The Deed of Paksenarrion (103 page)

“Certainly, sir. Where shall I come?”

“Aris can show you.” Aris colored at this, and Paks surmised that he had been called often to the Training Master’s study. With a last nod, the Training Master turned away; they all descended the stairs behind him, silently. When he turned away, and they were alone in the passage between the kitchens and the Lower Hall, Rufen spoke.

“Paks, thank you for not going into all that with him—”

“I thought we were in for it,” added Con. Paks looked at him with distaste.

“Soldiers don’t complain to commanders about every trifle.”

Con reddened. “That’s not what I meant—”

“It’s what I meant.” She turned pointedly to Aris, who had not spoken to her yet. “Where are you from, Aris?”

“From Marrakai’s House, in Tsaia—do you know it?”

Paks laughed. “No—but I’ve heard of Duke Marrakai.”

“My father,” said the boy proudly. “I’m the fourth son.”

“And knows it, too,” muttered Jori, from behind them. Aris whipped around.

“At least
my
father is a duke!” he said. “And I have three estates already to my name—”

“Oh Gird’s grace,” muttered Con to Jori, “did you have to start him off again?” Even Paks was tempted to smile at the boy’s intensity. But they were at the doors of the Lower Hall, and looking for a place to sit at the crowded tables. Obviously more than students ate here: it seemed to Paks that a whole village was in the room, and the noise confirmed it. She followed the others between the tables, to a serving hatch. There her platter was stacked with sliced meat, a dipper of redroots in gravy, a small loaf of bread, and a slice of something that looked like nutbread dipped in honey. On a table beside the hatch were mugs; she had seen that each table had two pitchers.

The Hall was so crowded that they could not sit together; Aris found a space for the two of them, and the other three wandered away. Paks was hungry and began eating at once. When she slowed down enough to look around, the crowd was thinning out a little. Aris was chatting with another fairly young boy across the table—he was straw-blond, with gray eyes, and slightly crooked teeth. The person next to Paks had left without her noticing. She mopped up the rest of her gravy with the bread, and looked around the table. Next to Aris was a heavy-set redheaded man in a blue tunic, munching away steadily. Next to him, on the end, was a tall, slender—Paks stopped, and stared.

The elf looked up, and smiled at her. “I did not hear your name, lady—will you share it?” The voice held that strange music that all elves’ voices shared, a hint of harpstrings or bells.

Paks choked down the last bit of bread. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, sir.”

The cool gray eyes sharpened. “Would you be that Paksenarrion who traveled with one Macenion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Indeed. It is my pleasure, then, to welcome you—you are welcome to us, as to the Girdsmen. I am one of the embassy from the Westforest elves to Fin Panir; my elven name would be difficult for you to say, but you can call me Ardhiel.”

Paks realized that Aris was staring at her, open-mouthed. He hissed at her. “Paksenarrion! The elf spoke to you? He’s never said anything to me!”

Silvery laughter fell around them; the elf’s eyes sparkled. “I do not know your name, young sir—and what would I speak with you about?”

Now the man beside Aris was also alert, listening.

Aris changed color. “I—sir, I—I only meant that—that I thought elves didn’t talk to—”

“To students, rarely. We fear it might distract you from your own affairs—and your affairs, young sir, are not mine.”

“But I—but she—but my father is Duke Marrakai!”

“Oh—you are the Kirgan?”

“No, sir. I’m the fourth son; the Kirgan is my brother Juris.” The elf waved his hand, dismissing.

“Whatever, young Marrakai—your father’s affairs might march with mine, but yours—no. I mean you no discourtesy, but—”

“I’m not a child!” insisted the boy. Paks had to admit he seemed childish even to her; the elf’s face expressed nothing, but she could feel his withdrawal.

“No? For me, young Marrakai, all in this room are but a summer’s memory. If you would be comfortable with elves, you must admit this. I have known your family for more generations than you have lived in your House.” Aris flushed, and set his jaw stubbornly. When his friend across the table whispered, he rose to go, looking pointedly at Paks.

“The Training Master said I was to show you where to go.”

“Yes—thank you, Aris, I’ll be right there.” She looked back at the elf, whose eyes seemed for a moment sad. “Sir, I thank you.”

“Lady Paksenarrion, it is nothing. I hope to see more of you hereafter.”

In the next few days, Paks felt that her mind and body both were battered and confused. Her instructors were forthright with both praise and criticism; other students accepted her presence without comment, but tested her skills relentlessly. Yet they tested each other just as freely, and seemingly held no rancor. She found it somewhat like being a recruit at the Duke’s Stronghold, with the many hours of required drill. Yet out of class and drill there was no regimentation, no barracks chores. Clean clothes appeared in her room each day, and the room itself was cleaned while she was out. Someone else maintained the jacks and the bath house; someone else groomed the horses and polished tack. She began to wonder if this was the way the nobles lived, playing at war with weapons drill, but with someone else doing the dirty work. She had to admit she liked it.

Once she knew where everything was, and which place to go when, she began to enjoy it as she had never enjoyed anything else. Most of the students cared as much about weaponry and tactics as she did. They sat up late, arguing problems assigned by the instructors: where should a cohort of archers be set, or which order of march was best in heavy forest. At first Paks was shy of speaking up to Marshals and High Marshals, but silence was no protection: they would ask her. For Marshals in Aarenis had brought reports of the last season’s fighting to Fin Panir, and the problems set were those she had fought through.

It started with an analysis, in a discussion of supply, of the march from Foss Council territory to Andressat. “Assuming a march of five days,” Marshal Tigran said, “what would you need to supply a cohort of a hundred soldiers?” Paks tried to remember if it had indeed been five days. When the others had answered, and she was called on, she simply remembered how many mules they’d used, and blessed Stammel for insisting that she learn how to divide everything by three.

“Mules?” asked Tigran, and someone laughed. He frowned at them. Paks shook her head.

“To carry the supplies, Marshal.”

“Aha! That was going to be my next question—how to transport it.” Somehow Paks was getting credit for a right answer she had never actually given. But the next one she earned on her own. “Then,” he went on, “how do you figure the extra transport for the supply taken up by transport?”

Paks knew that, from Stammel’s many tirades on the subject. One Tir-damned mule in four, he’d muttered, just to make sure the beasts have enough for themselves. Tigran looked at her with respect, as did the rest of the class. When he found she knew how long fresh mutton or beef could travel in different seasons, and how long it took to grind the grain for a cohort’s bread ration, he grinned, and turned to the other students. “This is the value of practical knowledge,” he said. “Some of you know in theory, and the rest of you are learning, but here’s a soldier who has been in the field, and knows what the ration tastes like.”

“Can you tell us if it’s true what Marshal Tigran says, about not being able to fight without supply even for one day? I still think brave troops could do without—not for long, maybe, but for a day or so.” That was Con, more interested than aggressive. Tigran nodded to Paks, and she thought back to the various campaigns, and the day of the ambush in the forest near the Immer.

Paks described the enemy’s apparent retreat, her Company’s forced march trying to catch them, and the ambush in the forest. No one interrupted with questions; even Con was quiet. She told them of the damp cold that night, when the wounded had no shelter, and no one had food, when the smell of the enemy’s food drifting across the locked squares made their hunger worse. And the next morning’s attack, their allies’ arrival. And finally the sudden weakness that toppled more than one of them, that long march and heavy fighting without food or rest.

“It’s not a matter of bravery,” she said. “You can live long without food, and stand and fight for a time, but not march and fight.”

Tigran nodded at her. “Most of you have never been hungry for long—and since you aren’t seasoned warriors, never when fighting.”

“I wonder why you came to study, Paks,” said Con after that class. “You already know as much as the Marshals—”

“No. No, I don’t.” She wondered how to explain what she didn’t know. “I know what a private knows—the soldier in the cohort—”

“It seems plenty—”

“No, listen. I always wanted to learn, and so I paid attention to the sergeants, and the captains when they talked in my hearing. But I only know it from the bottom. I don’t know how to plan—how to think of more than one cohort at a time. You know how to reckon amounts for any number—right?” He nodded. “Well, I don’t. My sergeant taught me to divide by three, to find our cohort’s share of the Company’s supplies. And I can add that three times, to go from a cohort’s share to the whole Company. But that’s all. He told me one time that Marrakai, when he goes to war, has five cohorts. I can’t reckon in fives at all.”

“You can’t? But it’s not hard—”

“No, maybe not. But you know how, and I don’t. And in tactics, I know some things not to do, but I don’t always know why. I can write well enough, and read—but I can’t write a description of a battle, as Marshal Drafin showed us, or read one and make sense out of it. The sand table is one thing, but those books—”

“Huh. I thought after the first night that you knew everything—or thought you did.”

Paks shook her head again. “I won’t ever know everything—there’s not time enough to learn all I want to know—”

“Now that’s an interesting sentiment.” The Training Master had appeared, as usual, without warning. Paks had begun to wonder if he had magical powers. “Are you serious in what you say?”

Paks was, as always, wary around him. “Yes . . . sir.”

“You feel you have much more to learn—even with your practical experience?”

Paks felt an edge of sarcasm in his voice. She stiffened. “Yes. I said that.”

“Don’t bristle at me.” To her surprise, he was smiling. “One thing that worried the Marshal-General was the possibility that you might find these things too boring—”

“Boring!”

“Don’t interrupt, either. We have had a few other veterans who found them so—who were so intent on what they had done already that they could not learn new things.” He looked intently at Con, who colored. Paks wondered what that was about, but was glad enough he wasn’t after her. “How are you coming with your reading?” He was after her. She wondered if he’d heard what she had said to Con. She hated having to admit her weaknesses.

“Not—very fast, sir.”

“I thought so.” It did not sound too sarcastic. “Paksenarrion, the only way to learn to read faster and better is to read—just like swordplay. You can’t learn swordplay from a book, or reading from your sword.”

“But if I can listen to someone who knows—”

He shook his head. “Paksenarrion, no one knows everything—you’re not alone in that. Writing stores knowledge, for others to use who may never know the writer. You know how tales told change in the telling—” She nodded, and he went on. “That’s why writing is so important. Suppose you are in a battle; if you can write well enough to describe it accurately, then others can learn from your experience many years from now.”

“It’s too late.” Paks looked down. She had hated turning in her scrawls when the others wrote neat, legible hands. “The ones who can write started earlier.”

“And when did you start with staves? And you’re already out of the novice class, into intermediate. Work at it. As for you, Con,” the Training Master turned to him. “You quit worrying about your standing with the juniors, and start spending your evenings on tactics. And supply. Perhaps if you’ll explain reckoning in all numbers to Paks, she’ll explain why you can’t march a cohort for two days on sixteen measures of barley and a barrel of apples.”

“Apples? I meant to write salt beef.”

“Your writing is not much better than Paks’s—neither Tigran nor I could decide what you really meant, so we called it apples. So might your supply sergeant, someday.”

She could not remember when she had felt so at home. Not even in the Company, that last year. Instead of Saben and Canna, she had Rufen, Con, and Peli. They spent hours with pebbles and beans, teaching her reckoning. She taught them all one of her favorite sword tricks, so that Cieri, bested three times in one day, glared at them all, and accused Paks of trying to get his job as weaponsmaster. She began to read faster, and understand more complicated books and scrolls. They began to realize, as Rufen explained one night, that the soldiers they might command one day were real people.

“I knew they were,” he said thoughtfully, “and yet I didn’t. Here we talk about supplying a cohort, or positioning a squad of archers over here, and a couple of cohorts of pikes there. They’re just—just bodies. Soldiers. Gird forgive me, being a Girdsman, but I looked like that at my father’s guardsmen . . . they all wore a uniform, they all wore the same weapons. But after knowing you—and you were, as you say ‘just a private’—I know they’re real people.”

Paks looked down, suddenly moved almost to tears. She felt, for the first time, that these were real friends. She could talk to them about the Company—about the people in it—with no betrayal of trust. Little by little she opened up, a few words at a time about Stammel and Devlin, Vik and Arñe—even Saben and Canna.

She had special status with the juniors—for Aris Marrakai had told his friends about her protecting him from Con’s bullying. They did not venture to intrude on the upper floors very often, but she was conscious of shy smiles and friendly greetings from the whole group that Con despised.