The Deed of Paksenarrion (80 page)

“I could stand to,” she said ruefully, wiping her face. “I see I still have a lot to learn—just as I thought.”

“The willing student learns quickly,” he said. “You need naught but experience to master this weapon as well as the other. Common swordsmen you could defeat now, quite easily I imagine.”

“Ah, but I like learning weaponcraft,” said Paks. She thought of Saben’s teasing with a pang. “I always have.”

“Good, then. You’re welcome here, any time. I’ll be glad to drill with you; you’re good enough to give me practice. Ambros, too. And mind—” he said briskly, fixing her with a sharp glance, “Mind, I intend to have you a Girdsman before long. Such skill as yours should be dedicated to a good cause. We need such fighters on the side of right, not running loose after idle gain.” Paks felt a flicker of anger at that, and her chin came up. “No—” He stopped and rubbed his head. “I shouldn’t say that of you, when I don’t know your allegiance, but Gird knows we’ve trouble enough coming, and few to meet it.” He grinned at her suddenly. “I still think you’ll make a fine Girdsman someday—even a Marshal, who knows?”

The others milled about, replacing weapons in racks on the grange walls, and taking their leave. Paks sheathed her sword, and turned to go. The Marshal was talking seriously to two men, low-voiced.

A hand touched her arm. It was Ambros. “If—if you’d come again, I’d like to drill with you—”

“Oh, I’ll come again, while I’m here. It’s good practice. But—don’t you have any women drilling with you?”

Ambros shook his head. “No. Not at this level. We’d had some in the beginners’ class—in fact, we have two there now. But those who want to go on, the Marshal sends elsewhere for more training.”

“I see.” She wondered why, but felt it would be impolite to ask.

“Were there many women in your company?”

“Maybe a quarter of us. One of the cohort captains.”

“I’ve heard of Duke Phelan. Isn’t his title from the court of Tsaia?”

“Yes. He has lands in the north of the kingdom, on the border.” Paks sighed. “I might—I might be going back there.”

“But you left his company, didn’t you? We thought you were a free sword.”

“Well—I was due leave, and—and the Duke thought perhaps I should try another company—another service—for a time. But I miss it; I’ve thought of going back.”

“Oh.” Paks could hear the unasked questions. Ambros stopped at the door, started to say something and stopped, and finally said, “Well—Gird go with you. We’ll be glad to see you again.”

It was late; few torches burned along the lanes. Paks made her way down the dark streets with care, following some distance behind several others from the grange. Cold night air, damp from the river, soothed her hot face. She caught a whiff from the tanner’s crossing the bridge. As she neared the crossroad, she saw light spilling from the inn’s windows. She slipped in the door, ignoring the few who sat late in the common-room, and went up the stairs to her own room. Her shoulder ached pleasantly. She pulled off her tunic and washed the sweat off, then remembered her unfinished dinner. She put on her other shirt and went back downstairs. Hebbinford rose from his place near the fire.

“Do you want the rest of your dinner?”

“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.” Paks settled at an empty table. Hebbinford brought a candle; a serving wench came with a tray. They had heated the leftovers by the kitchen fire, and the gravy was bubbling hot. She cut a slice of bread and began eating.

Several of those who had been at the drill clustered at one table over mugs of ale, chatting. One caught her eye and grinned and waved. The man in black that Paks had seen the previous night sat across the room, a flagon of wine at his elbow. Two men in merchants’ gowns diced idly nearby. One of them, looking around the room, saw her and nudged the other. They both rose and came to her table.

“I’m Gar Travennin,” said the older. “A merchant, as you see, from Chaya. Could we talk with you?”

Paks nodded; her mouth was full. They sat across from her. Travennin was balding, with a gray fringe. The younger man was blond.

“We hear you came over the mountains, from Aarenis.” Paks nodded again. “I heard there was more fighting than usual down there, and no trade this year. Is that so?”

Paks took a sip of her ale. “Yes. That’s so. Had you heard of Lord Siniava?” The man nodded. “Well, he tried open war against the Guild League cities and the northern mercenaries all at once. He lost.”

“Ah . . . so. Do you think, then, that trade will be back to normal by next spring? I held off this year, but I’ve a caravan of fine wool that needs a buyer.”

Paks thought back to the turmoil in Aarenis. She spread her hands. “I can’t say, sir, for certain. I came north with a late caravan, as far as the Silver Pass, but whether they made it safe to Valdaire I don’t know.”

“Were you with a regular company?” Travennin asked as if he had heard already.

“Yes. Duke Phelan’s Company. The Duke was—much involved.” Paks was not sure how much to say; the old habit of silence held her still.

“Mmm. And why did you leave?”

Paks felt irritated; it was none of his affair. “Why, sir, I enlisted for two years. My time was up.”

“I see. You had had no trouble—?”

Merchants! she thought disgustedly. No honor at all. “No, sir. No trouble.” She went on eating.

“I heard the Duke and Aliam Halveric were much in each other’s pockets,” said Travennin, his eyes roaming around the room.

Paks gave him a hard look and returned to her meal. “Oh? I couldn’t say.”

“After some kind of trouble last year—over the pass? Some border fort, I forget the name—”

She thought of Dwarfwatch at once, and said nothing. The smell of that mountain wind came to her, and her last sight of Saben and Canna in the rain, and Captain Ferrault’s dying face.

“—do you know it?” the merchant persisted.

Paks stopped eating and slowly put both hands flat on the table. He glanced at her and froze as she glared at him. “Sir,” she said finally, in a voice she hardly recognized. “I have nothing to say about our—the Duke’s—Company. Nothing. And by your leave, sir, I’ll finish my supper in peace.” She stared at him until he reddened and pushed back his stool. She had lost her appetite. All those deaths, that grief and rage—The merchants she had traveled with had not been so crass. But of course, they had been in Aarenis during the war. They knew. Her breathing slowed; she took another sip of ale. The merchants were back at their own table, heads together. The man in black was watching her. As he met her eyes, he lifted his glass in salute and grinned. She looked away. All at once she wished she were anywhere but here. No, not anywhere, but back with the Company, laughing with Vik and Arñe, talking with Stammel or Seli or Dev. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back angrily. She drew a long breath and drank more ale.

She had thought she’d feel at home in the north; she was northern. But Brewersbridge was far from home. Maybe that was it. She thought of Vérella, thought of going straight on to Three Firs. She had money enough; she could make more show than even her cousin. She imagined her mother’s smile, her father’s scowl—but he might not be angry, with the dowry repaid. She wondered what she would tell them, and what they would ask. Her musings ended there. She could not tell them anything they would understand. They would see her as these folk did: dangerous, wild, a stranger. She started to pour more ale, and found the tankard dry. She was still thirsty. She beckoned to Hebbinford, but when he came she doubted the steadiness of her voice and asked for water. His expression approved that choice. The merchants left the room and went upstairs.

Paks drank the water and thought of what she would do the next day. She needed new clothes, at least a new shirt. A saddle for Star. She knew where the tailor’s shop was, and the leatherworker’s—if he made saddles. She would order a shirt or two, and then think about how long to stay. Suddenly she remembered the tall man the smith had felled. How was he? She was unwilling to ask the innkeeper. She picked up the pastry from a dish she had pushed aside and bit into it absently. It had been a long day.

Next morning she woke again at dawn. This time Hebbinford seemed to expect her when she padded down the stairs and out to the stableyard. There she stretched and twisted, working the stiffness out of her shoulder. When Sevri came out, they fed the horses together. Paks stopped to watch the black horse eat. She wondered what would happen to it if its master died. She imagined herself riding away on it—then wondered if she could even mount it.

The tailor, she found after breakfast, was away on a trip. “Buying cloth up at the Count’s fair,” said his wife. “He’s got a commission to make cloaks for the new council members, and has gone to buy cloth. He won’t be home for a sennight or more. But what did you need, lady? Perhaps I could serve?”

“Well—some shirts, at least. I’d wanted a cloak, a heavy traveling cloak for winter.”

“Fur? I couldn’t do fur, nor does he, without it being paid in advance.”

“No, not fur. Just good warm wool, weatherproofed—”

“Plain shirts, or fancy ones?”

Paks thought of her money. “Plain. Maybe one fancy one.”

“The plain shirts I can do. And here—here’s our silks, from the south. They say you’ve been there; you’ll know these are good.”

Paks looked at the goods. The silk slid across her hands like water—she decided on a silk shirt, green, with gold embroidery on the yoke. For that, the woman said, she’d have to await the tailor’s return. In the meantime, a linen shirt—Paks explained the cut she wanted, to free her arms for swordplay. The tailor’s wife took her measurements.

“You’re as big as a man,” she said, a little nervously. “Even in the neck—”

Paks laughed. “It comes of the fighting,” she said. “Wearing a helmet every day would thicken anyone’s neck. Makes it harder to cut through.” But the woman didn’t take the joke, and only looked frightened. Paks sighed, and ordered trousers as well, of the local wool, thicker and softer than she’d found in Aarenis. The tailor’s wife knew someone who knitted for sale, and by noon Paks had ordered new socks and gloves for the coming winter.

As she came back to the inn, well satisfied with her morning’s work, she noticed a crowd round the door. She slowed. A group of men came out, carrying something on a plank. Boots, scuffed and worn, poked out from under a blanket. The tall man. Paks shivered. Marshal Cedfer, walking with the carriers, nodded shortly to Paks as he led the group toward the grange. Paks went on to the door, staring after them.

Just inside the inn door, Hebbinford was talking to Master Oakhallow.

“—doesn’t do the inn any good,” he was saying. “And besides—Oh. Paksenarrion. Master Oakhallow was looking for you.”

Paksenarrion felt a tremor in her gut. The Kuakgan was looking at her without expression. She opened her mouth to say something about lunch, and thought better of it.

“For a simple warrior,” said the Kuakgan, “you certainly have managed to make a stir in our quiet village.” Hebbinford moved away, into the common room. Paks thought of several things to say, and decided against all of them. “You were about to eat?” Oakhallow went on.

“Yes, sir.” Paks tried to judge his expression. “But if you needed—”

“No. I think I’ll join you for lunch, if that’s acceptable.”

Paks wondered what he would say if she said no. Instead she nodded, and followed him into the common room. He murmured something to Hebbinford, and the innkeeper waved them on into the kitchen. The serving wenches were wide-eyed. The Kuakgan moved to a table at the kitchen window, overseeing the courtyard, and sat down. Paks hesitated, then sat opposite him. Hebbinford brought a platter of sliced meat, a loaf of bread, and a round of cheese to the table. One of the girls brought a pitcher of water and two mugs.

“You might as well know,” the Kuakgan began, as he pulled out a dagger and sliced the round of cheese, “that you’re causing a stir. I don’t mean that dead bully, necessarily, though that’s part of it. Not your fault, I agree with the Marshal, but you were involved. Then Master Senneth, after you left his place, has had a—how shall I put it?—a complacent look. And he called you ‘lady,’ I hear. In his vocabulary, that means rich. Folk here know the Halveric Company, and most have heard of your duke. After your comments last night, to the Chaya merchants, no one has much doubt that he’s still your lord. You gave both to me and to the grange a jewel worth a knight’s ransom—apparently without knowing their worth. You walked off with a horse that the smith claimed was an outlaw.” He paused to eat a slice of cheese.

Paks was still staring at her food; she shook herself and speared a slice of meat. Put that way, it almost seemed that she’d tried to show off. She finished that slice, and tore off a hunk of bread. She had no idea what was coming, or what to do.

“Marshal Cedfer says,” the Kuakgan went on, after pouring himself some water, “that you’re uncommonly good with that sword, and also good with the short-sword—which I’d expect, where you’ve been—and also good at instructing in weapons. We didn’t expect that of one so young, a mere private. Sevri tells me you’re good with all the animals, and helpful as well. Fighters aren’t, as a rule. In fact—” Paks looked up and was caught by his dark gaze. “In fact, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you are very different from the usual ex-mercenary. Now Kuakkganni—” He gave a slow smile that changed his whole face. “Kuakkganni have their own ways of learning things. From what I know, I judge that you’re as honest as most youngsters are, and mean no harm—not that no harm comes of it. You have some secrets rankling in your heart which must come out—and soon, I judge—if they’re not to hurt you later. But unless you choose to confide in me, it’s not my business.” Paks thought of the snowcat with a mental wince, and looked down. “Marshal Cedfer thinks you need only join the grange to be a fine addition to our town: that’s a compliment; he’s hard to please. But you’ve come to the notice of our local Guard, and the Council, and it’s best you know the eyes you have on you.”

Paks stirred restlessly. “But, sir—Master Oakhallow—why should they be so interested? I won’t be here long—”