“I know—I know. They say—those who saw you fight today—they say you’re good. The senior yeomen told us, too, after they’d drilled with you. I know I can do it too. But will you let me?”
“Let you? How do you mean?”
“I want to—to train with you. Like a—a squire, or something.”
“But I’m not a knight.” Paks stared at her, bewildered. “I don’t need a squire—”
“I’ll earn my way,” the girl went on, heedless. “I swear I will. I’m a hard worker, and I’ll do anything you say, if you’ll let me fight beside you.”
“Listen—” began Paks, then stopped. She remembered too well how much she had wanted what she now had. What could someone have said to her, at that age? “I don’t even know your name.”
“Suli—”
“Suli, it’s not that easy—I don’t know what I’ll be doing next—”
“You’re not going to quit fighting!”
“No. But I don’t know when—or what—yet. I don’t even know what training you’ve got. What if you can’t—”
“You could talk to the Marshal—or even Ambros. They know me. Please, Lady Paks—I’ll do exactly what you say. I can groom your horse, and take care of things—”
“If you want to learn to fight, Suli, why don’t you join a mercenary company? The Halverics recruit around here, don’t they?”
Suli shook her head. “I’ve heard about that—all marching and drill, and the same old thing day after day. I could do that here—just drilling with the yeomen. I want—” She looked down the passage as if across a field. “I want excitement. Battles. Travel. Like you’ve had.”
Paks grinned. “Suli, I started as a mercenary. Gods above, I had as much travel and excitement as I could take. It’s the best training—I swear it.”
Suli shook her head again. “And you left. Why should I do it at all, when it’s not what I want in the end? Please, please let me fight with you. If you don’t like me, after awhile, then you can send me away. But give me a chance.” Her eyes held a look that Paks could not name—she was flattered and disturbed at once.
“I’ll think about it.” Paks started down the passage; Suli was at her shoulder. She started to speak, but Paks held up her hand. “No, I didn’t say yes. What does your family think about this?” She could hardly believe she had asked that. She, who knew only too well what families thought.
Suli scowled. “My family—they don’t get along here. My dad’s a trapper. He does a bit of day work in the tannery sometimes. He’s gone mostly, expects me to take care of everything. But my brothers—they’re old enough to work, and all that. I don’t care what he thinks.”
“Mmm.” Paks turned to the stairs. “My father didn’t want me to leave either.”
“You see? I said we were alike. Please—”
“Enough, Suli. I said I’d think about it.” Paks could see the others still clustered around two tables pulled together. Arvid and one of the yeomen were arm wrestling. Mal looked up and waved to her; she came to the table, aware of Suli watching her back.
“We were wondering if you’d decided to leave us for good,” said Mal.
“No. Suli wanted to talk to me.”
“Oh.” Mal and several of the others exchanged glances. “Is she bothering you?”
“Bothering me? No. She has an exalted idea of my achievements.” Paks snatched the top of a pile of fried cakes a serving girl put in front of Mal. “Good luck for you,” she reminded him; the others roared.
“By Gird’s arm, you’re quick,” said Mal, slightly redder than usual. “I never had anyone turn that trick back on me.”
Paks smiled with her mouth full. A tankard appeared in front of her. She picked it up and took a sip.
“Seriously,” began Ambros, “if Suli pesters you too much, I’ll speak to her.”
“I should speak to you, rather. She wants to train with me—and work with me. As a squire, she said—but you know I’m not a knight, what would I do with a squire?”
“As for that, you know much more than she does. She fights well, for the little training she’s had—but she’s got no more experience in actual fights than I have.”
“Not exactly,” said Mal. “She’s been in some rows.”
“Brawls,” said Ambros. “That’s not the same.”
“No, I know that. She’s an interesting girl, though.” Mal took a long pull at his tankard; one of the other men shook his head. “Seriously—she’s one of the best of the junior yeomen.”
“As far as fighting goes—but fighting’s not all of it,” said Ambros.
“Well, it’s the most important part, isn’t it? For Girdsmen, anyway. You know she’s not happy here, Ambros—not since Deordtya left. She wants—”
“She wants excitement and glory,” said Ambros tartly. “She’s more apt to get a broken head. Or don’t you agree, Paks?”
Paks nodded slowly. “I told her she should join a mercenary company for more training. I haven’t seen her fight; I don’t know what she can do. Still, I can understand—I couldn’t wait to get away from home. If someone like me had come through Three Firs, I’d have walked on fire to talk to her.”
“I can’t recommend her exactly,” said Ambros, looking at his hands, “but I think she’d be honest and loyal. If you want someone—”
“I hadn’t thought about it.” Paks took another fried cake off Mal’s platter. She wondered what it would be like to have a squire. The Duke had squires—she tried to imagine herself coming down that trail from the ruined wall, and someone like Suli throwing herself between an enemy and her own shield. It didn’t seem right. She was not a knight; she had never been a squire herself; she didn’t know what a squire should do, or how to teach it.
“Many free swords travel in pairs or trios,” said Mal. “Then they have someone they can trust.” He leaned back to let the other yeomen past—they nodded to Paks and Ambros, and went out.
“Sometimes.” Ambros shook his head. “Not always. But if you wanted to hire her, Paks, go ahead. I don’t think you’d do her any harm, and though she’s a little wild, she’ll serve you honestly.”
“Is she a Girdsman?”
“Well—not exactly. She’s not old enough for the final oaths, and her family isn’t Girdish. She’s sworn to the local grange only. Of course I’d rather she found a Girdish patron—”
“I wondered about that.”
“But you seem honest enough yourself. Master Cedfer hopes you’ll end up a yeoman of Gird.”
“I might,” said Paks thoughtfully.
“If it’s permitted to answer,” broke in Arvid, “I’d like to know if you found how those robbers were fencing their spoils.”
“Fencing—?” Paks didn’t know the term. Ambros did, and looked sharply at Arvid.
“He means, Paks, selling stolen goods somewhere—thieves call that fencing them.”
Arvid smiled. “So do others, young sir—I see that you know the term.”
Ambros scowled. “Indeed—honest men must learn thieves’ speech or lose by it. But to answer your question, as much as I may—no, we didn’t find out where the goods are being sent, or how.”
“I told Paks, yeoman-marshal, that I did not believe those men had been thieves for long.” Arvid sipped his ale, and went on. “I know you are suspicious of me—but that is the truth. And if I’m right, then someone else is running them—taking the stolen goods, fencing them—and that person, not those poor men, is the dangerous one. Until that person is caught, these attacks will continue.” Paks saw a gleam of interest in Mal’s eyes, but he was apparently relaxed and half-asleep, leaning on the wall.
Ambros leaned forward. “How, if Paks has killed or captured all the active robbers?”
Arvid snorted. “How hard is it to fool poor men? How were those men trapped into thievery? As long as the world holds men whose arms are stronger than their wits or will, just so long will subtle men find simple ones to risk and die for them.” Paks thought that could have more application than Arvid intended; she glanced at him and met a sardonic glint that set her mind on edge. Ambros missed it.