The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “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.

  “You’re very good with that longsword,” he commented. “Don’t most mercenary companies use a short one?”

  “Yes, sir, we do, but we had the chance to learn other weapons. And out of formation a longsword has great advantage.”

  “Yes, of course. With your height, too. I was surprised to see that you moved so freely with it, though. Most who come from formation fighting are used to depending on the formation, and are static. Though you’re not a Girdsman, you’re certainly welcome to drill with us here at the grange, as long as you’re in Brewersbridge. We have open drill three nights a week, in the barton usually. You’ll find most of the local yeomen fairly good at basic things, though few of them are up to your standard. And I’d be honored to partner you for advanced swordsmanship—or Ambros, here: he’s certainly up to a bout with you. Have you had any training at unarmed combat?”

  “Yes, some. And some with polearms,” added Paks, hoping to forestall further questions.

  “Excellent! I certainly hope you’ll come; you’ll be most welcome. Tonight’s a beginner’s class in marching drill—I hardly think it would interest you—but tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps, sir. I thank you for your invitation.” Despite
herself, Paks was curious to see the sort of drill a Marshal of Gird would conduct. And she needed to keep her own skills honed; it couldn’t hurt to come once or twice.

  Outside the grange night had fallen; stars shone overhead to the east. She made her way quickly back to the inn, where the great open windows laid bars of yellow lamplight across the crossroad. As she entered, Jos Hebbinford caught her eye.

  “I thought you weren’t going to make it back for the meal,” he said, half-laughing.

  “Mmm. My errands took longer than I thought.” Paks looked around the common room, now crowded with men-at-arms and other guests of the inn. “Where—?”

  “I’ve no single tables left. How about over here?” He led her to a round table where two men were already halfway through a substantial meal. “Master Feddith is a stonemason, a local here, and that’s his senior journeyman.” Feddith, a burly man in a velvet tunic, looked up and nodded briefly as the innkeeper introduced Paks, then went back to his conversation with the journeyman. Paks ordered roast and steamed barley and looked around the room while waiting for her meal. Nothing Feddith was saying made much sense—it had to do, she assumed, with stonework—she had never heard of coigns or coddy granite or buckstone.

  Few other women were in the common room besides serving wenches. One, the same white-haired woman Paks had seen in the afternoon, sat knitting by the fire with a glass of wine beside her. At another table, two women in rough woollen dresses sat with men dressed like farm laborers. And a group of youths, drinking a bit too much ale together, included a sulky-faced girl whose dress was tight across the shoulders and loose everywhere else. Paks watched Hebbinford go to their table in response to another shout for ale, shaking his head. One of the youths started to argue, and a hefty man with a short billet appeared beside the innkeeper. They all subsided, and after a moment threw coins on the table and left. The girl looked quickly at Paks before she went out the door.

  “Here, miss,” said a serving wench at Paks’s shoulder. She turned to find a platter piled high with roast mutton and a mound of barley swimming in savory gravy. With it came a loaf of crusty bread and a bowl of honey. “And will you take ale, miss, or wine?”

  “Ale,” said Paks. She drew her dagger to slice the bread and found the master mason watching her.

  “You’re not from around here,” he challenged.

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you a Girdsman?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ummph. A free blade, then: that’s not any livery I know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Humph. Were I you, young woman, I’d keep my blade sheathed here. We’re not partial to troublemakers.”

  Paks flushed. “I’ve no wish to make trouble, sir, wherever I am.”

  “Maybe not, but free blades are trouble as often as not. What gods do you serve?”

  Paks put both hands on her thighs and looked him steadily in the eyes. “The High Lord, sir, and the gods my father served, back where I came from.”

  His gaze flickered. “Well enough. But if you’re planning to stay here long, you’d best find a master can vouch for you.” Before Paks could think of anything to say, he had pushed back his stool and gone, his cloak swirling. Her stomach clenched with anger. Why did they all think she was a brigand, trying to cause trouble? Then she thought of the wandering fighters in Aarenis—perhaps they had had trouble here, though she had not heard of such in the north. She took a deep breath to calm herself and settled to her meal.

  Hebbinford, as he came back past her table, had a smile for her. “Did I hear Master Feddith growling at you? Don’t take offense; he’s on the Council here, and we’ve had some trouble. I hear you visited our Master Oakhallow and Marshal Cedfer this afternoon—no wonder you were late. They say Marshal Cedfer alone can take up half a day, with his drills and lectures.”

  “Does everyone here think fighters are bad?” asked Paks.

  “Well—no. Not all fighters. But we’ve had those come through that were: got drunk, broke things, started fights with local boys, even robbed. You’ve known some like that, surely.”

  Paks nodded.

  “So, you see, we’ve got careful. As long as nothing happens, you’re welcome, but we don’t want the street full of idle blades looking for mischief.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Now, Sevri tells me you’re quiet-spoken even to servants, and Master Oakhallow had nothing against you, so—” He broke off as someone yelled across the room, smiled again, and left. Paks finished eating. It had been too long since she’d eaten well-cooked food. She finished with a slice of bread drenched in honey. Most of the men-at-arms were gone, and the rest were leaving, throwing down coppers and silvers as their boots scraped on the stone. Paks decided to check on Star before going up to bed; she found the pony dozing, wisps of hay dangling from her mouth. She went up the stairs to her room, tired, full, and determined to put off tomorrow’s worries until tomorrow.

  The bed was so soft that at first she could not sleep. Her room was far enough from the common loft that she heard nothing from it, but boots rang on the stone outside the inn from time to time. Even with the window open to the cold night air, it seemed strange to be sleeping inside again.

  Chapter Eight

  She woke at first light, to the clatter of small hooves in the road below. Looking out, she saw a herd of goats skittering along the north road. She looked east, at a clear dawn lightening over the hills, and shivered in the cold. Minutes later she was downstairs. The innkeeper was poking in the fireplace, and she could smell fresh bread from the kitchen.

  “You’re an early one,” he said, surprised. “Did you want breakfast now?”

  Paks grinned. “Not yet. I want to check on Star.”

  “Sevri’ll feed her—”

  “Yes, but she’s used to me. And I’m used to being up early.” Paks went out the side door of the common room into the stable yard. The green tailed rooster was racing after a hen, and a clutter of cats crouched near the cowbyre. Paks watched as a stream of milk shot out the door, neatly fielded by one of the cats. She went into the stable, and found Star looking over the top of the stall door. The pony looked well-rested, and Paks rubbed her behind the ears and under the jaw. When she checked her tack, the packbags were intact.

  “Is it all right?” asked Sevri, who had come into the passage.

  “Yes, fine. I didn’t realize I’d gotten up too early for you.”

  “It’s not. Most of the travelers sleep late, that’s all. Some of them sleep through breakfast. Star doesn’t get much grain, does she?”

  “Not when she’s not working. Let’s see your measure—oh, half of that, and tell me where your hay is—I’ll bring it.”

  “Over there—” Sevri nodded toward a ladder that rose to the loft. “You can just throw it down, if you want.”

  Paks was already up the ladder. “Why don’t I throw down what you need for all of them?”

  “You don’t have to—but if you wish—” Sevri looked up as Paks tossed down an armload for Star.

  “It’s no trouble; I’m already up here.”

  Sevri peered up at her. “I didn’t think soldiers knew how to care for animals.”

  “I grew up on a farm,” said Paks shortly. “How much more hay?”

  “Just pitch it down, and I’ll tell you.” Sevri disappeared from the hold, and Paks threw down several armloads. “That should do it. We have just the two big horses in.” Paks climbed down, brushing off the hay.

  “Who does your milking?” she asked, wondering if Sevri did everything but the inside work.

  “My brother, Cal,” said Sevri. “He’s got bigger hands; it takes me too long, and Brindle is a crabby cow.” Paks laughed.

  “We milked our sheep,” she said.

  “Sheep?”

  “Yes. I’ve never milked a cow, but I’ve milked my last sheep. I hope.” Paks watched as the girl dumped hay into each feeder. She noticed a blaze-faced black horse that laid i
ts ears back when Sevri neared the stall: obviously one of the “big horses” she’d mentioned. “When can I ask for breakfast, without being rude?”

  “There won’t be anything cooked, yet,” said Sevri doubtfully. “The bread’s out, and you could have eggs and cold roast and bread, if that’s enough.”

  “It’s plenty.” Her stomach churned in anticipation.

  “Just tell father, then.”

  “Thanks.” Paks returned to the common room to find the innkeeper waiting.

  By the time she had finished breakfast, other guests were stirring. First down was a man in dark tunic and trousers over soft boots. He gave Paks a look up and down that lingered on her sword-hilt, and sat down to his meal with no comment. Then came two heavily built men that Paks classified as merchants, followed by a tall man in a stained leather tunic over patched trousers. He had a longsword at his hip, a dagger at his belt, and the hilts of two more daggers sprouted from his boot tops. Paks noticed that he chose a seat against a wall, far from the others.

  After breakfast, she managed a private word with Hebbinford. He willingly told her about the moneychangers in town.

  “Well,” he began slowly, “as you ask me, I’d say Master Senneth. He’s a Guild member, but the northern guild’s not the same as that in Aarenis, if that means anything to you.”

  “Which guild?” asked Paks.

  “The moneylender’s, of course. I’ve heard that down south they were mixed up in a lot of—well—all sorts of trouble, let’s say. But Master Senneth is as honest as any of that sort, say what you will. He’s given me honest weight, at least. Or there’s Master Venion—some prefer him. He’s not a Guild member, but some say his commission’s less. But for myself, I’d see Senneth.”