Two days later, the Marshal-General walked with her to the archway. "Remember, Paksenarrion: you will be welcome in any grange, at any time. I have already sent word. Gird's grace is on you, and our good will follows you. If my parting gift is not enough, you can ask more, freely." But Paks was determined not to spend that roll of coins, wound in a sock in the midst of her pack. "Right now you are unhappy, and reasonably so, with the Fellowship of Gird—"
Paks shook her head. "Not so, my lady. Not with you. I think Marshal Haran had the right of it, in part. My error let Achrya's evil in, and my weakness could not withstand what you had to do—"
The Marshal-General stopped and looked at her. "That's not true, and I've told you before. By Gird's cudgel, I hate to let you go, thinking that. All paladin-candidates are vulnerable, and anyone with less strength than you would have been taken over completely far sooner. You must believe in yourself." She paused, rocking from heel to toe, arms crossed. "Paks, please. Promise me that if things get worse, you will come for help."
Paks looked away. She did not want to say what she thought, that more of such help as she'd had would leave her bedbound as well as craven.
"My lady, I'd best go, to be in the market on time." Paks kept her eyes stubbornly on the ground. The Marshal-General's sigh was gusty.
"Very well, Paks. You are sworn to Gird's Fellowship, and Gird the protector will guard your way. All our prayers are with you." She turned back through the gate, and Paks walked on, determined not to glance back.
Chapter Thirty
With that walk down to the market in Fin Panir, where she was to meet the shepherd who would hire her, a pattern was set that continued all that hard winter.
"Eh, you took your time," grumbled Selim Habensson, when she found him talking with several other sheepmen. "Hated to leave the Lord's Hall, I suppose. Let's see—" He looked her over as if she were a ewe up for sale. "The Marshal-General says you're fit, and you've handled sheep—is that so?"
"Yes, sir. My father raised sheep."
"Good enough. Get in there and find me th' three-tit ewe w' the scarred hock and a double down-nick offside ear." As Paks paused to look over the pen of sheep, trying to see a likely earmark, he barked, "Get on, there—get in—I want to see you in with 'em."
Paks swung over the low railing, among the crowded sheep. She had not feared sheep since she had been able to see over their backs, but the shoving of woolly backs and sides made her feel strange. She saw one offside earmark, but it was a single notch. Most of this pen was nearside marked. There—on the far side—was a double down-nick, offside. She pushed her way slowly through the sheep, careful not to startle or disturb them. A quick look told her this was a normal ewe, not hock-scarred; she looked again for the right earmark, and found it in a corner. A ewe, a three-tit, and scarred on the near hock. She looked up to see the shepherd just outside the rail.
"Very well—you do know somewhat about sheep. But you haven't worked 'em lately, I'll warrant."
"No, sir."
"I thought not. Those clothes belong in a shop, not on drive." He spat on the cobbles outside the pen. "I hope to Gird you don't mind getting dirty."
"No, sir."
"All right. When market's over—another glass, say—we'll be moving this pen and those two—" he pointed, "—out to a meadow for tonight. Tomorrow we start for the south. Follow us out—make sure none of 'em stray in the city—and you'll be watching tonight."
* * *
Although bothered by the noise and bustle of the market, Paks had no trouble with the sheep on the way out—to her own and the shepherd's surprise. The sheep settled well in their temporary grazing ground, and Paks took up her assigned post on the far side while the other shepherds made camp and cooked supper. She had not thought to bring anything for lunch, planning to buy it in the market, so by evening she was hungry. When the first group had eaten, Selim called in the others to eat. Paks was given a bowl of porridge and a hunk of bread. She ate quickly, hardly noticing the others until she finished. Then she looked up to find them watching her.
"You eat like you thought there was more coming," commented Selim. She had, indeed, assumed there was more. He turned to the others. "Been living in a city for awhile, she has. Fine clothes. Eating well. Listen, now: we're sheepfarmers, not rich merchants or fancy warriors. We work hard for what we get; you'll get your fair share, but not a drop more. Understand?"
"Yes, sir." Paks nodded, and cleaned her bowl. She was remembering that when she first joined the Duke's Company, the food had seemed rich and plenty—she had forgotten, in the years since, how her family had lived, and how she had longed for bakers' treats on market days.
"Good. You'll take first watch. Jenits, you relieve her at change. We'll start out at dawn."
In the next few days Paks became acquainted with hunger again. She felt cold and hunger as a force that dragged on her legs, making her labor to keep up with the flock. When a sheep broke free, and ran, she struggled to chase it, fighting a stitch in her side and leaden legs that would not hurry. Selim scolded her about it.
"By Gird's cudgel, this is the last time I'll hire on the Marshal-General's word! I've a half-grown lass that could do better!" Paks forebore to say that she herself, as a half-grown girl, had done better. She saw clearly that excuses would only make things worse. She ducked her head and promised to work harder. And she tried. But Selim and the others never came to trust her, always saw her as an outsider who had been forced on them by the Marshal-General. In addition, the wounds she'd received from the iynisin began to swell and redden again. They had never faded much, but now they looked and felt much as they had when she first came out in Kolobia. The shepherds looked at the marks they could see and muttered.
So it was that when the flocks were safe in the winter pastures of southern Fintha, Selim turned her away, and refused to hire her through the winter.
"I'm not saying as I think it, mind. The Marshal-General, I expect she'd know the truth of it, and she said as how you was not to blame for any. But they all think you're cursed, somehow. Never saw the like of those marks on your face turning dark like that; it's not natural. We've plenty of young ones in the village that need work can look after the sheep well enough. Here's your pay—" It was not much; Paks did not count it. "And I'll wish you well."
It was a bitter morning, gray with a sharp wind. Paks shivered; she was, as always, hungry. "Is there an inn, here, where—"
"No, not here." His voice was sharp. "We're not some rich town. On that way—" he pointed to a side lane. "You could make Shaleford by tonight, if you get a foot on it, or back the way we came." Paks looked from one to the other, irresolute. "You won't make it shorter by thinking on it," he said, and turned back into his own house, shutting the door.
Paks put the coins he'd given her into her belt pouch, biting her lip. The way they had come was north, into the wind, and the nearest town more than a day's travel. She took the lane to Shaleford.
The lane dwindled to a track, and the track to a hardly visible trail that led up over a rise open to the wind. All that day Paks fought the wind, leaning on its shaking shoulder. She had nothing to eat, and nothing in the bare countryside offered shelter or sustenance. When she topped the rise, she looked into a country already softened by coming night; behind her the sun fell behind heavier cloud to a dull ending. She saw nothing that looked like a town, and wondered if the shepherd had lied. But the miserable trail wound on, and she saw sheep droppings nearby. Sheep meant people, she hoped, and kept on. At least it was downhill.
She was stumbling in the gathering darkness when she saw the first light ahead. Thinking of warmth, food, being out of the everlasting wind, she missed her footing again, and fell flat, jarring every bone. She lay sprawled, listening to the wind's howl, and wondering how far the light was.
Shaleford had an inn, if a three-room hut with a lean-to kitchen could be called an inn. Paks handed over most of her earnings for a pile of straw at one end of the common l
oft and a bowl of soup. The other customers drank ale, heavily, and eyed her sideways. She paid another of her coppers for a second helping of soup and some bread. She was tempted to spend one of the Marshal-General's coins for a decent meal, but was afraid to show the others that she had anything worth stealing.
The next day she found that no one in Shaleford had need for an extra hand over the winter. By the time she'd asked for work every place she could think of, it was too late to make the next town by nightfall. She could not stay another night at the inn without using some of her reserve. But Shaleford had a grange—she'd seen it, first thing in the morning. She decided to see if they would let her stay there.
The Marshal, said the stocky yeoman-marshal, was out. He'd been to Highfallow barton for their drill, and wouldn't be back until the next day. Yes, there'd been a recent message from Fin Panir, but that was the Marshal's business, and he couldn't say what it was. If she had something from the Marshal-General herself—Paks pulled out the safe-conduct, and the yeoman-marshal pored over the seal. She realized suddenly that he could not read.
"A message for our Marshal? Is it urgent?"
"It's to any Marshal—about me." Paks felt herself redden under his gaze. His glance flicked to her visible scars.
"You're a yeoman?"
"Yes—well—not precisely—"
"Well, then, what?"
"I was at Fin Panir—"
"The training company?"
"Yes."
"And they sent you on a mission?"
Paks was torn between honesty and the likelihood that he would not understand what she really was. "I don't think I can explain it to you," she said finally. "I need to speak to the Marshal, but since he's not here—"
"Even if I went, he couldn't get back before tomorrow."
"No, I understand that. Can I wait for him here?"
"In the grange?" The yeoman-marshal's frown deepened. "Well—I suppose. Come along." He led her through the main room to a tiny sleeping chamber off a narrow back passage. "You can leave your pack there, and come back in for the exchange."
Paks had forgotten that custom. In Fin Panir itself, the exchange of buffets whenever a visitor came to the grange had been abandoned because of the number of visitors. But in outlying granges, it was still usual, and the test of someone who claimed membership in the Fellowship of Gird. She froze.
"I can't." Her voice was thin.
"What!"
"I can't. I—it's in this—" She waved the Marshal-General's letter.
"Hmph." His snort was clearly one of disbelief and scorn. "I see you've been wounded recently—is that it?"
Paks nodded, taking the easy way out, as she thought.
"I'd think if you could travel at all you could exchange a few blows—but—" He shook his head. "You hear all sorts of things from Fin Panir. All right, then. I'll just go put more meal in the pot."
Paks sank down on the narrow bed, frightened and discouraged. Was this the sort of welcome the Marshal-General intended? But of course the Marshal was away. She could not take it to heart. She got up with an effort and looked around for the jacks and the washroom. At least she could be clean.
Her spare shirt smelled of sheep and smoke, but was, she thought, somewhat cleaner. The yeoman-marshal gave her a pail of water and soap for the dirty clothes, and she came to supper feeling more respectable than before. She had oiled her boots and belt, and the sheathe of her dagger. The yeoman-marshal was obviously making an effort to be friendly.
"So tell me—what's new in Fin Panir? Is the quest back from the far west yet? Did they really try to find Luap's lost stronghold, as we heard?"
"Yes. And found it, too." Paks told a little of the quest, hoping to stave off questions. Luckily, the yeoman-marshal was tired, and when she had told what she thought would interest him, he was yawning.
The next day, when the Marshal returned, he nodded when he heard her name. "Yes—Paksenarrion. I've heard of you; the Marshal-General mentioned that you might come this way in her last letter. Where are you bound next?"
"I—I'm not sure, sir."
"You could take a letter to Highgate, if you would. And I know there's traffic there—you might find work on the roads."
"I'd be glad to." Paks found herself almost eager to go. This Marshal, at least, had no scorn for her.
"If you stay a day, you'll be here for drill—oh, I know you can't bear arms, not at this time, but surely you can tell the yeomen about Kolobia, can't you? They like to hear a good tale, and finding Luap's stronghold would interest any of them."
Paks didn't want to face a crowd of strange yeomen, but she felt she couldn't refuse. She nodded slowly. The rest of that day passed easily: she was warm and well-fed for the first time in days, and she dozed most of the afternoon. The Marshal offered a mug of herb tea which he said might ease the ache of her wounds, and it helped. But the next night, facing the assembled yeomen, was difficult. She had told them about the trip west, the fight with the nomads, the brigand attacks in the canyons they crossed, but the closer she came to describing the iynisin attack, the worse it got. The Marshal had said she ought not to mention her own capture—not that she wanted to—but she could hardly talk of any of it. Finally she raced through it, skimping most of the action, and went on to Luap's stronghold. When she finished, they stamped their feet appreciatively. Then one of them, a big man she'd seen in the inn, spoke up.
"If you're one of that kind, what are you doing here?"
"Any Girdsman is welcome in our grange," said the Marshal sharply.
"Aye, I know that. But I saw her come in two days ago, cold as dead fish and smelling of sheep. Hadn't eaten in days, the way she started on her food over there—" He jerked his head toward the inn. "You know's well as I do, Marshal, that knights and paladins and such don't travel like that. The way she talks, she wasn't walking the wagons out to Kolobia—she talks like she fought alongside that Amberion and that elf. So I just wonder why she's—" His voice trailed away, but his look was eloquent. Paks saw others glance at him and nod.
"Yeomen of Gird," said the Marshal with emphasis. "It is not my tale to tell. I can tell you that the Marshal-General has commended her to every grange—every grange, do you hear?—and to all the Fellowship of Gird. I daresay she travels where she does, and as she does, by the will of the High Lord and Gird his servant. I will not ask more—and you would be wise to heed me."
"Well," said the big man, undeflated, "if you ask me, she looks more like a runaway apprentice than a warrior of Gird. No offense meant—" he said with a glance at Paks. "If so be I'm wrong, then—well—you know how to take satisfaction." With that he flexed his massive arms, and grinned.
"You're wrong indeed, Arbad," said the Marshal. "And I'll take the satisfaction for your discourtesy to a guest of the grange, on next drill night, or hear your apology now."
Evidently the Marshal's right arm was well respected, for Arbad rose and muttered an apology to Paks. The meeting broke up shortly after that. A few had come to speak to Paks, but most huddled together in the corners, looking at her and speaking quietly to each other. The Marshal stayed near her, stern and quiet.
* * *
At Highgate Paks delivered the Marshal's letter to the Highgate Marshal, and shared a hot meal at the grange. He introduced her to a trader, in town on his way south and east, and Paks hired on as common labor. The rest of that day she unloaded and loaded wagons, and harnessed the stolid draft-oxen. With the other laborers, she slept under one of the wagons, and the next day they started on the road.
Keris Sabensson, the trader, rode a round-bellied horse at the head of the wagons; he had a drover for each wagon, five guards, and two common laborers. Paks was expected to do most of the camp-work, load and unload the wagons at each stop, and help care for the animals. She found the work within her strength, but was terrified of the guards, who tried to joke with her.
"Come on, Paks," said one of them one night when she jumped back from a playful thrust of his
sword. "With those scars you've got, you've been closer than this to a sword. You know I'm not serious. Here—let's see what you can do." He tossed the sword to her. Paks threw out her hand, and knocked it away; it fell to the ground. "Hey! Stupid, don't do that! You'll nick it!" He glared at her.
"You can't tell me you haven't fought—what happened, lose your nerve?" Another one had her by the arm.
"Let her alone, Cam—suppose you ended up—"
"Like her? Never. I'll be a captain someday, with my own troop. Who'd you fight with, Paks—tell us."
"Phelan," she muttered. She could not break free, and was afraid to try.
"What? I don't believe it." Cam dropped her arm. "You were in the Red Duke's Company? When?"
"A—a couple of years ago." They were all watching now, eyes bright in the firelight. She swallowed, looking for a way out of their circle.
"What happened? Get thrown out?" Cam's grin faded as he watched her.
"No, I—" She looked into the fire.
"Tir's gut, Paks, you make a short tale long by breathing on it. What happened?"
"I left." She said that much, and her throat closed.
"You left." The senior, a lean dark man who claimed to have fought with the Tsaian royal guard, confronted her. He looked her up and down. "Hmm. You don't get scars like that from not fighting, and you're too old to have been thrown out as a recruit, and not old enough to be a veteran. But you're scared, aren't you?"
Paks nodded, unable to speak.
"Is that why you left Phelan?" She shook her head. "When did you—no, those scars are too new. Something happened—by the look of it, within the past few weeks." She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze, but felt it through her skin. No one spoke; she could hear the flames sputtering against a sleety wind, and the hiss of sleet on the wagons.
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