They were now in the passage outside Paks’s room. A neatly lettered card fitted into a slot she had not noticed before, so that anyone would know it was her room.
“I’m down four doors, across the passage,” said Rufen. Paks finally found words for something that had puzzled her.
“How did you know about Elis? I thought the Marshal-General said the new class had been here only a few weeks.”
“Oh, them.” Rufen laughed. “There are—oh—a dozen of them. They’re all younger than you. I’ve been here a year and some.”
“Were all those in practice with you?” Paks did not want to reveal how unskilled they had seemed to her.
“No—we train in groups according to skill. That’s the most basic group, in sword-work. My father, you see, planned for me to be a scholar. I had a badly broken arm, as a boy, and he thought it would never hold up to fighting. I thought differently.”
“Oh.” Paks found his composure as interesting as his story. He did not sound angry, or defensive—he might have been talking about the training of a horse.
“You won’t do your sword-work with us, I’m sure. But then Aris and Seli won’t do staves with you. By Gird, I’ve never seen anything so clumsy as your grip on a staff.” Paks flushed, but he obviously meant no insult. “It gives me hope for my sword-work, for I was just as clumsy to start—perhaps you were so with a sword, and yet you’ve learned great skill.”
“Well—I’ll work hard,” said Paks, trying to copy his calm.
“Oh, you’ll learn. Cieri could teach a cow grace, if he wanted to. And he likes you somewhat—not that that will take the sting out of his blows. But if we want baths before supper, we’d best get going. The rest of them’ll be crowding in soon enough.” He went in his own room, and Paks turned to hers. Already two complete sets of gray tunics and trousers were folded neatly on her bed. She took off her mail, and her sweaty clothes, and put on the loose bath-gown of heavy gray wool. A knock on her door. Rufen called from outside. “I forgot to tell you—lots of us don’t wear the uniform to supper. It’s up to you, but don’t wear mail, or weapons but the dagger.”
“Thanks,” she called back. She rummaged among her things, and decided finally to wear her second-best shirt from Brewersbridge. Perhaps they would think it strange if she showed up in students’ gray at once. Then she thought of the Training Master, and wondered. It seemed that she could be wrong either way. Why hadn’t they told her exactly what to do? She was willing to do what she was told. She looked from one stack of clothes to the other, biting her lip nervously, trying to remember exactly what the Training Master had said. At last she took up her own shirt and trousers, and headed for the bath house.
Bathed and dressed once more, Paks returned to her own room, wondering now how she would know when it was time to eat. No one had mentioned a gong or other signal. Rufen’s door was shut; she was too shy to knock. She heard voices in the passage, but could not distinguish the words. Suddenly a commotion began—shouts, thuds—Paks leaped for her sword, then stopped short. No weapons. She snatched at her door, and looked out.
A black-haired boy in red velvet lay flat on the floor, blinking up at two who had their backs to Paks. She saw Rufen’s door open, and his narrow good-humored face peering out.
“And if you come up here again, Aris—” said one of those standing.
“What are you doing now, Con?” asked Rufen.
“Don’t bother yourself, Rufen. Just reminding the juniors that they’ve no right to come up here—”
“I do!” began the boy in red, but the second of the standing pair laughed shortly.
“You do, eh? Then we’ve a right to dump you on your tail.” He took a step forward, but Rufen came out of his room.
“No one has a right to brawl, Jori, and you and Con know it. I don’t know where you got the idea that this is your passage—”
“You’d dispute that?” asked Con scornfully. “You? By Gird’s toe, Rufen, I can throw you with one arm alone.”
“I doubt that,” said Rufen. The boy had started to roll to his feet, but Con aimed a kick in his direction.
“Stay there, little boy.”
Paks had been growing angrier. Jori sneered at Rufen, and said, “We have to do something—the Master’s put one of ’em on our floor!”
Rufen cocked his head. “So?”
“So, we’ll have to teach them all a lesson—I don’t suppose a peasant girl can be much trouble.”
Paks felt her anger like a leaping flame. “You don’t?” she asked, trying for a pleasant tone. The two whirled; she saw the shock in their faces as they saw her size and condition. Behind them, Rufen helped the boy in red to his feet. “What kind of lesson,” she asked, rocking slightly from heel to toe, “did you think to teach me?” She hoped they would jump her; she wished she had gone for them at once.
“Who in Gird’s name are you?” asked Con, glancing sideways at Jori for support.
“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said Paks quietly, still ready to jump. “A—peasant girl, I believe you said, wasn’t it?”
“You’re the new—?” Con seemed unable to believe it.
“Yes.” Paks waited, suddenly finding it funny.
“Paksenarrion,” said Rufen pleasantly from behind them, “is a veteran of the wars in Aarenis. I believe she is known to Sir Fenith, as well as Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge and others.” Paks glanced at him quickly, still balanced to fight. The boy Aris was grinning openly.
Con shook his head. “I’m sorry for what I said, then. You’re no novice, barely trained as a squire. I had heard you were a sheepfarmer’s daughter, but obviously—”
“I am a sheepfarmer’s daughter,” said Paks, dangerously quiet. “Does that change your opinion?”
He looked confused. “But you’re not Girdish. Where did a—a girl like you learn warfare, outside the granges?”
“In Duke Phelan’s Company,” said Paks, glad to see the surprise return. “I began there, as a recruit.”
“Phelan!” That was Jori. “But he’s—” He looked quickly at Con.
“Yes?” Paks let her hand slip to her dagger hilt.
“I didn’t say a thing—” began Jori. He held out his hands, palm up.
“Look, Pak-Paksenarrion—I don’t know Duke Phelan, I only know what I’ve heard. Don’t—”
“And what is this?” The Training Master had turned into the passage from the stairs. Paks, facing them all, saw their faces stiffen at his voice. She stood silent, waiting to see what would happen. No one spoke for a long moment. Then—“Well? Have you set a gauntlet for our new student to run? Aris, I thought you were to escort her to supper, and now I find you all standing about up here as if you had all night to chat.”
Even Rufen seemed to have no quick answer to this. Paks moved forward, passing Con and Jori without looking at them. “Pardon, sir,” she said. “I did not know the usual signal for supper, and delayed them talking about your customs. You did say, did you not, that I need not change to the student uniform for tonight?”
“Yes—I did.” The Training Master looked taken aback. “But—”
“Is it permitted to wear one’s own dagger to the table?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Then,” she said, with a glance back to the others, who were watching in some kind of shock, “I apologize again for making everyone late. Aris, will you show me the way?”
The boy in red seemed the least dazed of them all, and came quickly to her side, nodding respectfully to the Training Master, who looked down at him thoughtfully. “Someone downstairs reported a disturbance up here,” he said at last.
“Oh, sir?” Aris managed to look doubtful.
“Yells,” said the Training Master.
Paks intervened. “They were expecting a peasant girl,” she said, carefully not looking at Con and Jori. “I think I surprised them.”
“I see.” The Training Master looked them all over carefully. “I will see you after supper, Paksenarrion; we must be sure you understand the rules of the house.”