The Deed of Paksenarrion (22 page)

“Can—can you play, as well as make, them?”

His bushy eyebrows rose. “Of course, girl—how else would I know if I’d made them well? Listen—” He unfolded himself from the workbench, lifted the harp, and ran his hands along the strings. Paks had never heard that music before, but shivers ran up her spine.

“Do you know ‘Torre’s Ride’?” asked Arñe, nudging Paks forward.

“Certainly—three versions. Where are you from?”

“From the north—from Tsaia.”

“Hmm.” He paused to adjust a tuning peg. Then the thrilling sound rang out, one of the few songs Paks had learned before leaving home. She found herself humming along; Arñe was murmuring the words, as was Coben. The instrument maker finished a verse with a flourish. “There you are. But are any of you players?”

Paks could have listened all afternoon. She shook her head, and Arñe said “No, sir,” and he went back to his bench, shaping a little piece of wood with a small chisel. Paks wondered which instrument it was for, and where it would fit, but was too shy to ask. They left that shop and moved on.

She found the surprise for Saben several shops down. Here were trays of religious symbols, carved of the appropriate stone or metal. Most she did not know. The crescent and cudgel of Gird were familiar, and the Holy Circle, and the wheatsheaf of the Lady of Peace. The sword of Tir was there, both plain and cleverly set with a tiny jewel in the pommel. But whose was the leaping fish, or the tree, or the arch of tiny stars? She looked at tiny golden apples, at green leaves, at anvils, hammers, spears, fox or wolf heads, little human figures clothed in flowers (swirling hair made the loop for hanging). Here was the antlered figure of Guthlac, and the double-faced head of Simyits, a harp for Garin, the patron of harpers, and shears for Dort, the patron of sheepshearers and all in the wool trade. Then she saw the little red stone horse, and remembered Saben’s words that day in the stronghold. She looked up and found the shopkeeper watching her. She glanced around; Saben was in the next shop, pricing combs for his sisters.

“How much?” she asked. And, “Will it break easily?”

He shook his head. “Not these symbols, lady. And they have all been blessed, by the cleric for each one. They’ll bring luck and blessings to those who wear them.” Paks doubted this, but didn’t argue.

“How much?” she asked again.

“The little horse? The symbol of Senneth, the horse-lord, and Arvoni the patron of horsemen?” Paks nodded. “Five nitis.” She was startled and her face must have shown it. He said smoothly, “But for you, lady—you will need luck—for you, I will say four nitis, and two serfs.” Paks had never bargained herself, though she had heard her mother and father.

“I cannot spare so much,” she said, and looked away, shifting her feet. She sighed. She wanted that horse for Saben, but four nitis—that was four meals like lunch. And she wanted other things, too.

“Three nitis, two nis,” he said. “I can’t do more than that—” Abruptly Paks decided to buy it. She fumbled in her pouch for the silver.

When she came out, with the horse safely stowed in her pouch, Saben was still looking at combs; Arñe and Coben were rummaging through a pile of copper pots on the pavement. She ducked into the shop with Saben.

“I can’t decide,” he said, turning to her. “Suli likes flowers, so that’s easy—this one—” The comb had a wreath of flowers along the spine. “But for Rahel and Maia, do you think the birds, or the fish, or the fern?” Paks thought the fern was the prettiest, and liked the leaping fish better than an angry-looking bird. He paid for the combs and they walked out. They saw fruit stalls beyond the piles of pots. Early berries, early peaches—they squandered coppers on the fruit, and walked on with sticky fingers. Coben cocked an eye at the sky.

“We’d better be going,” he reminded them. They turned back across the square. Paks went to the spicebread stall again, and bought a stack it took both hands to carry. They munched spicebread most of the way back to camp.

As they were going to their posts for duty, Paks gave Saben the little horse. “I remembered you lost your bit of hoof,” she said. “I couldn’t find a hoof, but maybe the whole horse will do.”

He flushed. “It’s—it will do well, Paks. Thank you. Was it from the shop next to the comb place?”

“Yes.”

“I looked at it, but didn’t buy it—you shouldn’t have spent so much—”

“Well—” This time Paks blushed. “I didn’t—I mean I—umm—”

Saben laughed. “You, too? I bargained myself, but I couldn’t get him to go lower than three nitis.”

“Three!” Paks gasped and began to laugh helplessly.

“What? What did you get it for?” She shook her head, laughing even harder. A veteran walking by stared at her. Finally she stopped, sides aching. Saben was still watching her, puzzled.

“You should have—” she began, and started laughing again. “Oh, I can’t! It hurts—you should have got it yourself—you’re the better bargainer—”

“You mean you paid more than that?”

“Not much,” she said, still laughing. “As—as a fighter I may be good, but at market—”

“Well, the man tried to tell me it was bad luck to bargain over a holy symbol, so maybe it will be better luck this way.” Saben grinned. “Tell you what, Paks—the next time you want something, I’ll bargain for you.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“And by the way,” he went on, taking a comb from his pouch. “This one’s really for you—the ferny one.”

Two months later, as Paks leaned against the wall of the courtyard in a border fort south of Kodaly, she felt well content with her position.

“I agree,” said Saben, who was mending a tear in his cloak while she sharpened her weapons, “that it’s easier than farming. I’ve no desire to go back to mucking out barns. But don’t forget your first battle just because it’s gone so well since.”

“I know. That could have ended it—like Effa. But that’s the chance we take, as fighters. I wish we could see other good companies too. See how they do things, how they fight. We never can see anything but what’s in front of us. It’s hard to keep the idea of what we’re doing—I mean as a whole—in all that confusion.”

Saben shrugged. “I just go for what’s in front of me. It makes sense when Stammel shows us with sticks and things, but I can’t see it with real people. You can’t tell what they’ll do. All we can do is follow commands.”

“But those who give the commands have to know what they’re doing,” said Paks.

“We’re a long way from that,” said Saben dryly. “Or are you planning to leave and start your own company?”

Paks stopped a moment, and squinted up at the sky. “No. Or—I don’t know. I can’t say. No, I suppose not—it’s a silly thought. I just—just keep thinking about it. I can’t stop. Why the captains put us there, or why their commander never used his archers on the flank, like the Duke did. That was stupid, Saben, that last time. They had the archers, but they held them back where they couldn’t see. If they’d been in that wood on the right—”

“I’m glad their commander didn’t think of it.” Saben looked at his mending and tugged the cloth to test it. “Ah. One more chore done. Are you nearly finished?”

“Sword’s done. I notched the dagger yesterday.”

“I told you you’d honed it too fine. We’re on in less than a glass.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I just want to smooth this—one—spot. No, I’ll tell you, Saben, what I’d like. I’d like to make sergeant someday. Years away, I know, and only six in the Company, but—I’d like that.”

“Well, if you don’t lose an arm or leg somewhere, or get killed outright, you ought to do it. You don’t get drunk, or lose things, or brawl, or cause any sort of trouble. And you fight well. Now me—”

“Saben, you’re as good as I am. Better, even—”

He shook his head. “No, and you know it.
I
wasn’t practicing all morning. I do what I’m told, but I don’t care enough to learn every weapon in sight and practice every spare minute. You do.”

“You don’t need much practice; you’re already quicker.” Paks took a last stroke with her whetstone, wiped the dagger blade carefully with a scrap of soft hareskin, and sheathed it.

“Maybe. I used to be faster than you—but you’ve gotten better. The thing is, I’ve got what I want. A life I like, good friends, enough pay for the extras I want. The only other thing would be—” he slid a glance at Paks. When she met his eyes, she reddened and looked down.

“Saben, you know I—”

“You don’t want it. I know. Not from me or anyone. Well, I’m not asking: just if you did ever change. If it was just Korryn, I mean.”

Paks ducked her head lower and stared at the ground. “No. Even before. I just don’t feel that way.”

He sighed. “I’m glad it wasn’t Korryn. Don’t worry; I won’t bother you.”

She looked up. “You never have.”

“Good. I still want to be friends. Besides that, you are—Paks if you ever did have a company, you would be a good commander. I would follow you. I don’t think you’ll stop at sergeant, if you want more.”

Paks blushed, then grinned sheepishly. “Even a warhorse?”

Saben nodded. “Lady Paksenarrion, in shining armor on a great war-horse, with a magic sword—don’t laugh at me, companion! Here I’m giving you a good-luck prophecy and you laugh at me. Ha! See if I ever warn you about overhoning your blades again.”

“No, but really, Saben—a sheepfarmer’s daughter? That’s ridiculous!” But her eyes danced to think of it.

“So laugh. Would you rather a bad-luck prophecy? Let’s see—”

“No! Don’t ill-wish! Let’s go; I’ve got to get ready for guard.”

The fort’s wall, high above the village, was quiet in the late afternoon. Paks and Saben reported to the sergeant, an Ifoss militiaman, and took their station. West of the fort lay the hay meadows, striped with light and dark green as the second cutting dried in swathes. They walked back and forth, watching the road and tracks that converged on the fort, and looking along the rooftops and lanes below. The sun dropped, touching the woodland beyond the hay meadows.

“Good weather—it’s nice up here when it’s dry,” said Paks.

“Better this watch than the day, though. It’s been hot. I wonder how long we’ll be here.”

“I hadn’t thought. Do you think the Duke will get another contract this year?”

“Mmm. While you were working out this morning—”

“Go on, Saben.”

“A courier came in—from the northwest. Could be Valdaire. Anyway, he went straight to the captain’s chambers, Cully said.”

“Wonder what that’s about. Valdaire.”

“Or anything in between. Maybe one of the others has found where that wolf whatever is.”

“There’s a fight I’d like to be in.”

“And I.”

They turned at the corner tower and headed south again along the wall. A cool breeze had come with the falling sun; it brought the scent of hay. Paks stretched. “Umph. I’ve got a kink in my shoulder.”

“What from, this morning?”

“Yes. Hofrin had us working on unarmed combat, and I thought he’d tear my arm loose at the shoulder. Somehow I can’t get the hang of it. Either I don’t turn the right way, or not fast enough—but I keep ending up on the ground.”

“Best stick to sword fighting, then.”

“I’d rather, really. But Hofrin says—”

“I know what Hofrin says. Everyone should learn every conceivable weapon and unarmed combat, in case you lose your axe, sword, dagger, pike, spear, mace, bow, crossbow—”

Paks chuckled. “It’s not that bad. And I enjoy it—or will, when I’m not spending all my time in the air or on the ground.”

“I think,” said Saben tentatively, “—what I saw when I watched you for awhile, is that you are too direct. You go straight in, just charging ahead, and then—”

“Land in the dust again. You’re right; that’s what he says, too. I keep telling myself, but when I get excited—bam, there I go. Today, at least, I made it through a few minutes of practice without doing that. Maybe I’ll learn.”

“I expect so. When—” Saben broke off as they heard a shout from the north wall. By the time the other guards had manned the walls, a trumpet call rang out. Duke Phelan had come; but even at watch-change, later that night, no one knew why. More than a day later Bosk finally explained.

“Ours wasn’t the only bunch of wounded hit,” he said. “Reim Company—they’re small—lost a wagonful, and the guards for it. A trade caravan was hit, in spite of heavy guard. Golden Company lost some, and they even struck at the Halverics’s camp—stupid of them, whoever they are. Anyway, several mercenary companies have each pledged a unit to go hunting, and—”

“We’re going!” cried Coben.

“No. We’re not.” Over the general groan, he said, “The Duke wanted archers. He’s taking Cracolnya’s cohort, and some of Dorrin’s. The rest of us will spread thinner to cover these forts. Half of us will move to the next, where Dorrin’s half has been.”

Paks, to her disgust, was one of those staying. “Nothing’s happened here so far,” she grumbled to Saben. “And I’ll bet nothing happens now. We’ll stay and walk back and forth on the walls while nothing happens, and they get to go find the Wolf Prince or whoever he is, and do some fighting.”

He nodded. “At least Coben and those get to go to another fort, and see something new. But I doubt they’ll see any fighting there, either.”

Both were wrong. In the weeks that they held the line of forts, brigands tried to strike at the villages they guarded and rob the harvest. Every garrison had at least one good fight, and most had more. When the cohort reunited, before the march back to Valdaire and winter quarters, Paks learned that two more of her recruit unit had been killed: Coben, who had been a friend since her first day as a recruit, and Suli, a cheerful brown-haired girl who was Arñe’s friend. Eight of them, altogether, had died in their first year of fighting.

“If we lose this many every year,” said Paks solemnly, “we’ll all be gone in a few years.”

“The—the veterans don’t lose so many,” said Arñe. Her face was still marked with tears.

“We aren’t as good,” commented Vik. “We’ve all made mistakes this year. If we live, we’ll learn better.”

“But it’s not the worst ones who get killed. Not all of them. Coben was good—and so was Effa, and Suli.” Paks felt a restless anger, and forgot how annoying Effa had been. “It’s not fair.”