“Certainly, sir. Where shall I come?”
“Aris can show you.” Aris colored at this, and Paks surmised that he had been called often to the Training Master’s study. With a last nod, the Training Master turned away; they all descended the stairs behind him, silently. When he turned away, and they were alone in the passage between the kitchens and the Lower Hall, Rufen spoke.
“Paks, thank you for not going into all that with him—”
“I thought we were in for it,” added Con. Paks looked at him with distaste.
“Soldiers don’t complain to commanders about every trifle.”
Con reddened. “That’s not what I meant—”
“It’s what I meant.” She turned pointedly to Aris, who had not spoken to her yet. “Where are you from, Aris?”
“From Marrakai’s House, in Tsaia—do you know it?”
Paks laughed. “No—but I’ve heard of Duke Marrakai.”
“My father,” said the boy proudly. “I’m the fourth son.”
“And knows it, too,” muttered Jori, from behind them. Aris whipped around.
“At least my father is a duke!” he said. “And I have three estates already to my name—”
“Oh Gird’s grace,” muttered Con to Jori, “did you have to start him off again?” Even Paks was tempted to smile at the boy’s intensity. But they were at the doors of the Lower Hall, and looking for a place to sit at the crowded tables. Obviously more than students ate here: it seemed to Paks that a whole village was in the room, and the noise confirmed it. She followed the others between the tables, to a serving hatch. There her platter was stacked with sliced meat, a dipper of redroots in gravy, a small loaf of bread, and a slice of something that looked like nutbread dipped in honey. On a table beside the hatch were mugs; she had seen that each table had two pitchers.
The Hall was so crowded that they could not sit together; Aris found a space for the two of them, and the other three wandered away. Paks was hungry and began eating at once. When she slowed down enough to look around, the crowd was thinning out a little. Aris was chatting with another fairly young boy across the table—he was straw-blond, with gray eyes, and slightly crooked teeth. The person next to Paks had left without her noticing. She mopped up the rest of her gravy with the bread, and looked around the table. Next to Aris was a heavy-set redheaded man in a blue tunic, munching away steadily. Next to him, on the end, was a tall, slender—Paks stopped, and stared.
The elf looked up, and smiled at her. “I did not hear your name, lady—will you share it?” The voice held that strange music that all elves’ voices shared, a hint of harpstrings or bells.
Paks choked down the last bit of bread. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, sir.”
The cool gray eyes sharpened. “Would you be that Paksenarrion who traveled with one Macenion?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Indeed. It is my pleasure, then, to welcome you—you are welcome to us, as to the Girdsmen. I am one of the embassy from the Westforest elves to Fin Panir; my elven name would be difficult for you to say, but you can call me Ardhiel.”
Paks realized that Aris was staring at her, openmouthed. He hissed at her. “Paksenarrion! The elf spoke to you? He’s never said anything to me!”
Silvery laughter fell around them; the elf’s eyes sparkled. “I do not know your name, young sir—and what would I speak with you about?”
Now the man beside Aris was also alert, listening.
Aris changed color. “I—sir, I—I only meant that—that I thought elves didn’t talk to—”
“To students, rarely. We fear it might distract you from your own affairs—and your affairs, young sir, are not mine.”
“But I—but she—but my father is Duke Marrakai!”
“Oh—you are the Kirgan?”
“No, sir. I’m the fourth son; the Kirgan is my brother Juris.” The elf waved his hand, dismissing.
“Whatever, young Marrakai—your father’s affairs might march with mine, but yours—no. I mean you no discourtesy, but—”
“I’m not a child!” insisted the boy. Paks had to admit he seemed childish even to her; the elf’s face expressed nothing, but she could feel his withdrawal.
“No? For me, young Marrakai, all in this room are but a summer’s memory. If you would be comfortable with elves, you must admit this. I have known your family for more generations than you have lived in your House.” Aris flushed, and set his jaw stubbornly. When his friend across the table whispered, he rose to go, looking pointedly at Paks.
“The Training Master said I was to show you where to go.”
“Yes—thank you, Aris, I’ll be right there.” She looked back at the elf, whose eyes seemed for a moment sad. “Sir, I thank you.”
“Lady Paksenarrion, it is nothing. I hope to see more of you hereafter.”
20
In the next few days, Paks felt that her mind and body both were battered and confused. Her instructors were forthright with both praise and criticism; other students accepted her presence without comment, but tested her skills relentlessly. Yet they tested each other just as freely, and seemingly held no rancor. She found it somewhat like being a recruit at the Duke’s Stronghold, with the many hours of required drill. Yet out of class and drill there was no regimentation, no barracks chores. Clean clothes appeared in her room each day, and the room itself was cleaned while she was out. Someone else maintained the jacks and the bath house; someone else groomed the horses and polished tack. She began to wonder if this was the way the nobles lived, playing at war with weapons drill, but with someone else doing the dirty work. She had to admit she liked it.
Once she knew where everything was, and which place to go when, she began to enjoy it as she had never enjoyed anything else. Most of the students cared as much about weaponry and tactics as she did. They sat up late, arguing problems assigned by the instructors: where should a cohort of archers be set, or which order of march was best in heavy forest. At first Paks was shy of speaking up to Marshals and High Marshals, but silence was no protection: they would ask her. For Marshals in Aarenis had brought reports of the last season’s fighting to Fin Panir, and the problems set were those she had fought through.
It started with an analysis, in a discussion of supply, of the march from Foss Council territory to Andressat. “Assuming a march of five days,” Marshal Tigran said, “what would you need to supply a cohort of a hundred soldiers?” Paks tried to remember if it had indeed been five days. When the others had answered, and she was called on, she simply remembered how many mules they’d used, and blessed Stammel for insisting that she learn how to divide everything by three.
“Mules?” asked Tigran, and someone laughed. He frowned at them. Paks shook her head.
“To carry the supplies, Marshal.”
“Aha! That was going to be my next question—how to transport it.” Somehow Paks was getting credit for a right answer she had never actually given. But the next one she earned on her own. “Then,” he went on, “how do you figure the extra transport for the supply taken up by transport?”
Paks knew that, from Stammel’s many tirades on the subject. One Tir-damned mule in four, he’d muttered, just to make sure the beasts have enough for themselves. Tigran looked at her with respect, as did the rest of the class. When he found she knew how long fresh mutton or beef could travel in different seasons, and how long it took to grind the grain for a cohort’s bread ration, he grinned, and turned to the other students. “This is the value of practical knowledge,” he said. “Some of you know in theory, and the rest of you are learning, but here’s a soldier who has been in the field, and knows what the ration tastes like.”
“Can you tell us if it’s true what Marshal Tigran says, about not being able to fight without supply even for one day? I still think brave troops could do without—not for long, maybe, but for a day or so.” That was Con, more interested than aggressive. Tigran nodded to Paks, and she thought back to the various campaigns, and the day of the ambush in the forest near the Immer.