The Deed of Paksenarrion (85 page)

“If he’s used to that mess in his mouth, he won’t take the bit easily,” said Paks. “Let’s see—” And as she walked up with the bridle, the black horse threw up its head, snorting. Again she thumbed the ring, which quieted the noise. Sevri darted off for an apple.

“Will this work?”

“It might.” Paks was glad of anything that would conceal the action of the ring. She offered it, concentrating on the ring, and in a moment slid the bit in place, and the crownpiece over the horse’s ears as its teeth crunched the apple. She waited to fasten the noseband and throatlatch until the apple was finished, and the last lumps passed down the black throat.

“I hope you can hold him with that,” said Sevri doubtfully.

“With what?” came a brisk voice from the door, and they all jumped. Paks clenched her left hand on the ring and turned. Marshal Cedfer stood there, with Ambros just behind him.

“She changed bits,” said Sevri, before Paks could think what to say. “She wouldn’t use that old one—” She nudged it with her toe, where it lay in the aisle.

“That’s a mouthful indeed,” said the Marshal, picking it up. “But what are you using instead, Paksenarrion? That ‘magic’ Doggal mentioned?”

“No,” said Sevri again. “It’s one of my father’s old bits, a smooth one that he used when he had a team. But I thought warhorses had to have spiked bits.”

The Marshal’s face relaxed. “Good, Paksenarrion, very good. No, Sevri, a horse can be trained to any bit, but the smooth ones are better. Hasty warriors try to use rough bits instead of training to get their horses’ attention. A good horseman uses as smooth a bit as he may.” He took a step forward to look at the horse more closely. “As I recall, Duke Phelan’s troops use horses for transport only. I’m sure you ride—perhaps well—but I thought I could help you with the commands peculiar to warhorses.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” said Paks. “I realized this morning that even the saddles we used are not like this one—” she gestured at the heavy saddle with its tangle of rigging, on a peg nearby.

“You haven’t cleaned it yet,” said the Marshal, frowning.

“No, sir.” Paks flushed as if Stammel had found her with dirty equipment.

“Hmm. Clean tack, Paksenarrion, is very important. Sevri, bring us a fresh pad, at least. Lead him out to the yard, Paksenarrion.”

With her hand clenched around the ring, Paks led the black horse out. He followed as calmly as Star, for which she was grateful. Her neck prickled as she placed the sheepskin pad. The Marshal handed her the saddle.

“I see you know how to work with a bridled horse—see, Ambros. She’s got her arm in the rein, just as I keep telling you. Now, Paksenarrion, let me explain all those extra straps.” Paks needed the help, but wished it were someone else. “That—yes, that one—is the foregirth. Fasten it first. Good. Now the breastband—see those hooks on the saddle? Yes. Not tight—just lying smoothly. That’s so the saddle cannot slip back under any strain. Now the rest of that—by Gird himself! That fellow didn’t know how to stow his gear. Roll that mess slowly out over his rump—be careful, girl! Yes. Now see that loop on top? The tail goes through that. Wait, though—” The Marshal moved to the horse’s rump and felt of the loop. “Heh. I might have known. Feel this. It’s too stiff; it’s probably rubbed him raw already. We’ll take all this off—” and he began to work at fastenings on the back of the saddle as he talked. “You don’t really need it yet. Oil and clean it—get it all soft—and I’ll show you how to put it back on. In a fight, or traveling in rough country, it keeps the saddle from slipping forward, just like the breeching strap on a pack animal.” He went to the other side, and finished there. “Here, Sevri, take these away.” He watched as Paks checked the stirrup length; she left it unchanged. “Do you want me to hold him while you mount?”

Paks looked at the horse, which suddenly seemed much taller. Yet she had ridden Arcolin’s horse, that once. Her mouth was dry. If the Marshal had not been there, she could have led the horse to a field, where she could hope to land soft. Instead, she sighed inwardly, and thanked him. “I must admit, sir, that this is the biggest horse—”

“You’ve ridden,” he finished. “Yes, I thought it might be.” He took the rein, and the horse stiffened. Paks got her foot in the stirrup, and tried to swing up, but the horse shifted suddenly with her weight. She fell into the saddle with an ungraceful scramble. It was built high and close to her body; she had almost landed on, and not in, it.

“With a horse like this,” said the Marshal, “you need to be quicker. Or else train him to stand.” He stepped back, releasing the rein, as Paks straightened.

The saddle felt strange, as if it were hovering over the horse’s back, and the ground looked very far away. Paks nudged the horse lightly with her heels, and it lunged forward. She thumbed the ring, thinking “Easy!” and it settled again, ears flicking. Paks saw eyes at the inn door, and cursed silently. She could feel the horse tensing under her, the hump in its back that kept the saddle too high. “Settle down, horse,” she said softly. “Settle down, and we’ll go for a walk somewhere.” It took one stiff step, then another. She laid the rein against its neck, to turn it around the dungheap, and it whirled on its hind legs, almost unseating her. “
Easy!
” she said. Arcolin’s horse had been nothing like this! For a moment she longed for gentle little Star, but she was conscious of the Marshal and Ambros watching. She was a warrior, and this was a warrior’s horse. If she was ever to be a knight—She talked the horse forward, hardly daring to touch it with her heels. Nearly to the cowbyre: she had to turn. Again the light touch of rein, and the lightning spin, but this time she was ready for it.

“You might see what happens if you pull one rein lightly,” called the Marshal. “Those that are trained to spin on one cue usually turn slowly on the other.”

Paks tried a gentle pull, and the horse veered left. It walked more freely now, and she finally managed a circle around the stable yard.

“Now the other way,” commanded the Marshal. This, too, went well, though Paks could still feel a knot of tension in the horse’s back. They walked around the yard once, then twice. She pulled back for a halt, feeling more confident, and the horse reared. Paks lurched backward and grabbed for mane. Someone in the inn door laughed, and cut it off. The horse stayed up—and stayed up—she felt like a fool. How could she get him down? She closed her legs, and the horse leaped forward, snapping her head back. It landed charging, whirling about the stableyard as Paks fought to stay on. The saddle, so uncomfortable before, seemed to grip her. She could hear frantic yells, and the clatter of shod hooves on stone. At last she remembered the ring, and thought “Whoa!” The horse skidded to a stop and stood rigid. Paks was breathless; pain stabbed her side, and her hands were shaking. She had been sure she’d fall. It was hard to believe anything so ponderous had moved so fast. It had seemed easy when she’d seen others riding—she grinned at the memory.

“You can stay on, at least.” The Marshal’s voice broke into her thoughts. “But that beast may still be too much for you. Best not ride through town until you have better control.”

“I—I won’t, sir. I had—no idea—”

“Not well-trained, either.” The Marshal was walking around the horse. “He’s got the makings of a fine animal, Paksenarrion, but he’s been ill-trained, and I would judge ill-used. If you can retrain him, you’ll have a formidable mount.”

“I’m not sure,” said Paks ruefully, “that I’ll be able to figure out how to ride down the road, let alone fight on him.”

“You’re a long way from that, but—a stableyard is not the best place to learn. If you can get him as far as the grange, you can ride in the drillfields behind, and I’ll be glad to instruct you. If you go behind the inn, and ride south of town, there’s a ford upstream of the bridge.”

“Thank you,” said Paks. “I’ll try. But how will I stop him? If a pull on the reins doesn’t work, what will?”

“May I try?”

“Of course, sir.” Paks slid off, finding it harder than she’d thought to clear the unfamiliar saddle. She held the rein for the Marshal, who mounted in one smooth motion.

As she stepped back, the black horse exploded in a fit of bucking. Paks flattened herself beside Ambros, near the stable door, appalled at the unleashed power.

“Don’t worry,” said Ambros. “The Marshal’s good with horses.” And indeed, after scattering a good part of the dunghill over the yard, the horse trotted stiffly around, neck bowed, obedient to the Marshal’s rein and legs. Paks could not see what the Marshal had done when the horse stopped, but he told her.

“To halt, you’ll need to stiffen your back and sit back slightly. That’s all. Right now I wouldn’t use the rein at all; we can retrain him later. Think you can manage?”

Paks wasn’t at all sure, but she nodded. She would try, at least. The Marshal swung off as easily as he’d mounted, and handed her the rein. He grinned after a look around the stableyard, and spoke to Ambros.

“Well, I made a considerable mess, didn’t I? We’d best get at it, Ambros, if we want to keep our welcome—”

“No, Marshal, that’s all right—” Sevri looked dismayed, nonetheless.

“No, it isn’t. Ambros and I will take care of it.” And to Paks’s surprise, and the obvious surprise of other watchers, the Marshal took the shovel from Sevri, and Ambros found another. They began shoveling the scattered dung back into a heap. Paks led the black horse to his stall, and returned with another shovel to help. The Marshal smiled, but said nothing as he worked. Soon the yard was tidy once more. “There now.” The Marshal wiped sweat from his forehead, and handed Sevri the shovel. “Paksenarrion, early morning is a good time to train horses. Bring him along after feeding tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Paks hoped she wouldn’t be thrown before she got to the grange. The Marshal waved and left. Only after he was gone did she realize that she now had a perfect excuse to ride around the countryside and spend hours with the Marshal. No one would wonder, after hearing about the black horse’s performance, why she rode alone, or why she went to the grange every day.

By that afternoon, the tailor’s wife had one shirt ready for her to try on. Paks would gladly have taken it then, but the woman insisted that she must do more work. “See on the inside, lady? The edges there? I’ll turn those down, and they’ll not ravel or be rough—”

“But—”

“Nay, we’re proud of our work, my husband and me—we won’t let such as this leave our hands. But I’ll have it tomorrow, by lunchtime, and the other plain shirts in two days—unless you’d rather have the trousers first?”

Paks thought of all the riding she’d be doing, and asked for the trousers next. Outside the shop, she headed for the saddler’s, and bought a jug of the heavy oil he used on his leathers. In Doggal’s yard, she found the smith forging heavy wagon fittings, and waited outside until he paused.

The next morning she was able to bridle and saddle the black horse without help—but with constant support from the ring. Sevri offered to hold the rein, but Paks feared the horse might hurt her. Instead, she faced him into a corner. Her attempt at a quick mount felt as rough as the day before, but she had gained the saddle before he moved out from under her. She pulled the left rein gently, and he turned toward the gate. Once out from between the walls, the horse seemed slightly calmer. Paks turned him along a path between the back of the inn yard and a cottage garden, and then through the fields behind the village. She found the ford the Marshal had spoken of by following a cow path, and the black horse pranced gingerly through the swift shallows, rocks rolling under his hooves. Now she had reached the lower end of the grange drill field; she could see the Marshal standing near the grange. Ambros, mounted on a rangy bay, rode around the barton wall from the street as she came up.

“You made it safely, I see,” said the Marshal. “Ambros rides three times a week, and this will give both of you practice in riding with others.”

Paks said nothing. The black horse had laid his ears back flat at the sight of the other horse.

In the next few days, Paks acquired a whole new set of bruises. The Marshal was as hard a riding master as Siger had been in weapons training. Like all occasional riders, Paks hated to trot—but the Marshal insisted that they trot most of the time. He was particular about the placement of her feet, the way she held the rein, the angle of her head. But the black horse no longer jumped out from under her. She could control his pace, and stop him, turn and return, without difficulty. Much of the time she did not need the action of the ring, except for grooming and mounting.

She could ride along the roads, now, and spent several hours a day learning where they led. The Marshal had told her that such quiet slow work was excellent for a high-strung mount.

But at night she dreamed of the snowcat, and woke, sweaty and trembling. Once it was the black horse’s neck that Macenion hacked at, instead of the cat. Another time a shadowy spotted creature followed her along the trails she’d ridden that day, disappearing when she tried to turn on it. Every time she used the ring on the horse, she felt a pang of remorse. At last she decided to talk to the Kuakgan about it.

This time, as she came in sight of the clearing, she saw the Kuakgan talking to another near the fountain. Uncertain, she paused. She could hear nothing from where she stood, and wondered whether to intrude or go back. She turned to look the way she had come, and froze. No path lay behind her. The white stones that should have marked one had disappeared, and a tree rose inches from her back. She shuddered, sweat springing out on her neck and back, crawling down her ribs. She looked forward, and the clearing was open before her. Master Oakhallow beckoned. She saw no one else. Paks took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees. As she came nearer the fountain, she felt the quiet deepen. She laid the oatcake Hebbinford had given her in the basin.

“It is well,” said Master Oakhallow in his deep voice, “that you did not try to leave again. The unsteady of purpose find my grove unsettling.”

“Sir, it is not that,” said Paks. “But you were speaking to another. I would not intrude.”