busy. He hasn’t been sick; he trains all the time.”

“But what—?”

“I don’t know what. That trouble with the Regents—with the Marshal-General—and I daresay he worries about an heir. We’ve wondered if he thinks of marrying again.” She rolled the apple around the table under her hand. “There’s nothing I can name—only the sense of great anger underneath. We worry—the veterans, the old ones—what will happen when he—if he—”

Paks nodded. “I felt some of that anger, the last season in Aarenis—and when he came to Fin Panir. But he won’t do anything bad, Kolya, I’m sure of it.”

“You! And I have known him how many years? No, I’m sorry. You may know better than I, indeed.”

In the morning, a weak sun struggled through low scudding clouds. Paks came over the rise south of the stronghold, and saw its massive walls. She noticed a group drilling to the west and wondered if it was recruits, or regulars. As she came nearer, she could see no changes in the stronghold itself. The Duke’s colors swirled in the wind. The main gates stood open, as usual in daylight. Paks kept up her steady pace. Her stomach began to clench. Would the gate guards know her? Who would be in the courtyard?

She thought of her first march toward these gates, and how she’d blushed as Stammel marched them in. It was odd to be so nervous still, after all that had happened. Her thumb felt for the Duke’s signet, turning it on her finger.

“Ho there! Traveler!” She looked up to see sentries on the wall. She halted. A man appeared in the gate opening. “Come forward and speak for yourself. What’s your business here?”

Paks walked forward. She didn’t recognize the dark bearded face. “I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” she said. “I was a member of this Company. I would like an audience with the Duke.”

He scowled; Paks decided that he was quite young—perhaps just beyond recruit. “With Duke Phelan? What makes you think you—
who
did you say you were? With this Company?”

“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter. I was a member of Arcolin’s cohort for three years.”

His eyes widened. “Paksenarrion—yes—” His glance fell to her hands, and she held out the signet. “Of course. Come with me; the Duke is in council, but I’ll send word in at once. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, thank you.” She followed him through the gates into the familiar courtyard with the mess hall and infirmary beyond. Someone led a tall horse across the courtyard. Armed men and women in familiar uniforms walked briskly about on their errands. She tried not to gape, and followed her guide to the Duke’s Gate. But they ran into Stammel almost at once.

“Paks! By Tir, I’d hardly hoped it was really you!” He grabbed her in a hard hug. “You’re coming back to us, I hope.”

Paks found herself grinning widely. “I must see the Duke—”

“Of course. Of course. But stay, Paks—don’t be going back to Fin Panir—”

“Not for awhile, anyway.” She pulled away; the young sentry was watching wide-eyed. Stammel grinned at the boy.

“Go on, then—take her in. You won’t find another the Duke would rather see.” And to Paks, “I’ll see you when you come out.” She turned to follow the sentry. She could see unasked questions hanging on his tongue. They were halfway across the courtyard when she heard other voices she knew.

“It looks like—”

“By the gods, it is Paks! Paks! Gods blast it—” Paks turned to find Arñe and Vik almost on her. She was buried for an instant in sound and arms; tears rushed from her eyes.

“I knew you’d come. I knew it.” Arñe, who rarely got excited, was laughing and crying together. “No matter what they said, I knew—”

More people crowded around. “Wait until Barra hears—” she heard someone say. Volya and Jenits, her old recruits, joined Arñe in another hug. Paks had not expected this, had not realized how much she missed these particular people. She held up her hands, finally, as the questions and comments rained on her. They quieted, as if she were an officer.

“I—I must see the Duke,” she said. “First, and then—”

“You’ll be back,” said Arñe. “You will, won’t you?”

“For awhile, yes. It depends on the Duke.”

“He’ll have you. He always would.” Arñe threw back her head and laughed for a moment. “Ah—what a time we’ll have. You beginners—you don’t know what you’ve missed. Just wait.”

“Arñe—” Paks began, embarrassed.

“Never mind,” said Arñe. “Go on. See the Duke. Then we’ll hunt orcs together. You haven’t forgotten how, I’ll wager.”

Paks shook her head, and followed the now-bemused sentry through the Duke’s Gate.

She had never been in this part of the stronghold before. The inner court was separated from the main one by the back walls of the mess hall, infirmary and one barracks. The other sides were composed of the Duke’s own quarters (where the cohort captains also lived, as well as the Duke’s servants), the armory, and the storehouses. In the center of the small courtyard a stone bench surrounded a
well; a small tree grew out of the pavement nearby. The Duke’s residence took up the north and west sides.

At the door another sentry took over from the first one. Paks did not recognize him, either. But as he started to lead her into the hall, Arcolin came down a passage and spoke to her.

“Paks! Is it really you? The Duke will be pleased—”

“Yes, Captain.” Paks found herself reverting, in her mind, to the Company private she had been.

“You look well—are you?”

“Yes. Very well.”

“Good. Follow me—” He waved the sentry back and led the way upstairs himself, and along a passage on the north wing. “The Duke’s in his office—you haven’t been up here before, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s the third door on the right.” But he led her all the way. The door stood open; Paks could see, as they neared it, a large room full of light from windows that opened on the court. He stepped in; Paks paused on the threshold.

“My lord, it is Paksenarrion.” Paks could see the Duke, sitting at a desk littered with papers. His head came up; his face had hardly changed, but for looking tired. He looked for her, and his grim expression eased as he met her eyes.

“Come in, Paks. Or do you use your full name, now?”

“Thank you, my lord. Either will do.” She stepped into the room, and Arcolin went out quietly. The Duke looked her over.

“You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“Yes, my lord. I am.”

“Come, sit down.” He gestured to a chair near the desk and she took it. “You wear no sword,” he said. “Have things stayed, then, as they were?”

“No, my lord. I spent the summer in Lyonya, with the rangers. They use bows, mostly. I hadn’t money enough for a sword.”

“With the rangers?” His face seemed to come alive, then freeze. “Then you could—” He stopped, and she knew what he would not ask.

“My lord, I can fight again, and did. I came to thank you for your help—and for your trust.” As she spoke, he stood, and came to her. He stopped a few feet away and looked her up and down.

“It is repaid by seeing you whole again. What can I do for you—besides give you a sword?”

“My lord, I didn’t come to beg a sword of you, but a place. If you have need of another soldier, I have need of work.”

“You aren’t going back to Fin Panir, then?” He looked pleased.

“If I do, I’d like to have my own weapons,” said Paks.

“Ha!” He grinned suddenly. “You are better. But I promised you a captaincy, remember.”

Paks laughed. “My lord, you are generous beyond measure. But to be honest, I don’t think I can stay with the Company forever.”

“What then? Fin Panir and.the Girdsmen, or something else?”

“I’m not sure. But I will stay a half year with you—perhaps more—if you’ll have me. Not as a captain, though. It would not be fitting for me to take high rank from you; there are those here who have earned it.”

“None more than you.” The Duke glanced down. “No. I see what you mean. And of course I’ll be glad to have you. We’ve had too much fever this past summer. Let’s see. Suppose you go back in Arcolin’s cohort. Veteran’s pay: that should get you a sword by next spring, without question. You are still thinking of paladin, aren’t you?” He looked at her shrewdly. Paks nodded. He asked no more about it but went on. “Then you’ll need experience leading—but we’ve plenty of trouble with orcs: you can take squads this winter. And another thing—”

“Yes?”

“Most paladins are drawn from the knightly orders. They’ve had the chance to learn manners of court and hall. From what I saw last year, you aren’t really easy with that yet. True?”

Paks blushed. “Yes, my lord. I’ve tried to learn—”

“And done well for a sheepfarmer’s daughter. I didn’t start in a palace either, Paks; now I can dine with kings without worrying about my elbows. That’s something we can teach you, too, if you’re willing.” He paused briefly, scanning her face. “It won’t cause trouble with your companions in the Company; it’s going to be obvious that you are not an ordinary soldier. If you agree, you’ll spend some of your free time in my library, learning history and other things, and with me and the captains discussing politics and strategy. Well?”

Paks was stunned by the offer. “My lord, I—yes. I would like that. I know very little.”

“Very well, then: take this order to the quartermaster, and this to Arcolin, and get yourself settled in. Arcolin will arrange your schedule. I want you to dine with us as often as you can, whenever it doesn’t interfere with your duties.”

“Yes, my lord.”

An hour later, Paks had a sword at her side and the maroon tunic of Phelan’s Company on her back. Her legs felt cold and exposed again; she knew they looked chalk-white next to the others. Armsmaster Siger, after an admiring look at her longbow, asked for a demonstration.

“Not now, Siger,” said Stammel. “We’ve still got to get her on the rolls.”

“This afternoon, then,” said Siger. “Fine bow: I hope you’ve learned to shoot to equal it. And I want to see what fancy strokes they taught you in Fin Panir.”

Paks laughed. “Nothing for a short sword, and I haven’t handled a blade that much lately. But when I’ve practiced—”

“Good. Good. I know they teach knight’s work, but I always like a new trick.”

Before lunch, Paks had a longer interview with Arcolin. He urged her to accept a corporal’s position, both because he needed one, and because she would then have more time and opportunity for the extra study the Duke recommended. Paks agreed, wondering meanwhile if her old friends would resent the promotion. They had been glad to see her, but how would they react to all that had happened, and to her being placed over them? She said nothing of this to Arcolin, who was telling her that she already had a reputation with the newer ones—by his tone, a good reputation.

Through the noon meal, Paks talked with Stammel and Devlin about her new duties and the changes in routine from what she remembered. With all three senior cohorts and the recruits in the stronghold together, there were many changes. Then Stammel called the cohort out for weapons practice, and they went to the field together. Siger was already there with her bow, and had set up the targets.

“Now let me see,” he said eagerly. Paks strung the bow and chose an arrow. The wind had dropped a little, but she knew her first shaft might miss. She bent the bow smoothly, and released it. She was lucky: Siger grinned delightedly. “Do it again,” he said. She placed three more arrows in a pattern one hand could cover, as fast as she could draw the bow. She heard murmurs from those watching. “May I try?” asked Siger.

“Of course,” she said. “It is sized for me, though.”

“De, it’s a strong pull.” Siger eased it back from a half-draw. “You’re right, it’s very long for someone my height. I’ll leave it to you. But let’s see your bladework.”

“Certainly.” Paks unstrung her bow and started toward the targets to retrieve the arrows.

“Don’t bother,” said Siger. “Ho! Sim! Go fetch those arrows.” A lanky youth in recruit brown jogged toward the targets. “Put your bow over here—” He nodded to a bowrack.

Paks set her bow in the rack and returned to the area Siger had cleared for them. He was ready, sword in hand. “Do you want a banda?” he asked.

“Against you? Always.” Paks spotted the pile of bandas and shrugged her way into one. She noticed Arcolin standing behind a double row of onlookers. Siger noticed the onlookers.

“By Tir, will you stand around like cows at a fence row? You want to see Paks fight? You’ll be facing her yourselves, soon enough. Get on, now, to your own drill, or I’ll sore the ribs of the lot of you. Go on!” The others drew away reluctantly, grouping for their own drill. Paks felt a tingle of apprehension. It had been long indeed since she used a short sword, or had drilled as Siger would drill. She drew the sword and stepped forward.

With Siger’s first stroke, it all came back. The first stirring of joy she had felt that last night with the Kuakgan woke and surged up her sword arm. She felt she was hardly touching the ground. They stayed with the drill briefly, as Siger increased the pace. Then he shifted to more difficult maneuvers. Paks found that her skill—her instincts—her delight had all returned. Siger got no touches on her for some time. Then with a clever twist he turned her blade and tapped her sharply on the arm. He danced back, grinning.