The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Gird’s grace be with you, Paksenarrion, and with me, and may we gain strength to serve the High Lord’s will. Go on, now, and eat.” She took up her spoon and began. Paks did the same. After the stew was mostly gone, the Marshal-General looked up. “I can understand why you left, and why you were reluctant to leave. But I am still not sure why you quit wearing Canna’s medallion. Do you know?”

  Paks laid down the hunk of bread she’d picked up. “I thought—it seemed that it—it led me into things. Trouble. I never knew if it—if I—how they happened.”

  “It led you into trouble? And you a mercenary?” The Marshal-General’s voice had an edge of scorn. “You had not chosen the most peaceful life.”

  “No, my lady. But I don’t know what it did, or didn’t do. I don’t know if it healed Canna, or didn’t, or if it really saved me from the man in Rotengre—”

  “Wait. You haven’t told me about that yet. Canna is your friend who died and left it to you, isn’t that so? What’s this about healing?”

  Paks felt the sweat cold on her neck as she began to tell the Marshal-General about their flight from Dwarfwatch. Knowing that she would insist on hearing those parts of the journey that made Paks the most nervous didn’t help. She had not mentioned the prayers over Canna’s wound to anyone but Stammel; it came no easier now. The Marshal-General seemed to grow more remote and august as she listened.

  “You, no follower of Gird, suggested praying to Gird for healing? Don’t you think that was presumptuous? Had you planned to join the fellowship afterwards?” Paks had not thought of it like that at all.

  “My lady, we had need—I didn’t know much of Gird, then, and—”

  “Your friend had not told you? And she a yeoman?”

  Paks shook her head. “We didn’t talk about it much; she was our friend. We knew she was a Girdsman, and she knew we had our own gods.”

  “You know more of Gird now, I’ll warrant—what do you think now, of such a thing?” Paks thought a moment.

  “I don’t think Gird would mind—I can’t see why he would. If he had been a nobleman, perhaps, but—why would it be wrong to try? Healing is good, and Canna was one of his yeomen.”

  The Marshal-General shook her head slowly, but more in doubt than disagreement. “I’m not sure, child. What happened?”

  “That’s what I don’t know.” Paks remembered clearly Canna’s yelp of pain, and then the seeming improvement in her condition. “It didn’t go away at once,” she went on, carefully telling the Marshal-General everything. “But she had been getting weaker, and feverish, and she was stronger afterwards. It looked cleaner and drier the next time we changed the bandage. But you see, we’d found some ointment in that farmstead, and used that too. I don’t know which worked, or why.”

  “You didn’t tell this to Marshal Berran or Fenith,” said the Marshal-General.

  “No—I wasn’t sure—”

  “Go on, then. What happened with the man in Rotengre?” That, too, Paks told, even Captain Dorrin’s remarks afterwards. The Marshal-General nodded.

  “Your captain had the sense to see what lay before her. Is she Girdish?”

  “No, my lady. Falkian—or that’s what one of the sergeants said.”

  “I see. What did you think then, when two times the medallion had acted for you?”

  “I didn’t—I was frightened of it, lady. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Did you not think of speaking to a Marshal?”

  Paks shook her head vigorously. “Oh no. I—”

  “You were with Duke Phelan. I suppose you had no chance.”

  “I didn’t want to, not then. I—I suppose I wished that it would just—just be over. I kept thinking about them—”

  “Canna?”

  “And—and Saben. He was my—our friend, that was with us.”

  “Your lover?”

  “No.” The old grief and longing choked her again. When she looked up again, the Marshal-General was stacking the bowls on the tray.

  “Taking those events with the later ones, Paksenarrion—with surviving the blow of Liart’s priest in Sibili, the warning of ambush, and withstanding the enchantments when Siniava tried to escape—don’t you think that there’s clear evidence of Gird’s action in your behalf?”

  “I don’t—I can’t be sure—”

  “Gird’s teeth, girl, what do you want, a pillar of fire?” The Marshal-General glared at her. “D’you expect the gods to carry you up to the clouds and explain everything in words a sheepfarmer’s daughter can understand?”

  “No, my lady.” Paks stared at her hands, near tears again. It wasn’t fair; she only wanted to be sure . . . if the gods had a message, surely they’d make it clear. She heard a gusty sigh.

  “How old are you, Paksenarrion?”

  Paks counted it out aloud. “I was eighteen winters when I left home—and then nineteen was in the stronghold, and twenty—twenty-one after Dwarfwatch—near twenty-two, my lady.”

  “I see. Are you set against the fellowship of Gird?”

  “Oh no, my lady! The more I know, the more—but you see, my family was not Girdish. And I still think it’s better to abide the gods you know—”

  The Marshal-General sighed again. Paks looked up to find her gazing out one of the narrow windows, her face stern. After a long moment she turned back to Paks. “We are not,” she said firmly, “a training camp for those who want fancy skills to show off.” Paks felt her face reddening again. “If what you want is an accomplishment to display—like someone stringing another pearl on a necklace—you don’t belong here, and I won’t lend Gird’s name to it. Those we train must go out as Gird’s warriors, to serve the lands and defend them against the powers of evil. They must care, Paksenarrion, for this cause more than their own fame. Those sworn to the fellowship of Gird I have ways of testing. If you persist in remaining aloof, I must assume that your dedication is unproven. I will not—absolutely not—let you take advantage of this company, and go off boasting that you trained with the Company of Gird at Fin Panir, unless you can show me what you will pay. Not in money, young warrior, but in your life.”

  Paks managed to meet her eyes steadily, though she felt as frightened and helpless as she had when a new recruit. She said nothing for some time, wondering what if anything she could say. At last she looked away and shook her head ruefully.

  “I don’t know, my lady, what I could say to convince you. For me, I have been trained as a warrior, not to argue. I think perhaps you feel what I felt in Brewersbridge—there was a young girl there, who wanted to join me, and be a squire to me. I knew I didn’t know enough to be her—her commander, or whatever, but also—I used to think she only wanted the glory she could see. To wear a sword like mine, to have a scar to show, perhaps—but she didn’t know what it cost, what lay behind it. I tried to tell her, tried to get her to join a regular company, as I had—”

  “And did she?” The Marshal-General’s voice was still remote.

  Paks shook her head. “Not as far as I know. I tried—but she wanted adventure, she said. It would be too dull, she didn’t like people yelling at her; she said she could get enough of that in Brewersbridge.” Paks stopped before saying, “She had a very bad father, my lady.”

  “You ran away from yours.”

  “Oh, well . . . he wasn’t like that. But I see what you mean—you think I want to—to make a name for myself, from the fame of your Company. That would be wrong. You’re right. But—I can’t swear to follow Gird until I know—until I’m sure of myself—that I can do it.”

  “That’s coming out differently than what you said before. Then you didn’t seem to trust Gird—”

  Paks floundered, unable to define what she meant. “I don’t—I mean, you all say Gird is a saint, and I won’t argue. But I don’t know Gird—I have known good Girdsmen, but also good warriors following other gods and saints. How do I know Gird is the one I should follow?”

  The Marshal-General’s eyebrows went up. “You wo
uld not believe the evidence of the medallion?”

  Paks set her jaw stubbornly. “I’m not sure. And I won’t swear to something I’m not sure of.”

  To her surprise, the Marshal-General laughed. “Gird be praised, you are at least willing to be honest against the Marshal-General. Child, such stubbornness as yours is nearly proof that Gird claims your destiny—but it may take Gird’s cudgel to break a hole in your head to let his light in. The gods grant you are this stubborn about other things that matter.” She sat forward, leaning her forearms on the table between them. “Now, what sort of training did you look for?”

  Paks could hardly believe her ears. “You mean—you’ll let me stay?”

  “Let you! By Gird, I’m not likely to let someone like you wander the world unconvinced without giving my best chance to convert you. Of course you’ll stay.”

  “But if I don’t—”

  “Paksenarrion, you will stay until either you wish to leave, or you give me cause to send you away. When—notice that I do not say if, being granted almost as much stubbornness as you, by Gird’s grace—when you find that you can swear your honor to Gird’s fellowship, it will be my pleasure to give and receive your strokes. Is that satisfactory, or have you more conditions for a Marshal-General of Gird, and Captain-Temporal of the High Lord?”

  Paks blushed. “No, my lady. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Enough. Tell me what you thought to learn.”

  “Well—everything about war—”

  The Marshal-General whooped. “Everything? About war? Gird’s grace, Paksenarrion, no one knows that but the High Lord, who sees all beginnings and endings at once.”

  “I meant,” muttered Paks, ears flaming, “weapons-skills, and things about forts—things the Duke’s captains knew about, like tunnels—”

  “All right,” said the Marshal-General, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I see what you mean. Things about forts. Honestly! No, sorry, I see you’re serious. Well, then. I’ll assign you to the training company. Many of them are younger than you—nobles’ youngsters, from Fintha and Tsaia, mostly. They’ve been someone’s squires, and now they’re preparing for knighthood. Some have come up through the granges, and have been yeoman-marshal somewhere for three years. You may not know, but all our marshals are trained here, along with the knights. You’ll be assigned space in the courts—we don’t have open barracks, for you’ll need to study alone. You do read, don’t you?” At Paks’s nod, she went on, now writing swiftly on a loose sheet of paper. “Weapons practice daily—the senior instructor will assign the drills once he’s examined you. Riding—do you ride? Yes, because Argalt mentioned putting up your horse. You’re a few weeks behind one group; they arrived just after harvest. That’s when we start the new cycles. But we’ll see if you can catch up to them.” She looked up from her writing. Although she was smiling, it seemed to Paks that she was even more formidable. “What weapons do you have?” she asked.

  “This sword,” said Paks, laying her hand on the hilt. “Another one, not so good—”

  “That one’s magical,” said the Marshal-General. “Did you know?”

  “Yes, my lady. And a dagger, and a short battleaxe.”

  “Do you use all of them?”

  “No, my lady. Just sword and dagger, and I can use a long-bow, though not well.”

  “And I see you have mail as well. For the first weeks, though, you will not use your own weapons. The weaponsmaster will assign you weapons for training; yours may be stored in your quarters or in the armory, as you prefer.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Your clothes—” She glanced at Paks’s traveling clothes. “We have training uniforms, but we are not strict, except during drill and classes. We discourage display of jewels and such, but you don’t look the type to show up in laces and ribbons.”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Very well.” She signed the end of her note, and handed it to Paks. “Take this down, and ask Argalt to direct you to the Master of Training. He’ll assign your quarters, and see that you’re set up with the instructors. You will take your meals in the Lower Hall—by the way, you have no difficulties with the elder races, have you?”

  “Elder races—you mean elves and dwarves?”

  “Among others. We have quite a few here—you’ll be meeting them. Don’t get in fights with them.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Good. You may go, Paksenarrion. May Gird’s grace be on you, and the High Lord’s light guide your way.” She rose, and Paks stood quickly, knocking her hand on the table edge.

  “Thank you, my lady—”

  “Thank the gods, Paksenarrion, for their bounty. I have done nothing yet to deserve your thanks.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of passages on the ground floor, looked her up and down. “Training Master, eh? So you’re going to become a Knight of Holy Gird, are you? Or a Marshal? Or is it paladin you’re thinking of?”

  Paks felt her ears burning again. “I—don’t know, sir.”

  Argalt snorted. “I’m no sir, not even to the newest member of the training company. Argalt: that’s my name, and that’s what you’ll call me, young woman.”

  “Yes, si—Argalt.”

  “That’s better. You’re no hothouse flower of a noble house—where are you from?” Paks told him. He looked at her with surprising respect. “Sheepfarmer’s daughter? That’s like Gird’s daughter herself—barring he raised cattle and grain, so the story goes. But still it means you know what work is, I’ll say, and a few blisters on the hands. Where’d you learn to wear a sword like you could use it?” When she mentioned the Duke’s name, he stared. “You were in the Fox’s company? And came here? I’ll believe anything after that!” He shook his head as he led her across the courtyard, past the Lord’s Hall. “I was in the Guards at Vérella when I was young; what I don’t know about that Duke—” But Paks asked nothing, and did not expect that he would have answered if she had. He gave her a long look outside the Training Master’s office. “If you need someone to talk to, sometime, sheepfarmer’s daughter—I’ll share a tankard of ale with you.”

  “Thank you,” said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned away.

  The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man in dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird’s crescent embroidered on the breast. He read the Marshal-General’s note, and Cedfer’s letter, in tight-lipped silence. When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.

  “If you’re to catch up with the others, you’ll have to work—and work hard. You’d best not loll about.”

  Paks repressed a surge of anger. She’d never been lazy. “No, sir,” she said stiffly.

  “It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer’s right about your weapons-skills. That would let us chop a glass or so off there, and give you more time in supply—though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for you, is beyond me.” Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be still. He sighed, heavily. “Very well, then. How much gear do you have?”

  “Only what was in my saddlebags, sir,” said Paks. “I suppose it’s—”

  “They’ll have it brought to your quarters.” He glanced for a moment at a chart on his wall. “Let me think. There’s a room on the third floor, next to the end of the corridor. You can have that, for now. It’s small, but it won’t mean moving anyone else tonight. If it’s too small, we can change things in a week or so.” If you stay that long, his tone clearly said. “You’ll need clothes; I’ll have the steward send something up. Come along.” He pushed past her to the corridor, and led the way upstairs.

  The room he opened seemed amply large to Paks—larger than her room at The Jolly Potboy, with two windows looking out over a lower roof to a walled field. Besides a bed and chest, and a curtained alcove with hooks, it had a table, stool
, and low chair. A narrow shelf ran along the wall over the table. Several blankets were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Paks had hardly taken all this in when he began speaking again.

  “Students do not wear weapons except at practice,” he said, with a pointed glance at her sword. “We prefer that personal weapons be stored in the armory, but the Marshal-General has given permission for you to keep yours with you.” Paks did not want to let the magic sword out of her control; she said nothing. Just then a servant came in with her saddlebags; behind him was the steward, with an armful of clothing, all dark gray but for the blue cloak. The steward eyed her.

  “You said tall, Master Chanis; this should fit near enough for now. What name do you use—Paksenarrion, or Dorthansdotter?”

  “Paks is all.”

  “Paksenarrion,” said the steward cheerfully. “I need something long enough it can’t be mistaken in anyone’s handwriting. Come by for measurements, or if you have something that fits well—”

  Paks unstrapped her saddlebags, and pulled out her green shirt. “Will this do?”

  “Good—good material, too. From Lyonya, is it?”

  “No, but near there. Brewersbridge.”

  The steward shook her head. “I don’t know it. Trousers, too, if you’ve an extra pair.” Paks pulled out the patched ones, which the steward took without comment, and handed over a pair of socks as well. The steward checked the number of blankets, and left the room.

  “If you’re ready,” said the Training Master, “there is time to see the weapons instructors before supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon enough.”

  Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddlebags behind the curtain, before following him out of the room.

  “You have fought mostly in a mercenary company, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Short-sword or polearm?”

  “Short-sword.”

  “But you carry a longsword.”