“Well . . . it’s like food. If I have it, I share it; if they eat it, it’s nourishing. It doesn’t matter who gave the bread and who gave the salt, so long as the bowl’s full.”
Rahi chuckled. “Peasant wisdom, lady.”
The Rosemage pretended to stumble. “You’re calling me lady?”
Rahi shrugged; Aris thought she was embarrassed. “I can’t remember your real name.”
“I quit using it, it meant something noble in our language I never lived up to.” From the tone, she had never said that to anyone before. Rahi nodded slowly.
“And my name meant ‘fruitful vine’—so I perhaps have no right to it.”
“Rosemage,” said Aris, trying to head off emotions he did not understand, “is a difficult sort of name to use—I mean in talking to you.”
“You’re right, it is. It’s actually Luap’s nickname for me, a nickname of a nickname.” Aris noticed that the others looked as confused as he felt; she sighed and explained. “Your father knew this, Rahi, but I don’t know if you did. The old king of Tsaia, the one I killed, had called me ‘Autumn Rose’ in a sort of jest. A bitter jest to me, for I loved him. When I killed him, I felt I had killed my old self, with its unsuitable name, as well, and I told Gird I would henceforth be the Autumn Rose in truth. Luap turned that to Rose Magelady, and then Rosemage. As you say, it’s more a name of reference than one of address. Arranha told me I was being silly, and now I agree—but it’s too late to change back.”
“Never mind,” said Rahi. “I can call you lady as the others do, without it hurting my mouth. I still have some questions for young Seri.”
“Yes?” Seri, like Rahi herself, had seemed less interested in the Rosemage’s explanation than Aris.
“You may be right to have the senior Marshals set out the plan themselves, but I’d like to know how you would have done it. Perhaps some of your details need to be included—and I’m a senior Marshal; I could see that they are.”
“Oh.” Seri paused a moment; Aris could almost see the thoughts in her head, busy and humming like a hive of bees at work. “Well, it seemed to me that we needed Marshals capable of leading out a grange against small problems, like wolfpacks or robbers. And then we needed Marshals, or perhaps High Marshals, who could lead groups of granges against invaders. I know it’s peaceful now, but it was peaceful before the mageborn came—excuse me, lady—”
“No need,” the Rosemage said.
“—And even though Gird won the war with ill-trained troops, and no cavalry,” Seri went on, “it would be easier—it would cost less blood—to have better training and maybe some horse soldiers.”
“Knights,” said the Rosemage.
“Not too many,” Seri said. “Mostly it should be yeomen, as it is now, but there should be a few whose parrion—guild?—it is to learn how to engage in wars, so that we have that knowledge when we need it.”
“You would have the training place here, in Fin Panir?” Seri nodded. Rahi went on. “And you would have the Marshals—let’s stay with that for now—learn what?”
Seri ticked the items off on her fingers. Aris was proud of her, the way she was staying calm when he knew she was bubbling inside. “First, the Marshals must be reliable, honest, hardworking that’s why I said they should have grown up in one grange, and then worked in another. They have to be old enough to become yeoman-marshals first, because you don’t know if they’re going to misuse power until they have some. Marshals shouldn’t be bullies. Then they have to know the Code, and they need to know the Commentaries, too, because the Code’s always changing and it probably always will. Marshals have to get along with everyone in the city—or town—all the merchants, crafters, and farmers. They may not be the strongest, but they have to be skilled in all the weapons our people might use, and they have to be good at teaching them. They have to know something about the mageborn, and about the horsefolk, and anyone else we find, because they have to judge whether there’s been fair dealing.”
When she paused for breath, Aris put in, “And she wouldn’t mind if they were skilled in each craft, and born with every parrion in the world.” Seri flushed red.
“It wouldn’t hurt,” she muttered.
The Rosemage chuckled; Aris thought she looked much younger than usual. “No, it wouldn’t hurt, but how long do you think they could be in such training?”
“If they’re made yeoman-marshal after their first year as senior yeoman,” Seri said, “and then serve four years as yeoman-marshal, they’d be the same age as someone finishing journeyman training in most crafts. Surely a Marshal must have earned the same respect as a master in a craft, and most journeymen spend four to six years before they pass the guild. . . .”
“And in that four years they would have time for law and history and languages as well as military things,” Aris said. “I think—we think—that Marshals should all have knowledge of healing crafts, as well. If they lead yeomen into battle, they should know how to treat wounds and camp sicknesses.”
“So new Marshals would be over twenty-six,” Rahi said. “Even thirty—”
“Weren’t most of Gird’s Marshals, appointed in the war, over thirty?”
“Yes, but that was a special case.” Rahi looked thoughtful; Aris gave Seri a warning glance. Best let Rahi think it out for herself. “I wasn’t close to thirty . . . but then . . .” Aris smiled to himself. He had expected her to see their logic. “You’re saying that all Marshals should have that maturity, as Gird and his first recruits did?”
“Yes, because Marshals aren’t just battle commanders; courage isn’t all they need.” Seri looked back and forth between the two older women. Aris watched them smile at each other, as if at the antics of favorite children.
“I think, Rahi, that these two have more maturity than some gran’thers I’ve seen.” The Rosemage shook her head. “But don’t you two get above yourselves, eh? I heard about the tricks you played when you first came, Seri.”
“I wouldn’t do that now,” Seri said. Aris wondered. She hadn’t meant any harm, and none had followed, but she could no more forswear mischief than he could healing. Tease, prick the pompous, and then hug the hurt away—that was Seri. “And besides, I don’t know enough yet—I want to learn all the things I’m talking about—”
“And be the first truly educated Marshal?” The Rosemage whistled. Seri blushed, and Rahi reached over to tousle her already tousled hair.
“I keep telling myself it’s a new world these younglings live in,” she said. “It’s not like where I grew up, nor you either. But sometimes it does startle me. I presume you know it’s going to be hard, Seri?”
“Of course.” Now she looked affronted “It’s supposed to be hard, or it’s not any good. I’ll be tired, and grumpy, and even scared—”
“And dirty and hungry and hurting, if we do it right,” Rahi said, no humor at all in her voice now. “And you will be scared, I promise you that.”
“And you, Aris—” The Rosemage broke that tense silence. “Do you, too, look toward being a Marshal?”
“I—I don’t know. I want to learn all that Seri does, but—I’d like to spend more time healing, if I could. Teaching it, too.”
“Mmm. It will be interesting. . . .” The Rosemage and Rahi shared a look Aris could not interpret, but turned the talk to other things until day’s end.
Aris licked the grease from roast chicken off his fingers and reached for the bread. Seri pushed the loaf within his reach with her elbow; she was too busy eating her own chicken to free a hand. He tore off a hunk of bread, wiped his fingers, and ate that before saying anything. He had not been this hungry since coming to Fin Panir. Across the little fire, two of the yeomen with them grinned.
“I wonder what gave th’ Marshal th’ notion t’play this game,” said one of them around a mouthful of bread.