The Deed of Paksenarrion (42 page)

“She would. Well, Paks, I can see why you haven’t talked about this. I think you’re right, unless you decide to find a Marshal. Just in case something is going on, you might like to find out what.”

Paks frowned. “But I don’t think anything is going on. And I’m not a Girdsman.”

“Whatever you say. You’re either damned lucky or gods-gifted, or you wouldn’t be here today. What a year you’ve had!” Stammel stretched, arching his back. “Well, it’s getting on toward second watch—” He took a final swallow of ale, and nodded for Paks to finish hers. “Now these recruits, Paks, have had their basic training in swords, and they can go through the pair exercises without spitting each other. But they need weapons drill in formation, and a lot of two and three on one. Their shieldwork is as bad as yours was—or worse. Tomorrow I want you to take your four and work on the basics. Be tough with ‘em, but try not to scare them so they can’t work. All right?”

Paks relaxed, draining her mug. “Yes, sir.”

“You heard the captain say the Duke might join us. If he does—he’d rather take a fall than have one of us do something stupid.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”

“Come on, then.” They unfolded themselves from either side of the table, passed through the noisy common room, and went out into the frosty night.

Siger, the Duke’s old armsmaster, had come south since, as he said, the Duke had left him nothing to do at home.

“You must be some quicker,” he greeted Paks. “Or by what I hear you wouldn’t be alive. Here—take these bandas for your recruits. Who’ve you got?” Paks told him. “Volya’s quick, but not strong enough yet,” he said. “Her shieldwork’s wretched. Keri forgets things. Keep after him. Jenits is the best of those—just needs practice and seasoning. Sim’s very strong, but slow. Not clumsy, exactly—just slow. I’ll check on you later.”

Paks collected her little group in one corner of a yard that grew more crowded every minute. With swords alone, they looked fairly good. Sim hung a fractional beat behind the count, but it hardly showed. She had them pick up shields. Now the drill grew ragged. Sim slowed more, and Keri kept shoving his shield too far to one side. Volya couldn’t seem to get hers high enough. Paks had them pair off, still working on the counted drill. With this stimulus, Volya improved her shieldwork, but Sim stayed slow. Keri made touches he should not have, and Sim failed to take advantage of Keri’s bad shieldwork. Jenits still looked good. Paks moved around them, watching carefully at every stroke, and talking herself hoarse. Finally she stopped them for a water break.

“I suppose,” she said, after a drink had restored her voice, “that Siger told you, Sim, that you are too slow?” He nodded. “And Volya—if your shield is down around your ankles, it won’t do any good, right?” Volya blushed. “And you, Jenits,” she went on. “You may be the best of this group, but you have a long way to go.”

“Siger said I was coming well,” said Jenits. Paks grinned. She’d hoped for a challenge; it would be a welcome change from talking.

“Well, let’s see. Maybe I was fooled by watching you with another recruit. The rest of you: don’t sit; you’ll stiffen in the cold.” Paks drew her sword, took Volya’s shield, and faced Jenits. He did not look as confident as the moment before. “Come on,” said Paks. “Get that shield up where it’ll do you some good. Now start at the beginning.”

Jenits began the drill cautiously, as if he thought his sword would break on contact. She countered the strokes easily, without any flourishes, murmuring the numbers as a reminder. He put more bite in the strokes, and Paks responded by stepping up the pace, and strengthening her own. She did not deviate from the drill, but in a few minutes Jenits was sweating and puffing, and she had tapped his banda half a dozen times. She stopped him.

“Jenits, you have the chance to be very good. But right now you’re about half as fast as you should be—and half as fit. Your speed will come with practice; the way we’re going to drill will take care of the fitness, too. Now walk around and catch your breath while I try the others.” Paks was pleased to see that Jenits no longer looked sulky, just thoughtful. She beckoned to Volya, handed back her shield, and took another. Volya was very quick, and her strokes were firm, but she could not keep her shield high enough.

“Is that arm just weak, or did something happen to it?”

“It was broken once, by a cow. I’ve tried to strengthen it.”

“You’ll have to do better. If you can’t keep that shield up, you won’t survive your first battle. What have you tried?”

“Siger suggested some exercises. I do those—when I remember them.”

“You’ll remember them,” said Paks grimly, “unless you like the idea of dying very young. Right now, while you’re resting, raise and lower your shield fifty times—and go this high—” She pushed the shield until it was as high as she wanted it. “Go on, now. Sim, come here.”

Sim, a ruddy young boy with a husky build, moved flat-footed. Paks pointed this out, and he tried to stand on his toes instead, moving even more stiffly and slowly. “No, Sim. Not standing on your toes. Just lift your heels a little. Did you ever skip?” She knew as she asked that he had never skipped in his life, and he shook his round head. “Let’s try again, then.” Sim had a powerful stroke, but so slow that Paks could easily hit twice for each of his. Nothing she said or did made him faster, and she gave up in a few minutes. At least he was strong and tireless.

Keri was the last, and his main problems were sloppy shieldwork and a very short memory. At least, he kept getting the sequence of drill wrong. Several times Paks had to pull her stroke to keep from hurting him badly; he moved exactly the wrong way. She led him through the tricky parts again and again, then turned him over to Jenits. “No variations,” she said. “He’s got to do this right first.” Paks returned to Volya and Sim, and had them pair up without shields. When they started, she began her own exercises while watching them. All around her she heard the clatter of blades and shields, the busy voices of instructors.

“What do you think of them, Paks?” It was Siger, buckling on a sword belt. “Planning to take my job?”

Paks grinned. “I didn’t know it was so hard to teach—my voice gave out. But they’re about what you said. Sim’s impossibly slow; he’s dead if he doesn’t improve.”

“True. Want to go a round?”

“Gladly,” said Paks. “Swords only, or shields?”

“Both. Clear your group and give us room.” Paks told her recruits to break, and they stepped away.

“Ready?” asked Siger.

Paks nodded. They began with the same drill the recruits knew, but they picked up the tempo smoothly, until it was much faster. Siger began hitting harder; Paks followed suit. Then Siger left the drill sequence, skipping in for a thrust, but Paks countered it, and drove him back. Paks circled, looking for an opening. She tried to force Siger’s shield, and took a smart blow on the shoulder. In the next exchange, she tapped his chest. They circled and reversed like a pair of dancers.

“You are quicker,” said Siger. “You’re doing well. But do you know
this—”
and with a peculiar stroke Paks had never seen he trapped her blade and flicked it away. Someone laughed. Their encounter had attracted more watchers than her recruits. Paks glared at Siger, who was bouncing toward her again. She had her dagger out now, and the watchers were very quiet. With good shieldwork and her long reach, she kept him from touching her, but she couldn’t reach him. She thought hard, catching stroke after stroke on her shield until she remembered something she’d seen a Blue Rider do. Suddenly she pivoted to his shield side, jammed the edge of her shield behind his, and threw her weight toward him. Siger staggered to the side, and her dagger stroke was square in the back of his banda.

“Ha!” he cried. “Enough! And where did you learn that little trick?”

Paks grinned at him. “Here and there, you might say.” She was breathless and glad for the rest.

“Here’s your sword, Paks,” said Rauf. She looked at the respectful faces around them and took the sword, checking it for damage. Siger drove the others away and came back, patting her arm.

“That was good. Very good. Show me slowly, please.” He stood in front of her, and Paks demonstrated the pivot again. She did not explain that she had seen it used on horseback, and had coaxed the Blue Rider to show her on foot.

“It works best if you have the reach of your opponent,” she said. “You have to get your shield up above his shoulder, and then as the pivot continues, you’ve got it here—” she locked the shields together, “—and your right hand is free for the backstroke. And it’s hard for him to strike over the shields.”

“Is there a counter?”

“Yes—it’s easy. Just step back; don’t follow the pivot. Thing is, it works best against someone who thinks he’s got more weapon. The start of the turn looks like a retreat; if he follows it, you’ve got him. But if he stays back, you can’t lock shields.”

“Very good. Very good. Come this afternoon and I’ll show you that little twist that cost you your blade. A favor for a favor.”

“Thank you,” said Paks. She turned to her recruits as Siger moved away. They looked at her with more awe than before.

“Do we have to be that fast?” asked Jenits.

“It helps,” said Paks. “Suppose your opponent is. You need every scrap of speed and strength you can build. I’m faster than I was, and I hope I’ll keep improving.”

“I’ll never do it,” said Sim. “I’m strong. I know I’m strong, and I thought that would be enough. I could beat up anyone in my village. But I never was fast.”

“You’ll get faster,” said Paks firmly. “When I was a recruit, Siger thumped my ribs and yelled ‘faster, faster’ at me every day—and finally I got faster. You will too, unless your ribs are tougher than mine were.” They laughed, a little nervously.

From across the yard came a shout: “Hey—Saben. Come here.” Paks stiffened, her head swinging automatically to look before she caught herself. She felt tears sting her eyes, and blinked fiercely. Saben was a common enough name; she’d have to get used to it.

“Paks?” They all looked concerned. Volya went on. “Did you know him before? Saben, I mean?”

Paks shook her head, and took a deep steadying breath. “No. A different Saben—a good friend. We’d been together since we came in, and he was with me on—on the trip you heard about. But he died.”

“Oh.”

“Well, it happens. We’re soldiers, after all. It’s just—there wasn’t another Saben in the Company, so when I hear the name, I think—I’ll get used to it. I suppose. Now, let’s get back to work. Sim, you and Jenits this time, and Keri and Volya.” They started again and Paks kept after them until time for the midday meal.

Within a week, Paks lost Sim to Cracolnya’s cohort. She was glad; a slow archer might live longer than a slow swordsman. Less welcome was the change in cohort position resulting from the number of recruits. Normally, recruits were kept to the rear, except for a few who had showed promise. But Arcolin decided that they should be close to their veteran instructors, which meant that Paks ended up as file sixth. She understood the reasons, but didn’t like it even so.

There were other changes. Horse-faced Pont was now Arcolin’s junior captain, and Valichi took Font’s place with Cracolnya. The Duke had hired a captain to replace Sejek: Peska, a dark, dour man who had been a watch captain at court in Pargun. He spoke Common with a curious accent that Paks had never heard; she was glad her cohort had Pont instead, though Barra had no complaints about him.

This year Paks could not ask Donag for advance information—and no one in the cohort seemed to know what the Duke planned, except trouble for Siniava. When they marched out of Valdaire on the southern road, the one to Czardas that Paks remembered, she expected to see Halverics—but instead they met the Golden Company a few miles from the city. Aesil M’dierra, mounted on a chestnut horse and armored in gold-washed mail, rode beside the Duke; her company fell in behind. Paks eyed her: the only woman in Aarenis to command her own mercenary company. What would that be like? What could she be like?

But the next day they turned aside, through Baron Kodaly’s lands, and Golden Company stayed on the road south. Through a steady rain they marched easily, guided by a wiry dark man who had come with the Baron. Paks thought he looked like a juggler, but Stammel laughed when she said it.

“Juggler! Tir, no. I’ll admit the jugglers you see in Valdaire are his subjects, more than likely. That’s one of the woods tribes—their king, or prince, or whatever.”

“But why—?”

Stammel shrugged. “I don’t know. They have a lot of power in the forests of Aarenis, I’ve heard. The Duke’s always made friends with them. Maybe he wants safe passage through some forest.”

Whatever he was, he led them by ways that avoided all hazards of bog and mud. Three days later he was gone, but they marched easily beside a larger stream with a village in sight.

They were met, in the fields above the village, by an old man in a long robe and a fat man in helmet and breastplate commanding ten unarmored youths with scythes and pikes. Paks could not hear what the Duke said to them, but the youths suddenly trailed their weapons in the mud and turned away. The village had a cobbled square, and a group of taller buildings around it. Paks looked for an inn, hoping for ale. She saw a battered sign with a picture of a tower by a river; the sign read
Inzing Paksnor.
The inn yard was large, but part of the building had been torn down to build a stable. They marched through, to camp on the far side where one stream joined another.

Across the stream was a rising slope of farmland, and on the southern horizon a long stony escarpment running roughly west to east. It reminded Paks of the high moors behind Three Firs, and looked like nothing else she had seen in the south.

“That’s the Middle Marches,” said Devlin to a curious recruit. “Once you’re up on those heights, it’s sheepfarming land. And downstream maybe a day’s march from here is Ifoss.”

“Who claims the Middle Marches?” asked someone else.

“Whoever can.” Devlin turned to look at the fire. “There’s petty barons enough, near the river—like Kodaly. Ifoss claims some of it. More barons downstream until Vonja. Up on the high ground it’s hard to say. There was a Count Somebody, when I first came south, but he died. I heard he left no heir of the body—a nephew or something in Pliuni. The Honeycat tries to claim it, as he claims everything else. I think—I think when he took Pliuni, he captured the nephew, or married him to a daughter or niece. Or maybe that was another place.”