The Deed of Paksenarrion (102 page)

Rufen bowed, giving Paks a quick glance. She thought he was several years younger than she, half a hand shorter, and more slender. As he led her away, back through the empty armory, he looked at her again. “You’re not a Girdsman?” he asked. Paks could not place his accent, which seemed slightly melodic.

“No,” she said. She was not going to explain everything all over again. Not then.

“You fence well,” he said, with another sidelong glance. “I’ve never seen Cieri move so fast, except against the knights. What kind of horse have you?”

Paks answered stiffly, suspecting a joke. “Just a—a black horse. Warhorse.”

They were in the stable courtyard by then, and he asked one of the workers. “That black with the stockings? And a wide blaze? He’s in the new court stables.”

“That’s where guest horses are housed,” explained Rufen. “I expect they’ll move him in here, if they’ve got a free stall.” He led the way through a tack room full of racked saddles into another, larger, stable complex. Before he could find someone to ask, Paks heard Socks, and saw his wide head peering out over a half-door. Rufen looked startled when she pointed him out. “That’s yours? If he’s not Pargunese-bred, I’ll take up the harp. Look at the bone of him.” By this time they were at the stall, and Socks had shoved his nose hard into Paks’s tunic.

“I don’t have any,” she said sharply. He seemed in good shape, and had obviously been groomed carefully; no saddle marks showed on him. Rufen hung over the door, still talking.

“Great gods, what a shoulder. How’s he trained? Did you train him? Do you have a pedigree? No speed, I’d say, but a lot of bottom.” Paks had no chance to answer; the questions came too fast, and Rufen wasn’t paying attention to her anyway. A groom came up.

“This horse yours?”

“Yes.”

“He don’t like his hind legs messed with, do he?”

“No—did he kick?”

“Kick! Look there at that board—” the man pointed. It had split along its length.

“He was hurt before I got him,” said Paks. The groom eyed her sourly.

“That’s what they all say,” he said. “Hurt before I got him, pah! Could have trained him out of it, couldn’t you?”

“I did,” said Paks, suddenly angry again. “Look.” She jumped up on the stall door. Socks threw his head up and snorted. “Be still,” she said firmly, and slipped onto his broad back, then down to stand beside him. She ran her hand over his massive rump, down the hind leg, and chirped. He lifted his hoof obediently into her hand, and she tapped the sole, then put it down. “There, you see?” The groom nodded.

“All right. Now tell that beast to let someone else do it.”

“Come on in.” The groom opened the stall door. Socks stiffened his ears, and clamped his tail. Paks soothed him with a hand, and the man followed her gesture and picked up the other hind hoof. “I suppose, come to think of it, that no one’s handled his legs but me since I got him,” she said.

“I hope he’ll remember this,” said the groom.

“Try apples,” said Paks.

“Bribe a horse?”

“That’s what I did.”

“It works,” put in Rufen. “They’re such greedy-guts, horses are. We use apples in our training.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the groom, with a slight bow. Rufen colored, glancing at Paks. When the man had left, and they were walking back across the stable court, he sighed.

“I suppose you know we use only one name here?”

“No—” Paks hadn’t thought about it.

“Well, the—the servants and all, they know our full names. But don’t worry about it. Just call me Rufen.”

“And I’m Paks,” she said. He nodded, and led her back into the maze of buildings.

“It’s simple, really,” he said a few minutes later, after taking her to the Low Hall where they would eat, and then to the bath house and past some of the classrooms. “The High Lord’s Hall opens into the Forecourt, and directly across from it is the Marshal-General’s Hall. Her quarters are upstairs, but they hold large meetings downstairs. And several other Marshals live there as well. Where you came in—that archway—that’s all quarters for the gate guards and some of the servants. The other side of the Forecourt is the Training College—where we live and meet for classes. It used to be quarters for the Knights of Gird, but when the order grew too big for it, they converted it for us. The ground floor is much larger—rooms on the back side look over the roofs. That’s because it doesn’t have cellars; all the storerooms are above ground.”

“Why?”

Rufen shrugged. “I don’t know. I never wondered; they just told us when we came. Anyway, the Low Hall is more-or-less behind the Marshal-General’s quarters; you saw where the kitchens were, between the steward’s office and the Hall. The stables are really confusing, and I hear they’re thinking of redoing them. Most of our horses—those assigned to training—are stabled in that little court just back of us. But the only way from there to the guest stables is through the tackroom—so you’ll have to ride out the back of the guest stables, and around the smithy. Then the Knights’ horses are stabled on the other side, south of the training armory.”

Paks was still confused, but hated to admit it. “There are other armories, then?”

“Gird’s teeth, yes. Each order of knights has its own, of course, and the paladins have theirs—and by the way, don’t even think of trying to see what magical things they’ve got. Elis of Harway tried that, a year ago, and was knocked senseless for two days by the guard power they’ve set.”

“Oh.”

“And the Marshal-General chewed her out when she came to, and had her assigned to be Suliya’s servant for a week.” When Paks looked blank at that, he explained. “Suliya’s a paladin—she—well, she stays here now.” Paks said nothing, since he seemed uneasy. Finally he went on. “Sometimes, they say, even a paladin is defeated. You think of them dying, but sometimes—” He shook his head. “Of course, I’ve never seen her. Elis said it was—well, she said she’d fight any of us if
we
tried violating paladin secrecy. You don’t know Elis, of course.”

Paks began to think she’d like to know Elis. She was about to ask which of the students was Elis, when Rufen went on. “You won’t, anyway, unless she comes back before you leave.”

“Was she dismissed?”

“Elis? No, but her father died, and she was the oldest. She had to take his place. As soon as one of the others is old enough, she wants to come back. And she will. In the long run, if Elis wants it, she gets it.”

They were now in the passage outside Paks’s room. A neatly lettered card fitted into a slot she had not noticed before, so that anyone would know it was her room.

“I’m down four doors, across the passage,” said Rufen. Paks finally found words for something that had puzzled her.

“How did you know about Elis? I thought the Marshal-General said the new class had been here only a few weeks.”

“Oh, them.” Rufen laughed. “There are—oh—a dozen of them. They’re all younger than you. I’ve been here a year and some.”

“Were all those in practice with you?” Paks did not want to reveal how unskilled they had seemed to her.

“No—we train in groups according to skill. That’s the most basic group, in sword-work. My father, you see, planned for me to be a scholar. I had a badly broken arm, as a boy, and he thought it would never hold up to fighting. I thought differently.”

“Oh.” Paks found his composure as interesting as his story. He did not sound angry, or defensive—he might have been talking about the training of a horse.

“You won’t do your sword-work with us, I’m sure. But then Aris and Seli won’t do staves with you. By Gird, I’ve never seen anything so clumsy as your grip on a staff.” Paks flushed, but he obviously meant no insult. “It gives me hope for my swordwork, for I was just as clumsy to start—perhaps you were so with a sword, and yet you’ve learned great skill.”

“Well—I’ll work hard,” said Paks, trying to copy his calm.

“Oh, you’ll learn. Cieri could teach a cow grace, if he wanted to. And he likes you somewhat—not that that will take the sting out of his blows. But if we want baths before supper, we’d best get going. The rest of them’ll be crowding in soon enough.” He went in his own room, and Paks turned to hers. Already two complete sets of gray tunics and trousers were folded neatly on her bed. She took off her mail, and her sweaty clothes, and put on the loose bath-gown of heavy gray wool. A knock on her door. Rufen called from outside. “I forgot to tell you—lots of us don’t wear the uniform to supper. It’s up to you, but don’t wear mail, or weapons but the dagger.”

“Thanks,” she called back. She rummaged among her things, and decided finally to wear her second-best shirt from Brewersbridge. Perhaps they would think it strange if she showed up in students’ gray at once. Then she thought of the Training Master, and wondered. It seemed that she could be wrong either way. Why hadn’t they told her exactly what to do? She was willing to do what she was told. She looked from one stack of clothes to the other, biting her lip nervously, trying to remember exactly what the Training Master had said. At last she took up her own shirt and trousers, and headed for the bath house.

Bathed and dressed once more, Paks returned to her own room, wondering now how she would know when it was time to eat. No one had mentioned a gong or other signal. Rufen’s door was shut; she was too shy to knock. She heard voices in the passage, but could not distinguish the words. Suddenly a commotion began—shouts, thuds—Paks leaped for her sword, then stopped short. No weapons. She snatched at her door, and looked out.

A black-haired boy in red velvet lay flat on the floor, blinking up at two who had their backs to Paks. She saw Rufen’s door open, and his narrow good-humored face peering out.

“And if you come up here again, Aris—” said one of those standing.

“What are you doing now, Con?” asked Rufen.

“Don’t bother yourself, Rufen. Just reminding the juniors that they’ve no right to come up here—”

“I do!” began the boy in red, but the second of the standing pair laughed shortly.

“You do, eh? Then we’ve a right to dump you on your tail.” He took a step forward, but Rufen came out of his room.

“No one has a right to brawl, Jori, and you and Con know it. I don’t know where you got the idea that this is your passage—”

“You’d dispute that?” asked Con scornfully. “You? By Gird’s toe, Rufen, I can throw you with one arm alone.”

“I doubt that,” said Rufen. The boy had started to roll to his feet, but Con aimed a kick in his direction.

“Stay there, little boy.”

Paks had been growing angrier. Jori sneered at Rufen, and said, “We have to do something—the Master’s put one of ‘em on our floor!”

Rufen cocked his head. “So?”

“So, we’ll have to teach them all a lesson—I don’t suppose a peasant girl can be much trouble.”

Paks felt her anger like a leaping flame. “You don’t?” she asked, trying for a pleasant tone. The two whirled; she saw the shock in their faces as they saw her size and condition. Behind them, Rufen helped the boy in red to his feet. “What kind of lesson,” she asked, rocking slightly from heel to toe, “did you think to teach me?” She hoped they would jump her; she wished she had gone for them at once.

“Who in Gird’s name are you?” asked Con, glancing sideways at Jori for support.

“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said Paks quietly, still ready to jump. “A—peasant girl, I believe you said, wasn’t it?”

“You’re the new—?” Con seemed unable to believe it.

“Yes.” Paks waited, suddenly finding it funny.

“Paksenarrion,” said Rufen pleasantly from behind them, “is a veteran of the wars in Aarenis. I believe she is known to Sir Fenith, as well as Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge and others.” Paks glanced at him quickly, still balanced to fight. The boy Aris was grinning openly.

Con shook his head. “I’m sorry for what I said, then. You’re no novice, barely trained as a squire. I had heard you were a sheepfarmer’s daughter, but obviously—”

“I am a sheepfarmer’s daughter,” said Paks, dangerously quiet. “Does that change your opinion?”

He looked confused. “But you’re not Girdish. Where did a—a girl like you learn warfare, outside the granges?”

“In Duke Phelan’s Company,” said Paks, glad to see the surprise return. “I began there, as a recruit.”

“Phelan!” That was Jori. “But he’s—” He looked quickly at Con.

“Yes?” Paks let her hand slip to her dagger hilt.

“I didn’t say a thing—” began Jori. He held out his hands, palm up.

“Look, Pak-Paksenarrion—I don’t know Duke Phelan, I only know what I’ve heard. Don’t—”

“And what is this?” The Training Master had turned into the passage from the stairs. Paks, facing them all, saw their faces stiffen at his voice. She stood silent, waiting to see what would happen. No one spoke for a long moment. Then—"Well? Have you set a gauntlet for our new student to run? Aris, I thought you were to escort her to supper, and now I find you all standing about up here as if you had all night to chat.”

Even Rufen seemed to have no quick answer to this. Paks moved forward, passing Con and Jori without looking at them. “Pardon, sir,” she said. “I did not know the usual signal for supper, and delayed them talking about your customs. You did say, did you not, that I need not change to the student uniform for tonight?”

“Yes—I did.” The Training Master looked taken aback. “But—”

“Is it permitted to wear one’s own dagger to the table?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Then,” she said, with a glance back to the others, who were watching in some kind of shock, “I apologize again for making everyone late. Aris, will you show me the way?”

The boy in red seemed the least dazed of them all, and came quickly to her side, nodding respectfully to the Training Master, who looked down at him thoughtfully. “Someone downstairs reported a disturbance up here,” he said at last.

“Oh, sir?” Aris managed to look doubtful.

“Yells,” said the Training Master.

Paks intervened. “They were expecting a peasant girl,” she said, carefully not looking at Con and Jori. “I think I surprised them.”

“I see.” The Training Master looked them all over carefully. “I will see you after supper, Paksenarrion; we must be sure you understand the rules of the house.”