The Deed of Paksenarrion (76 page)

“I don’t know, sir. I might be, if someone hired me; otherwise I’ll be going on when Star has rested from the mountains.”

“You’re looking for work? As a fighter?”

“Yes, sir. At least—I want to send my father what he paid on my dowry before I left.”

The Kuakgan’s eyes shifted to look at the jewel winking in the offering basin. “Hmmm. If you’ve many of that quality, I’d think they would cover most dowries. Was your father a wealthy man?”

“No, sir. A sheepfarmer, near Three Firs. He had his own land and flocks, but he wasn’t rich. Not the way people are in cities.”

“I see. You should have those things valued, then. I think you have enough for repayment of any likely sum. But tell me, what sort of employment were you hoping for, after the mercenaries?”

Paks flushed at the tone of his question. “It was an honorable company, sir,” she said firmly. “I wasn’t sure—I thought a guard company perhaps. The Duke suggested that.”

“Duke? What Duke?”

“Duke Phelan, of Tsaia—”

“Ah,” he broke in. “The Halveric’s friend? A redhead?” When Paks nodded, the Kuakgan went on. “So that’s the company you’ve been in. Why did the Duke suggest you leave, young warrior?”

Paks did not want to get into that question, least of all to a Kuakgan. Her confusion and reluctance must have shown, because the Kuakgan shook his head. “Never mind, then. I have no right to ask that, unless the answer poses a danger for those under my care, and I judge it does not. But tell me, did the elves give you any other message here?”

“Not to you, sir. They did say I should speak to Marshal Deordtya, but the innkeeper’s daughter said that she was no longer here: she said a Marshal Cedfer had taken her place.”

“The elves sent you to Girdsmen?” The Kuakgan seemed surprised at this.

Paks didn’t want to answer any more questions. “Yes, sir, and I’d better be going now—”

“You just arrived this afternoon. Are you in such a hurry?”

Paks sensed more behind the simple question and took refuge in stubborn adherence to duty. “Yes, sir. They told me to come to you, and to the Marshal. I should do that as soon as I can.”

“Well, then, Paksenarrion, I expect I’ll see you again. You may come here, if you want to, and you need not bring such an offering each time. One of Jos Hebbinford’s oatcakes will do.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Paks was not sure why she was thanking the Kuakgan, but she felt much less afraid of him, though she didn’t doubt his power. When he nodded dismissal, Paks turned and went back along the path to the north road. As she stepped through the arch of vines and trees, the village noises returned. A boy and a small herd of goats were jogging toward the crossroads; the goats baaing loudly. Somewhere nearby a smith was at work; the cadenced ring of steel on anvil made Paks think of Star’s worn hooves. She wondered if it was a farrier or a weaponsmith. She looked about, but the sound came from behind the first row of buildings, and she decided not to look for it right away. At the crossroad, she turned right, as Sevri had told her, toward the Gird’s grange, and followed a curving lane past one small shop after another. Faces glanced out at her, curious; those she passed in the street looked sideways: she felt the looks.

The lane angled around a larger building, set back in a fenced yard, and dipped toward a small river. Over the river rose a stone bridge, unexpectedly large, with handsome carved endposts on the parapets. Upstream a millwheel turned slowly; downstream on the near bank was a large building and yard. At first Paks thought it was another inn, for a group of men sat on its wide veranda drinking ale, but the sign over the gate said “Ceddrin and Sons: Brewmasters” with a picture of a tapped barrel. Across the river from the brewery, and a little downstream, was a yard full of hides hung on frames, and stinking tubs: the tanner’s. Paks crossed the bridge, and saw a great barnlike building looming over the cottages between. According to Sevri, that was the grange.

As Paks came nearer, she noted the construction of the Girdsmen’s meeting place. It looked very much like the barns she’d seen in grain-growing regions, stone-walled to twice a man’s height, with closely fitted boards above that. Tall narrow windows began in the top course of stones and rose to the eaves of a steeply pitched roof. On the end nearest the road, wagon-wide doors of heavy dark wood were barred shut. Above them was a square hay-door with the hoist in place. Paks wondered what they could possibly use that for. Along one side of the grange a stone wall half again as tall as Paks enclosed a space as wide as the building. Through a narrow gate of iron palings she could see that it was nothing but a bare yard, beaten hard by heavy traffic. Across from the outer gate was another, of wood. She wondered what was behind it.

“It’s not the time for meeting,” said a voice close behind her. Paks whirled, her hand dropping to her sword hilt. The man who had spoken led a donkey, its back piled high with sticks. He wore no weapon, but his brawny shoulders and muscular arms were no stranger to fighting: he had training scars on both arms, and a long scar on his leg that had come from a spear.

“How would I find the Marshal?” asked Paks. She had noticed that he had not flinched when she reached for her sword; his eyes met hers easily.

“Oh. You’re a traveler, aren’t you? Well, the Marshal—” He cocked his head at the sky. “This time of day he’ll be just finishing his drill with the young’un, I don’t doubt. Go round the side there, past the barton, and ask at the door you’ll come to. Gird ward you, traveler.” He nodded and stepped away before Paks could answer.

The walled yard, or barton, was not quite as long as the grange itself. Despite what she knew of Girdsmen, Paks felt uneasy about losing sight of the lane and its traffic as she picked her way around the outside of the barton wall, and up to the door in its angle between the wall and the grange. That door too was shut, but she gathered her nerve and knocked.

Nothing happened for a few moments, then the door was swept open and she found herself facing a red-faced young man in a sweaty homespun tunic. The red lumps of fresh bruises marked his arms; he had a rapidly blackening eye. For an instant they stared at each other, silent, until a voice called from within.

“Well? Who is it, Ambros?”

“Who are you?” asked the young man quietly. “Did you want to see the Marshal?”

“I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” began Paks. “I have a message for the Marshal.”

“Wait.” The young man turned and called her name to the interior. In a moment an older man, a hand shorter than Paks, came into the room. He had brown hair, streaked with gray and matted with sweat, and a short brown beard. The younger man stepped back to let him come to the door.

“Paksenarrion, eh? A fighter, I see. Yeoman, are you, or yeoman-marshal?”

“Not either, sir,” said Paks. He grunted and looked her up and down.

“Should be, with your build. Well, let’s have your message. Come on in, don’t stand dithering in the door.” He turned abruptly and strode into the room, leaving Paks to follow. “You got those boots in Aarenis, I’ll warrant,” he said over his shoulder. “I hear it’s been lively over the mountains this year.” Paks did not answer, but followed him into a narrow passage, and then a small room fitted with desk and shelves on one side, and two heavy chairs on the other. The man dropped into the chair nearest the desk. “Have a seat. So—you’re not a Girdsman at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Who sent you?”

“The elves, sir, that I met—”

“Elves!” He looked at her sharply. “You run with elves? Dangerous company you keep, young warrior. So: what message did they have for the Marshal of Gird in this grange?”

“To tell you, sir, that in a high valley east and south of here the elfane taig had been wakened, and the lost elf-lord had been freed.”

The Marshal sat straight up. “Indeed! That old evil gone, eh? And they had done this, the elves? I thought they claimed they could not.”

“Sir, they hadn’t done it. They—we—it happened, sir, while I and another were there—”

“Happened! Such things do not happen, they are caused. Are you the cause? Did you fight in that valley and live to return?”

“I fought there, yes. But they did not say the evil was gone, only that the elf-lord was freed.”

“I understand. But the evil has lost its body; it will have some trouble to find a new one that will serve so well. And the elfane taig awake. Hmmph. That will please none but elves and Kuakkganni. But tell me more. You were there; you are a fighter. What was your part in this?”

For the second time that afternoon, Paks found herself telling over what had happened. It was not so hard, talking to the Marshal: almost like telling Stammel or Arcolin back in the Company. When she finished, the Marshal looked grave, his lips pursed.

“Well,” he said finally. “You have been blessed by the gods—and I would think by Gird himself as well—to come through that alive and free of soul. I’d not dare call it luck that a party of elves found you, and knew what to do. For all I’ve just finished drill, we’ll go into the grange and give you a chance to show your appreciation. Unless your allegiance forbids—?” Paks had no idea what he meant, but saw no harm in entering the grange. She had been curious about them since talking to the High Marshal near Sibili, curious and reluctant at once.

Marshal Cedfer led the way into the grange, first along a passage, past the door to the outer room, and through another door set at an angle. Inside, the vast room was already dim in the fading light. Paks could see the glint of weaponry here and there along the walls. The Marshal struck a spark and lit a candle, then lifted the candle toward a torch set in a bracket above him. Paks saw that most of the floor was stone paving blocks, worn smooth. But at the near end of the room a platform of wood rose knee-high, floored with broad planks. It was six or eight spans long and the same wide, easily large enough for many men to stand on. The Marshal, meanwhile, had lit several more torches. Paks wondered what the platform was for, and then noticed Ambros’s face in the doorway. So did the Marshal.

“Come on in, Ambros. Good news! Paksenarrion, here, brings word that the elf-lord possessed by the demon is freed. She’s a little travel-weary, but I just finished drill, so that will be fair.” He went over to a rack on the wall and took down a sword. “This should do. Now, Paksenarrion, since you are not a Girdsman, I suppose I should explain. You know that Gird is the patron of fighters?” Paks nodded. “Good. Well, for thanks and praise we honor him with our skill, such as it is, in fighting. You have escaped not only death, but great evil: you owe the High Lord and Gird great thanks. We shall cross blades, therefore, and by the joyous clash of them the gods will hear our thanks. Unless—” He paused suddenly. “Do you have a wound that would pain you? I should have asked before.”

“No,” said Paks. “I have none. But what is the purpose to which we fight? Am I to wound you, or—?”

“Oh no. It’s like weaponsdrill. We are not enemies that I know of, to draw blood. Gird is no blooddrinker, like some gods. This will not take long; just spar with me.”

Paks drew her sword and stepped up onto the platform with the Marshal, who had thrown off his robe to reveal a tunic as drab and worn as Ambros’s. He eyed her thoughtfully. “Are you sure you won’t take off your cloak? You might find it troublesome.” At that, Paks realized that she was still wearing her chainmail shirt; she hardly thought of it these days.

“Sir, it will not trouble me, but is it right that I wear mail? If I must change—” She wondered as she said it why she was so willing to please him by this exercise.

“Oh no. Oh no, that’s no problem. I’m a Marshal, after all; if I can’t face mail without it, I’m a poor follower of Gird, who fought in an old shirt and a leather apron, or less than that. Now, Ambros, turn the quarterglass, and we’ll begin.”

And with a quick tap of greeting, the Marshal began testing Paks’s control of her weapon. When she proved strong, he tried quickness. When she proved quick—and he smiled broadly when his lunges failed—he tried movement. Paks met his attacks firmly, but concentrated on defense: she did not want to know what would happen should she injure a Marshal of Gird in his own grange.

He was skilled indeed, perhaps as skilled as any human she had faced but for old Siger. Still, he did not penetrate her defenses, though she had to shift ground more than once. She sensed the sand passing through the quarterglass, and changed her tactics slightly, pressing the Marshal a bit. Was he just a little slower to the right? Were his returns to position sluggish there? She felt the impact of the blades through her wrist. It had been long since she had such good practice.

Suddenly the Marshal quickened his pace, surprising her; she’d thought he was slowing. She gave back, turning, her rhythm broken, fending him off as much by reach as stroke. She took a breath, and stepped back again to gain room for her own attack, but her foot found nothing to step on: she had come to the edge of the platform.

Instantly she threw herself sideways and tucked, hitting the stone floor on her left side, and rolling up to a fighting position. But the Marshal had not followed up her fall.

“Forgive me!” he cried when her saw her up. “I had forgotten, Paksenarrion, in the fighting, that you were not one of us, and did not know the platform well. It was ill-done of me to press you so close to the edge.” He racked his sword and came to her side. “Were you hurt in the fall?”

Paks took a breath. Her side hurt, but that was as much the old bruises as the new ones. “No, sir. It’s all right, truly it is. I’ve had harder falls.”

“Oh, aye, I’m sure you have. But you’re not a yeoman here for training. I should have warned you—glad you’re not hurt.” As Paks sheathed her blade, he picked up his robe. “It’s customary,” he said, “to make an offering toward the armory, too. Though as you’re not a Girdsman, it isn’t strictly required—” Paks found that Ambros had come to her side with a slot-lidded box. She fished out the pouch from her tunic again, thinking to herself that it seemed hard to be dumped on the floor and then asked for money. She took the first jewel at random and dropped it into the box. The Marshal did not appear to be watching.