“Go on, then. Keri?”
“I’ll take this ring.”
“I like this,” said Volya. She had found a little gold fish, arched as if it were leaping, with a loop formed by the dorsal fin to hold a chain.
Jenits held out his left hand, with a heavy gold ring set with onyx on the first finger. “I cheated,” he said. “I took my favorite out first.” They laughed and went on choosing. When they’d finished, Jenits folded the square of silk and tucked it into his tunic. “I feel much safer how,” he said. “I was afraid I’d have a greedy fit, and you’ve done all the fighting. By the way, Paks—”
“Hmm?”
“My arm doesn’t hurt any more—when can I come back to regular duty?”
“What did the surgeons tell you?”
“Oh—well—six weeks altogether. But it’s been three, and it doesn’t hurt. I don’t want to miss Sibili, and I feel well enough. I thought you could say something to the sergeants.”
Paks looked up from Volya’s sword and shook her head. “Jenits, it’s up to the surgeons. You won’t do us any good if you try to fight and it’s not healed. Likely it’d come apart at the first stroke, and you’d be worse off than ever. You can ask the surgeon—”
Jenits scowled. “The last time I asked him, he said to quit pestering. Bones heal at their speed, he said, and not for wishing.”
“That sounds like Master Simmitt. He’s the sharp-tongued one. You won’t miss Sibili anyway. We’re all marching—”
“But I’ll miss the fighting. And if Siniava’s there—”
“You wouldn’t have a chance at him anyway. You’ll see enough fighting, if you stay whole.”
“I hope so. To break an arm, my very first—” Jenits broke off as Stammel came up; he squatted beside them with a sigh.
“Well, Jenits, is your arm holding up?”
“Yes, sir. I was just wondering—”
“No, you can’t fight with us at Sibili. Not unless we’re longer taking that city than I expect. Paks, the Duke’s enrolled a few men from Cha—Andressat’s faction, of course—and we’ll have six of ’em in our cohort. You’ve gotten these well broken in. I’d like you to take on one of the new men.”
Paks thought of several questions, but when she met Stammel’s brown eyes she was guided by their wary expression. “Yes, sir. When?”
“Now.” Paks rose when he did, and left the rest where they were. When they were out of earshot, Stammel had more to say. “This is new, Paks, taking new men during a campaign. The captain said it’s because he wants us at full strength. I suppose that means he’ll be recruiting all season. These men, now—the Count vouched for them, and they look like fighters, but of course we don’t know anything about them. If you start having doubts, let me know at once.” He shot her a hard glance, and waited until she nodded. “Another thing—down here they don’t have many women fighters. You heard what the Count said. Well, I thought if we take these men, they’ll have to get used to our ways. That’s one reason I wanted you to help. Clear enough?”
Paks nodded, though she still felt confused. It was hard to imagine strangers—outsiders—southerners as part of the Company. But she could see that Stammel had no answers, and possibly even more questions, so she asked nothing. He sighed again and led her to a group of about twenty men standing with the captains. Three of them had mail shirts, and four had bronze breastplates. The rest wore leather armor. They were all muscular and looked fit enough. Several of Paks’s friends stood nearby: Barra, Vik, and Arñe. Vik raised his expressive eyebrow but said nothing. Stammel turned away, and came back in a few minutes with three more of Paks’s cohort. He spoke to Arcolin, who pointed out six of the strangers. They followed Stammel.
“Paks, this is Halek,” Stammel said. Halek was several fingers shorter than Paks, with sandy hair and mustache, and pale eyes. Stammel went on. “Halek, she’ll show you where to eat and sleep, and what you’re expected to do—”
“She?” Halek’s tone was derisive. Paks felt a prickle of anger. “What do you think I am, some little boy to take orders from a nursemaid?” Paks clamped her jaw shut. Stammel gave the man a cold stare.
“Either you follow orders, Halek, or you go explain to the captain that you don’t want to join us—and why.” The man opened his mouth, but Stammel gave him no chance to speak. “No argument. Obey, or leave.”
Halek glanced sideways at Paks and flushed. “Yes—sir.”
“Come along,” said Paks, and walked off without looking at him. She felt his resistance, then a slackening as he gave in and followed her. She was glad she was taller. When they had walked some strides she spoke over her shoulder.
“Our cohort—Arcolin’s our captain—is loading today. When did you eat last?”
“This morning. Early.” He sounded grumpy.
“Then we’ll eat now.” Paks angled toward the cooks’ tent. “What weapons do you use?”
“Sword,” he said. “Not like yours—longer, and not so wide. Or the curved blade Siniava’s men carry.”
“Are you used to formation fighting? Can you use polearms?”
“No. Where would I learn that? The only organized units around here are Siniava’s, and I wouldn’t fight for that.” The man spat, then lengthened his stride to come up with her. “Listen—are you really a soldier, not a cook or something?”
Paks glared down at him and he reddened. “Yes, I’m a soldier—as you’ll find out soon enough. More of one than you, I daresay, if all you’ve done is play around with a dueller’s weapon. I hope you can learn formation fighting, or you won’t be any use to us at all.”
“Your tongue’s sharp, anyway,” he said.
“You can test my blade later,” said Paks. She led Halek through the serving line, then to a loading crew. He was strong and willing to work; Paks tried to think better of him. By midafternoon the loading was done; they went in search of the armsmasters. Siger was already working with two of the other newcomers, these assigned to Dorrin’s cohort. A number of the Duke’s men stood around watching. It was always a treat to see the wizened little armsmaster drive a much bigger opponent around the practice ring. Finally he called a halt, and the two men, puffing and sweating, moved out of the ring.
“Not enough marching,” grumbled Siger to their backs. “More wind’s what you want, and then an old man like me couldn’t make you lose breath.” He turned to the circle of watchers. “Enjoying yourselves, eh? Well, you all need a workout. Suppose you, there—and you—” he pointed, “get busy with swords, and you four with pikes—” The crowds melted away. Paks and the others with new men stayed. “Ah yes,” said Siger when he saw them. “What have we here? Let’s see your paces.” He beckoned to Halek, who stepped into the ring. “Sword?” asked Siger. “Polearms?”
“Sword,” said Halek. “But not that short one. I’ve used a longer one, or the curved—”
Siger grinned at him. “You’ll learn. That’s what I’m for, and Paks will teach you a lot.” He handed Halek a blade. “Now—are you used to a shield?”
“I’ve used one.”
“We’ll start without. Go slowly until you get used to the length.” They crossed blades and Siger began his usual commentary. “Hmm. I see you’ve done more fencing than military—that stroke won’t work with this blade. You don’t have the length. No, and you can’t dance about like that in formation, either.” He tapped Halek’s ribs when an opening came. “When you don’t have a shield, your blade must do its work. A little faster now—yes.” The clatter of blades speeded up. “No, you’re still jigging around too much. Stop now—” As Halek lowered his blade, Siger looked around and motioned to Paks and several others. “Form a line with him,” he said. “Paks, come over here and take my shield side. Now—what’s your name?”