“No, you’re right. Not against a trained force. It would hold against bandits, though—we’ve used it for that.”
“Before my time, Marshal—and wasn’t it before yours?”
“Oh, yes. That was Deordtya’s doing, not mine, years back. I suppose I shouldn’t say ‘we’ when I mean Gird’s grange; it’s just habit.”
The servant appeared at their side with a tray of tankards; each took one.
“This will be Ceddrin’s private brew,” commented the Marshal. “I doubt you’ve tasted as good, Paksenarrion.”
Paks blew away the foam and sipped. It was rich and hearty. “It’s very good,” she said.
“Just what sort of training did Duke Phelan suggest you look for?” asked Sir Felis. “I’d have thought he could offer anything you or he might need.”
“He thought, sir, that I might learn mounted warfare, and something of fortifications and defense—”
“Huh. Sounds as if he were planning the education of a squire, not a man-at-arms. Had he suggested you work toward a knighthood, or something like that?” His voice hinted at the unlikeliness of this.
Paks nodded. “He said, sir, that nothing was certain, but that I might have the ability to become a cohort captain, or some such, years from now.”
Sir Felis frowned. “The land’s full of captains; I wonder that he’d risk losing a good soldier. Had he ever given you any command?”
“I was temporary corporal for awhile, sir, when one of ours was injured. And at the end of the campaign, when Siniava was trapped in—Cortes Immer, was it?—I led those who watched the bolthole.”
“Did Siniava come that way?”
“Yes, sir.” Paks offered no details.
“I see. Phelan obviously thought well of you. I must tell you that there’s not much chance my count would hire you, if you were hoping for that. He’s done no recruiting this past year. You could, of course, go and ask him directly.”
“I hadn’t thought of it, sir. I know little of this country, or who holds which keep.”
“Mmmm. I’ll show you a map—can you read maps? Good. I’ve one of the kingdom, showing the principal fiefs. It may give you some idea where you could hope to hire on. Marshal Cedfer can tell you of opportunities of the grange and Hall. The Fellowship of Gird, you know, maintains several training centers for fighting men at every level. For that matter, they have fighting orders, as do followers of Falk and Camwyn.”
“Is that where paladins come from?” asked Paks. “We saw a paladin in Aarenis.”
Sir Felis choked on his ale. “Is that what you—!? Sorry. No, not exactly. The Marshal can tell you more than I, if you’re interested in that. There’s an order of knights, the Knights of Gird, just as there are Knights of the Dragon’s Breath, followers of Camwyn Dragonmaster.”
Paks was confused. “I thought knights were all the same. Noblemen born, or those knighted for service.”
Sir Felis stared. “Oh, no. Whatever gave you that idea? Oh dear, no. Where did you say you were from? A small border village, wasn’t it? Now let me try to explain.” His explanation hardly enlightened Paks, since she knew few of the places and none of the rulers he mentioned. He finished his lecture with a gesture to the small gold device on his collar, shaped like a peal of bells. “For instance, I was knighted in the Order of the Bells, one of the three orders created by the royal house of Tsaia. The oldest, I might add.” He paused for a swallow of ale; his glance expected a reaction. Paks was acutely aware of how little she knew, and how important he thought it.
“Now,” he went on, after wiping his mustache, “members of my order may be followers of any honorable god or hero. I myself am a Girdsman, but my father’s brother is Falkian, and so are my cousins. Our loyalty is to the crown of Tsaia—or, more accurately, to the heir of the House of Mahierian. But Knights of Gird swear their loyalty to the Marshal-General of Gird, through their Knight Commander. The—er—rules governing admission to each order depend—er—on the order, and the circumstances.” He looked her up and down, doubtfully, as if she were an unpedigreed horse at a sale.
“I see,” said Paks, more to stop him than because she did. She was still confused. She was actually relieved when the mayor tapped her arm.
“Let’s get back; we have yet a good bit of business to talk over.”
This time they asked her to sit down at the beginning of the session, and the rest spread themselves around the table on all sides. Only the master mason still seemed hostile.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” began the mayor. “Now that we know something of your background, let me explain how things stand in Brewersbridge. We’re on a major trade route from the west to the sea. We have a lot of traffic through, and want it—we depend on it. Nonetheless, I hope you won’t be insulted when I say that the Council is opposed to having free blades around town. Some of them, like you, are honorable folk, and cause no trouble intentionally. Others, like the fellow who died, pick quarrels everywhere. We’ve learned it’s best to insist that soldiers and warriors either find a local lord or commander, to be responsible for their behavior, or move on.” He smiled, as he said this. Paks wondered what was coming next.
“Now you,” he said, “are perhaps a special case. While Master Senneth, even for the Council’s peace of mind, won’t divulge how much treasure you deposited with him, he has assured us that you will not need to rob anyone for the price of a meal before Midwinter Feast.” A chuckle went around the table. Even the mason smiled. “So, since you’ve given honest account of yourself, we have less to worry about. Nonetheless, our tradition is clear: since Sir Felis has no employment for you, we would not willingly have you stay too long idling about. That would mean more than a few weeks, in your case: I understand that you’ve ordered goods from some of our local tradesmen. Certainly you may stay until they’re completed, as long as nothing happens. On the other hand, we are prepared to offer you certain employment—the Council is, I mean. If you took it, we would not consider you in the same class as an adventurer.”
Paks remembered Semminson’s warning. “What sort of employment, sir, did you have in mind?”
“Work suitable for your abilities and training, I believe. And so says Marshal Cedfer. I think Sir Felis would now concur, would you not?” Sir Felis nodded. “We have been plagued, hereabouts, with brigands preying on caravans in the region. You can understand why that is critical for us; we depend on their trade. Sir Felis has swept the area several times, finding nothing. He has direct orders from the count to concentrate his time and men on the building of the keep north of town. We need someone to search out the brigands’ hiding place, and lead a force against them. None of us have the training—or, to be frank, the time to take away from our trades. Would you be willing to take this commission?”
Paks could not suppress a grin. It sounded like fun, at least the part about finding the brigands’ camp. But as for killing or catching them—“Sir, it is an interesting proposal. But, whatever Marshal Cedfer may think, I am hardly able to defeat a band of brigands on my own.”
“Not at all,” said the mayor. “Of course not. We would expect you to lead a force, including some of the local militia. And you could confer, perhaps, with the Marshal or Sir Felis, on the best method for defeating them, once you had found their camp.”
Put that way, it sounded even more attractive. Whenever Paks thought of brigands, she thought of those who had killed Saben and Canna. She nodded at the mayor. “I have no love for brigands,” she said. “I’ll be glad to hunt them for you.”
“Good. What we propose is this: we will authorize you to call on members of the local militia who have free time, and they—or the town—will supply their weapons. We will not pay you, but we will grant you a share of any recovered goods, and a head-price for each robber killed or captured. If you need extraordinary aid, come to Marshal Cedfer, and he will arrange it as he sees fit. Is that satisfactory?”