“This sword,” said Paks, laying her hand on the hilt. “Another one, not so good—”
“That one’s magical,” said the Marshal-General. “Did you know?”
“Yes, my lady. And a dagger, and a short battleaxe.”
“Do you use all of them?”
“No, my lady. Just sword and dagger, and I can use a long-bow, though not well.”
“And I see you have mail as well. For the first weeks, though, you will not use your own weapons. The weaponsmaster will assign you weapons for training; yours may be stored in your quarters or in the armory, as you prefer.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Your clothes—” She glanced at Paks’s traveling clothes. “We have training uniforms, but we are not strict, except during drill and classes. We discourage display of jewels and such, but you don’t look the type to show up in laces and ribbons.”
“No, my lady.”
“Very well.” She signed the end of her note, and handed it to Paks. “Take this down, and ask Argalt to direct you to the Master of Training. He’ll assign your quarters, and see that you’re set up with the instructors. You will take your meals in the Lower Hall—by the way, you have no difficulties with the elder races, have you?”
“Elder races—you mean elves and dwarves?”
“Among others. We have quite a few here—you’ll be meeting them. Don’t get in fights with them.”
“Oh no.”
“Good. You may go, Paksenarrion. May Gird’s grace be on you, and the High Lord’s light guide your way.” She rose, and Paks stood quickly, knocking her hand on the table edge.
“Thank you, my lady—”
“Thank the gods, Paksenarrion, for their bounty. I have done nothing yet to deserve your thanks.”
19
Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of passages on the ground floor, looked her up and down. “Training Master, eh? So you’re going to become a Knight of Holy Gird, are you? Or a Marshal? Or is it paladin you’re thinking of?”
Paks felt her ears burning again. “I—don’t know, sir.”
Argalt snorted. “I’m no sir, not even to the newest member of the training company. Argalt: that’s my name, and that’s what you’ll call me, young woman.”
“Yes, si—Argalt.”
“That’s better. You’re no hothouse flower of a noble house—where are you from?” Paks told him. He looked at her with surprising respect. “Sheepfarmer’s daughter? That’s like Gird’s daughter herself—barring he raised cattle and grain, so the story goes. But still it means you know what work is, I’ll say, and a few blisters on the hands. Where’d you learn to wear a sword like you could use it?” When she mentioned the Duke’s name, he stared. “You were in the Fox’s company? And came here? I’ll believe anything after that!” He shook his head as he led her across the courtyard, past the Lord’s Hall. “I was in the Guards at Vérella when I was young; what I don’t know about that Duke—” But Paks asked nothing, and did not expect that he would have answered if she had. He gave her a long look outside the Training Master’s office. “If you need someone to talk to, sometime, sheepfarmer’s daughter—I’ll share a tankard of ale with you.”
“Thank you,” said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned away.
The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man in dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird’s crescent embroidered on the breast. He read the Marshal-General’s note, and Cedfer’s letter, in tight-lipped silence. When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.
“If you’re to catch up with the others, you’ll have to work—and work hard. You’d best not loll about.”
Paks repressed a surge of anger. She’d never been lazy. “No, sir,” she said stiffly.
“It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer’s right about your weapons-skills. That would let us chop a glass or so off there, and give you more time in supply—though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for you, is beyond me.” Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be still. He sighed, heavily. “Very well, then. How much gear do you have?”
“Only what was in my saddlebags, sir,” said Paks. “I suppose it’s—”
“They’ll have it brought to your quarters.” He glanced for a moment at a chart on his wall. “Let me think. There’s a room on the third floor, next to the end of the corridor. You can have that, for now. It’s small, but it won’t mean moving anyone else tonight. If it’s too small, we can change things in a week or so.” If you stay that long, his tone clearly said. “You’ll need clothes; I’ll have the steward send something up. Come along.” He pushed past her to the corridor, and led the way upstairs.
The room he opened seemed amply large to Paks—larger than her room at The Jolly Potboy, with two windows looking out over a lower roof to a walled field. Besides a bed and chest, and a curtained alcove with hooks, it had a table, stool, and low chair. A narrow shelf ran along the wall over the table. Several blankets were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Paks had hardly taken all this in when he began speaking again.
“Students do not wear weapons except at practice,” he said, with a pointed glance at her sword. “We prefer that personal weapons be stored in the armory, but the Marshal-General has given permission for you to keep yours with you.” Paks did not want to let the magic sword out of her control; she said nothing. Just then a servant came in with her saddlebags; behind him was the steward, with an armful of clothing, all dark gray but for the blue cloak. The steward eyed her.
“You said tall, Master Chanis; this should fit near enough for now. What name do you use—Paksenarrion, or Dorthansdotter?”
“Paks is all.”
“Paksenarrion,” said the steward cheerfully. “I need something long enough it can’t be mistaken in anyone’s handwriting. Come by for measurements, or if you have something that fits well—”
Paks unstrapped her saddlebags, and pulled out her green shirt. “Will this do?”
“Good—good material, too. From Lyonya, is it?”
“No, but near there. Brewersbridge.”
The steward shook her head. “I don’t know it. Trousers, too, if you’ve an extra pair.” Paks pulled out the patched ones, which the steward took without comment, and handed over a pair of socks as well. The steward checked the number of blankets, and left the room.
“If you’re ready,” said the Training Master, “there is time to see the weapons instructors before supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon enough.”
Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddlebags behind the curtain, before following him out of the room.
“You have fought mostly in a mercenary company, I understand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Short-sword or polearm?”
“Short-sword.”
“But you carry a longsword.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you used a bow?”
“In training, yes—it’s not my best weapon.”
“Polearms?”
“Only in training.”
“Mace? Axe? Crossbow? Siege weaponry?” At each shake of her head, his lips seemed to tighten. Paks wondered if he really thought all of those important. She had trouble keeping up with his long sweeping strides, and noticed little of the building around them—only rows of doors, open and shut, and the stone flags of the hallway. They came out into a small court surrounded on three sides by stables; a pile of dung centered the court, and two youths were shoveling it into a cart. Past a row of box stalls, each holding a massive warhorse, the Training Master ducked through a narrow archway into another passage. This time they emerged on the edge of the walled field Paks had seen from her windows. On their right, the stone building sprouted a long finger; the Training Master turned toward this.