“You are doing well with him,” said the Kuakgan. Paks could find nothing in his voice but polite interest. “Have you been able to cure the injuries he received earlier?”
Paks laid a hand on the horse’s shoulder to steady herself. She had not thought to see the Kuakgan again so soon; her breath came short. “Sir, his mouth healed quickly, but—there’s one thing. He has deep scars on his hind legs, and I don’t know what can be done for them.”
“I’ll take a look.” At the Kuakgan’s touch, the horse relaxed even more, and did not flinch even when the Kuakgan ran his strong hands down the hind legs. He paused when he came to the scar on the near leg. “A rope or wire cut him deeply here; it’s a wonder he was not crippled by it. The wound healed cleanly, but the scar has grown to hamper the action of the joint a little. Do you find he sometimes seemed to drag his hoof there?”
Paks shook her head. “I’ve never seen it myself. But Marshal Cedfer says he does so, when I’m training with him.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps I can ease that for him.” Paks did not see him do anything, but he laid his hand over the scar a long moment, and then on the other leg. “Now,” he said, as he straightened up, “I would see you ride, young woman.”
Paks felt her belly clench. Would he make the horse rear and buck? Run away? She was sure he could do that. Or would he criticize what Marshal Cedfer had taught her? Her fingers felt huge and clumsy as she set the saddle on the horse’s back, arranged the crupper and breastband, girthed up, and bridled. The Kuakgan inspected the tack, running the leather through his hands, touching the bit with his fingers. At last there was nothing to do but mount. The horse had picked up Paks’s tension, and stiffened his ears, but he stood still while she gained the saddle.
Once up, habit reasserted itself, and she gave to the horse’s movement. She rode around the stableyard twice, then made a few circles and other figures around the dungheap. She looked at the Kuakgan; he gestured for her to ride outside. Paks sighed, nodded, and guided the black through the gate.
The Kuakgan led her out of town, eastward. Paks followed, the black horse stepping along lightly. He turned as she caught up with him.
“I think you have done well so far,” he said. “Ride ahead, now, and turn back when you come to the edge of the grove.”
Paks nudged the horse into a slow trot, halted and turned where she was bid, and rode back.
“He should have no more trouble with those scars,” said the Kuakgan. “He’s moving easier. Could you feel it?”
“It seems springier, somehow.”
“Yes, and he will be able to do some of those fancy things the Marshal would like to teach you. Too bad they’re used for fighting only. If it did not risk his death or yours, I’d be happier about it.” He smiled up at her. “But you and he were meant to be so, perhaps. I wish you well, Paksenarrion. You may come again to the grove, if you wish; you have a definite talent with animals. That is, in part, what hurt you so when you misused it.” He waved and turned away. Paks sat still, and watched him cross the road and enter the grove by leaping the wall. She almost called a warning, then realized that it would hold no perils for him. He had disappeared among the trees when she lifted the reins and rode to the grange along the street for the first time.
13
In the next few days, Paks rode along most of the roads near town, and began to explore the small lanes and paths that led to outlying farmsteads. She found nothing; she was not even sure what she was looking for. But at least, she thought, she had a better idea of the surrounding land. It was richer than the land around Three Firs. Most farm folk had an orchard of apples and pears; for grain they grew wheat as well as northern barley and oats. Redroots, onions, and other vegetables grew in every kitchen garden. Paks saw the local hogs, hefty red beasts with yellow eyes, rooting in the roadside woods and hedges. Sleek dun-colored cattle with dark horns grazed the pastures.
Then, returning to Brewersbridge on the west road one afternoon, she got her first clue. Low sun behind her threw her shadow far ahead. In that slanting light, she saw something glint on a treetrunk beside the road. She rode toward it, suddenly alert.
As she came nearer, she saw that it was nothing but the tree itself—instead of dark furrowed bark, pale underbark lay open to the sun from a narrow gash. Paks halted the black horse, her brow furrowed in thought. She’d heard of such signs—the scouts in the Duke’s Company had had a system of marks on trees and wayside rocks. But she had no idea what this one meant—if indeed it were anything but an accident.
She turned the black horse off the road, and made a half-circle in the woods around the marked tree. Nothing but a game trail, that ended a few yards from the road. She came out to the road again, and thought about it. Game trail? Why would a game trail stop suddenly? She had seen others that crossed the road. Her neck prickled, and she looked around at the silent trees. Nothing. She thought of returning to the mysterious trail, but decided to ride on as if she had found nothing. As she jogged on toward town, she heard a distant call off to her right—a herdsman, perhaps, or perhaps someone else.
That night was drill night again. Paks drank a quick bowl of soup in the crowded common room, then went upstairs to change. When she came downstairs, the tall young man she’d noticed the first day in the common room called to her.
“Lady Paks! Going to drill? Walk with us, why don’t you?” His grin was nearly as wide as his shoulders. Two other men, that Paks remembered but vaguely from the first night’s drill smiled at her.
Paks nodded at them. She wondered who they were.
“I’m Mal Argonist,” said the one who had called her. “I’m the forester here, since my brother went away. I saw you the day you came in.”
“Amisi,” said the dark one at his side. “I’m a farmer, just east there—beyond the grove, those grain fields.”
“Adgan,” said the redhead. “I work for Amisi, right now.”
“He’s my senior herdsman.”
“They’re just learning sword drill,” said Mal. “I told ’em they should use an axe, but—”
“Mal, for Gird’s sake don’t start on that—”
“What?” asked Paks.
“Axes. Mal thinks everyone should fight with an axe. It’s all right for him, as big as he is, and using an axe every day. But—”
“In formation?” Paks tried to imagine it. She knew that some knights fought with small axes, but she’d never heard of a foot soldier using one.
“Nah—not formation exactly.” Mal laughed loudly. “It’s a right Girdish weapon, that’s all, being taken from our tools, you see. And I’ve killed wolf with it—”
“With an axe?” Paks stared at him.
“Oh, aye. Just you swing it from side to side, see—like the Master Smith does his hammer, that’s all. It’s the very thing. Won’t break like a sword will.” He laughed again, and Paks eyed him narrowly. If she had seen him in a tavern in Aarenis, she’d have thought him a stupid lout. He was two fingers taller than she, and built like an ale barrel. She’d seen him drain a tankard at one swallow. Yet he didn’t move like a drunkard, and his great arms showed solid muscle.
Several more yeomen had joined them, hurrying out of side lanes. For a few moments, Paks felt almost at home, almost as if she were going somewhere with Stammel and other friends. Then one of them nudged another and spoke.
“Is it true, lady, that the Council has hired you?”
Paks was too surprised to make a good pretence of ignorance. “Why do you ask?” she said finally.
“Well—you’ve got money enough, that’s obvious, and you make no sign of leaving. Could be you bribed them, or could be they hired you.”
“Doryan!” Mal’s bellow startled Paks as much as the statement.