Sheepfarmer's Dauther dop-1

by Elizabeth Moon

  Paksenarrion felt her ears steam, but before she got her mouth open, she saw Stammel, behind the others, shake his head at her. Then her file leader, a chunky dark youth named Coben, spoke up.

  “At least neither of them sneaked ale and collapsed like a town bravo, Jens. And as for being ditchdiggers, Korryn, it’s better than graverobbing—”

  The black-bearded man jumped up and his hand reached for the sword he no longer wore. “Just what d’you mean by that, Coben?”

  Coben shrugged. “Take it as it fits. Digging jacks is something any of us might be assigned—I was, and you will be. It’s nothing to sneer about.”

  “Young puppy,” muttered Korryn.

  “Enough chatter,” said Bosk. “Fall in for rations.”

  Paksenarrion was glad to find that after supper they were each issued a blanket and expected to sleep. She had no problem. She woke early and stiff, and had made her way to the jacks and to the river to bathe before a bellow from Corporal Bosk brought the others out of their blankets. The regulars, she noticed, were already in uniform: did they sleep that way? She folded her blanket as the others did, and turned it in to the privates to load on a mule. This morning she stirred porridge in one of the cookpots; three others were supervised by Saben, Jens, and the red-haired boy in velvet.

  A bowl of porridge, hunk of brown bread, and slab of dried beef made an ample breakfast, and Paksenarrion felt no ill effects from the previous day’s journey. She was, in fact, happier than she’d been for years: she was a soldier at last, and safe from her father’s plans. When she found that Jens and Korryn had been told to fill in the trench, her mood soared even higher.

  “I don’t mind digging them, if they’ll fill them,” she whispered to Saben.

  “Nor I. That Korryn’s nasty, isn’t he? Jens is just a drunk, but Korryn could be trouble.”

  “Recruits. Fall in!” yelled Bosk, and the day’s work really began.

  In the next few weeks, as they traveled toward the Duke’s stronghold where their training would take place, Paksenarrion and the others became more and more proficient at marching and camp chores. They picked up new recruits in most of the towns they passed, until their group numbered thirty-eight. Already friendships had begun among some of them, and Paksenarrion had heard her shortened name enough to feel comfortable with it. Despite having little time to talk, she knew that Saben, Arñe, Vik, Jorti, and Coben were going to be her friends—and that Korryn and Jens would never be anything but enemies.

  Stammel changed the marching order every few days, so that they all had a chance to lead a file as well as follow. Marching in front, where she could not see the motley clothing of the rest, Paksenarrion imagined herself already through training and headed for a battle. She could almost feel a sword swinging at her side. Around that corner, she thought, or over the rise—the enemy is waiting. She pictured grim-faced troops in black armor—or maybe orcs, like those her grandfather had fought. Bits of the old songs and tales ran through her mind: magic swords, heroes who fought and won against the powers of darkness, enchanted horses… When she marched in back, however, the visions failed, and she wondered how many more days they would be on the road.

  At last Stammel told them that the stronghold was less than a day’s march away. They halted early, beside the river, and spent the rest of the daylight getting as clean as possible. Paksenarrion did not mind the cold water, but others who tried to make do with a casual swipe at face and hands were ordered back in to do the job properly.

  Next day Stammel put Paksenarrion, Saben, Korryn, and Seliast at the head of the first squad files: the tallest recruits. They marched without effort now, and almost without thought, rhythm even and arms swinging. As they came over the last rise, to see the blunt stone walls of the stronghold rise from a narrow plain, squads on the parade fields were shifted out of their way.

  Paksenarrion, marching across that space in front of a whole army (as it seemed to her) suddenly felt she couldn’t get any air. Only the habit of days on the road kept her from bolting from so many eyes. She blushed a fiery red and kept marching.

  Chapter Two

  “All your personal belongings you turn in to the quartermaster; he’ll put ’em in a bag with your name on it and store them in the treasury. We’ll issue your training uniforms today, and if you want to keep your old clothes, they’ll be stored too.” Stammel turned to greet a gnarled older man whose arms were full of burlap sacks. “Ah, Quartermaster… good to see you.”

  The man glared at the recruits. “Hmmph. Another bunch of beginners. And how much sentimental trash have they brought to take up space in storage?”

  “Not so much; we’ve been on the road eight days since the last pickup.”

  “Good. I’ll need a clerk.”

  “Bosk’ll do it.” Stammel gestured to Bosk, who came forward and took a handful of tags from the quartermaster. “File one, step up one at a time, give your name, and hand over your gear.”

  Paksenarrion stepped forward, unbuckling the belt on which her sheathed dagger hung. Bosk had already written out her tag, and handed it to the quartermaster, who fastened it to a sack and waited for her contribution. She held out belt, dagger, and the kerchief with her savings—eighteen coppers—in it.

  “Are you going to keep those clothes?” he asked, eyeing her brother’s trousers, which had slipped down her hips without the belt.

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Amazing. Well, go get your uniform, and bring your clothes back here. Quickly, now.”

  Paksenarrion looked around to see where she should go; Stammel waved her toward a doorway on the left. There a man and woman presided behind tables heaped with brown clothing. Paks strode quickly across the courtyard, hoping her trousers would stay up. Behind her she heard Korryn’s nasty chuckle and whispered comment.

  When she reached the tables, she saw stacks of plain brown tunics, socks, and low boots. The woman beckoned her, and grinned. “You’re a tall one, right enough. Let’s see—” and she began measuring Paks with a length of knotted string: neck to waist, waist to knee, shoulder to elbow to wrist. “Here—” she held out a tunic, after rummaging in the pile. “This should do well enough for now. Change.”

  Paksenarrion took the tunic, stripped off her shirt and trousers, and pulled the tunic over her head. The cloth was not as scratchy as the wool she was used to. The sleeves fell just short of her elbows, and the hem almost reached her knees. It felt more like a dress cut short than anything else.

  “Try these boots,” said the woman. Paks put on a pair of the heavy brown socks and eased her feet into the boots. They were short. The woman offered a larger pair. These fit well enough. “Here’s a belt for you, and a sheath. You’ll be issued the dagger later.” The belt, like everything else, was plain brown; the buckle was iron. Paksenarrion took her old clothes back to the quartermaster, feeling silly with the tunic rippling around her bare thighs.

  “Ooh, look at the pretty white legs she has.” She was sure that mocking whisper was Korryn or Jens, and hated herself for blushing as she handed the clothes to be sacked away. But Stammel heard the whisper too.

  “Korryn,” he said. “Who told you to talk in ranks?”

  Paks, returning to her place, dared not look at Korryn’s face as he replied: “No one, Sergeant.”

  “Perhaps you need reminding that you are to do what you’re told and nothing else?”

  “No, sir.” Korryn did not sound as confident as usual. “But, sir, such a pretty sight—”

  “If a pair of legs can make you forget your duty, Korryn, you’ll have to be better taught. I don’t care if the Marshal-General of Gird’s Hall in Fin Panir walks through the lines stark naked and tweaks your beard—you pay attention to me, and not to her. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Korryn sounded sullen. “But—”

  “No buts!” growled Stammel.

  * * *

  In less than an hour, Stammel’s group of recruits was outfitted in the recruit unifo
rm. They moved into one of the big barracks rooms, with Bosk and Devlin, another corporal, assigning bunks.

  “File leaders will rotate from week to week for the first month or so,” said Devlin. He was taller and thinner than Bosk, and looked as if he would smile more easily. Right now he was not smiling at all. “File leaders bunk here, by the door,” he went on. “File seconds here, then thirds, fourths, and so on. You’ll change your bunk as you change your place in the files. Now: each bunk has the same bedding, and this is how you’ll make it up.” The corporals demonstrated, then pulled the bedding apart. “Your turn; get busy.” As the recruits struggled with the bedding, they walked from place to place, explaining and criticizing. The long, straw-stuffed pallet had to be patted into an even rectangle, muslin sheet stretched tightly over it, and the brown wool blanket folded in one certain way at the foot. Paksenarrion finally achieved an acceptable bunk, and stood beside it waiting for the others to finish. Her legs still felt chilly and exposed, and she was hungry. Most of the others looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

  At last they were all done. Corporal Devlin went to fetch Stammel, and Bosk moved around the room, positioning recruits beside each bunk, ready for inspection.

  Stammel came to the door.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready for inspection, sir,” answered Bosk.

  Stammel began with the file leaders, checking the bunks first. Then he looked at his recruits, twitching a sleeve into place, here, asking about the fit of the boots, there. When he had made his way all around the room, he returned to the doorway.

  “You’ll present like this for inspection every morning before breakfast,” he said. “And at any other time it’s ordered. You’ll receive your file positions here, when that’s changed, so that you’ll go directly to your file position in formation in the yard. Immediately after an inspection, you’ll parade in the yard, and you’ll march everywhere in formation—to eat, to drill, to work. You’ll have a quarterglass after morning call to visit the jacks, dress and make your bunks; I’ll expect every one of you to be in place when I come in.” He beckoned to Bosk and Devlin, and left the room. Most of the group stood still, but a few left their places and started for the door. Bosk returned, and the rash ones halted.

  “And who told you that you were dismissed?”

  They stared at their feet.

  “Those of you out of position, stay there. The rest of you are dismissed.”

  Paksenarrion gave silent thanks that she had not moved, and went quickly out to the yard. There she found the other recruit units drawn up in formation, and Stammel waiting. She aligned herself on the others, wondering what was happening to the unfortunates who had been held back. Beside and behind her the ranks filled. At last they were all in position. The corporals reported to Stammel, and after a moment he glanced at the other sergeants.

  “Go ahead, Stammel,” called someone from far down the row. “Take yours in first.”

  They were marched across the courtyard to a building with windows opening on the yard. Paks could smell cooked meat and bread. There Stammel sent them in, one file at a time. Once inside, she was urged along by a private who directed her to the serving line. There she found a stack of bowls, another of trays, and a bin of blunted knives. She took a tray, bowl, spoon, and knife, and moved toward the impatient cooks. A dipper of some kind of stew went into the bowl, and a half-loaf of bread, hunk of cheese, slab of salt beef, and an apple went on the tray. As she came off the serving line, another private directed her to a table in one corner. Soon her file was seated along the bench, and the tables were filling in strict order. A cook brought over a large jug of water and a cup to their table. Paks took a tentative bite of stew. To her surprise, it was tasty, savory with onions and vegetables. It had looked like a lot on her tray, but she found herself polishing the bowl with the last of her bread before she knew it.

  “Well,” said Stammel from behind her. “How do you like army food?”

  “Seems good enough to me, sir,” said Saben, from the next table.

  “You’ll eat a lot of it.” Stammel moved away.

  * * *

  That first night in barracks, after so many nights on the road, was horrible. It was stuffy. It smelled. Paksenarrion jerked awake several times in alarm, only to find that she was safe in her bunk: someone had walked past the doorway. It was neither as light nor as dark as the roadside, for the dark was thicker, an indoor darkness, and the light was clearly of human origin. Several people snored, and their snores echoed off the stone walls. She missed the comfort of the old shirt she usually slept in. The new nightshift she’d been issued was scratchy. (“We’re civilized,” Stammel had said to those who protested against wearing a nightshift. “Besides, it’ll be cold soon.”) Paks had scarcely fallen asleep after her last alarm when a terrible clangor broke out: Corporal Devlin with the triangle that announced morning call.

  Paks rolled out of her bunk and made for the jacks down the corridor. Then back to the room, to struggle with her bunk. She peeled off the nightshift, hoping that Korryn’s eyes were occupied elsewhere. No one said anything. Everyone around her was as busy as she was. She unbraided her hair, combed it with the bone comb she wore looped into it, and rebraided it smoothly, wrapping the tip with a thread from her tunic. She didn’t know what to do with the nightshift. Bosk came to the door; Paks caught his eye and he came forward.

  “What do we do with these?”

  “See that ledge? Fold it neatly and put it there.” Bosk went around the room to tell the others. Paks tied her bootlaces, straightened her belt and empty sheath, and smoothed the sheet on her bunk one last time.

  Devlin came to the door. “Ready?” he asked Bosk.

  “As they will be.”

  “Recruits, prepare for inspection!” yelled Devlin. Paksenarrion stood where she thought she should be and stared straight ahead. Stammel entered the room, and began on the other side. He found something wrong with each person: blanket folded wrong, sheet crooked, pallet misshapen, boots laced unevenly, hair uncombed, tunic crooked, nightshift folded wrong, dirty fingernails (Paks felt a stab of panic and almost looked at her hands), untrimmed beard, messy bunk (he was only two bunks away, and Paks was sure she could not stand the suspense), nightshift under the bed weren’t you listening, recruit? And then it was her turn. She felt herself begin to blush before he said a word. She heard—she did not look—him thump the bunk. He looked at her from all sides, grunted, and finally said, “Tunic’s wrinkled in back,” and walked out.

  “Dismissed,” said Bosk, and Paksenarrion headed for the yard, beginning to wonder why she’d gotten into this.

  She wondered even more in the next weeks. She enjoyed the marching drill, which kept them moving about the wide fields in intricate patterns for several hours every morning and evening. It wasn’t fighting, but it was soldierly, and expected. What she didn’t enjoy was the other work. Bedmaking, cleaning, and dishwashing were among the things she’d left home to avoid. If she’d wanted to be a carpenter or a mason, she grumbled to herself one day while working on repairs to the stable wall, she’d have apprenticed herself to one.

  Others felt the same way.

  “We haven’t even seen a sword yet,” complained Effa. “I signed on to be a fighter, not drag rocks around all day.”

  “Well—surely we’ll get into that,” said Saben, as he hoisted one of the despised rocks into place. “I mean, the place isn’t full of workers, so they must have become fighters and gone to war.”

  Korryn gave a sneering laugh. “Fine reasoner you are! No, they’ll keep us as laborers as long as they can, and then try to skimp on our training. As long as they can count on fools like you to join every year, they don’t care how many die.”

  Paksenarrion snorted. “If we’re fools for joining, what about you?” The others laughed, and Korryn scowled, slamming a rock into wet mortar so it splattered them all.

  “I,” he said, “already know how to use a sword. I don’t have to worry
.”

  “You will if you don’t get busy,” said Bosk. They all wondered how long he had been listening.

  The closest they came to anything that Paksenarrion recognized as weapons training was hauk drill. Every day they spent two hours with the hauks, weighted wooden cylinders that looked somewhat like maces.

  “I know what you want,” said Armsmaster Siger, as he supervised the drill. “You want swords, you think, and spears. Huh. You couldn’t wield a sword for a quarter-glass yet, none of you. Get that up, recruit—higher, that’s right. Thought you were strong, didn’t you? And you’re all as weak as newborn lambs—look at you sweat.” Siger was a gnarly, dried-up old man who looked old enough to be anyone’s grandfather.

  Paks had begun to doubt they would ever get to real weapons—week after week, they swung the hauks: over, under, sideways. And then one day they arrived to find practice swords laid out: wooden, and blunted, but swords. Siger stood behind the row of swords like a potter behind his wares.

  “Today,” he said, “we find out who’s making a warrior. File one, come forward.” Paks led her file out of formation. “All right, file leader, are you ready to face a sword today?”

  Paks took a deep breath of excitement. “Yes, Armsmaster.”

  Siger glared at her. “Ha! Eager, are you? You innocents are all too willing to shed your blood. Very well—pick up the first one in line—yes—that one.”

  Paks could not help grinning: a sword in her hand at last. She waggled it from side to side.

  “No!” roared Siger. “Don’t play with it, fool! It’s not a toy to show off with. A sword is to kill people with, nothing less.”

  Paksenarrion blushed scarlet.

  “Now—hold it just like the hauk in position one. Yes.” Siger scooped up one of the other practice blades. “This is an infantry sword, short enough not to get in the way in formation. It’s used to stab and slash. Now, file leader—the motions are the same as for hauk drill. Proceed.”