The Legacy of Gird (27 page)

After the afternoon's stick drill, Ivis lingered when the others dispersed to their assigned groups. "Your daughter—" he said, his eyes down.

"Yes." Gird bit it off. He was going to have to talk about it, without having solved it, and it could do nothing but harm.

"You told us."

"Yes." He'd forgotten that, by this time. He looked at Ivis, who was staring past his shoulder. Gird resisted the temptation to look around—was Ivis looking at Rahi?

"She's a lot like you," Ivis said.

"She's—what?"

"Like you. Gets things done. Strong—more than one way."

Gird grunted. He could see where this was leading, and he didn't like it. Had Rahi been talking to them behind his back?

"She hasn't said anything, but we couldn't help hearing a little . . ."

Gird squinted up at the bright sky showing between the leaves, and asked himself why Mali hadn't had all boys. Life would have been a lot simpler. "She wants to stay; you all know that. She can't. She's stubborn, like her mother."
And me,
his mind insisted silently. "Stubborn on both sides," he admitted aloud. "But it's impossible."

Ivis dug a toe into the dirt and made a line. "She's not like most women."

Gird snorted. "She's like all women. Wants her way, and expects to get it. But with Rahi, it's even more so. Her next older brothers died, in a plague. That may have been it, though Mali—my wife—she was a strongminded woman too." As if she were alive again, he heard her voice in his ear, as she had warned him that first night at the gathering.
I
will not guard my tongue for any man,
she'd said, and she'd kept that vow. Along with all the others. And had taught Rahi the same, if teaching had anything to do with what was born in the blood. He could feel his own blood contending. If only Rahi had been his son—but then it might have been Rahi dead, and his (her?) wife left. Gird shook his head. That was too complicated; what he had was complicated enough. How could the men respect a leader who couldn't make his daughter obey?

"We think she's earned it—if she can, if she's strong enough—"

"Strong enough! Of course she's strong enough; that's not the point."

Ivis cleared his throat noisily. "Gird—it
is
the point. To us, anyway. You've worried about some of the men here having the strength to lead, or the courage when it comes to a real fight. She's—she's your daughter, and we know what happened. She should be here."

Gird stared at him. "You think that? But if I let her—what about others?"

Ivis cleared his throat again. "The—the one thing I did hear her say, to Pidi, was that women could train at home too. In the bartons."

In the bartons I don't have yet, Gird thought furiously. In the bartons that are safe—if they are safe—only because the men always gather in the bartons. Again a memory of Mali forced itself into his consciousness, the day of their wedding when she had faced the ridiculous ceremonies with no embarrassment whatever. Were women really just humoring men with all that squealing and shyness? Could they—he had no doubts about Rahi, who could probably ride wild horses if the chance occurred—could
other women
really learn to fight, use weapons,
kill
—alongside men?

Ivis was watching his face with a wary expression. "She said I shouldn't say anything to you," he said.

Gird glared at him. "I thought you said you hadn't talked to her!"

"I haven't. I would have, but she wouldn't. Said it was up to you and her to work out, and I should stay out of it."

"Giving you orders, eh?" For some reason that amused him; he could feel Rahi's resentment of someone's interference, her fierce determination to convince Gird by herself.

Ivis grinned, catching the change in Gird's mood. "You notice I didn't obey."

"So how many of them agree with you?"

Ivis relaxed still more. "I didn't talk to all, but all I asked agreed that they would let her stay."

Gird muttered one of the old guards' curses he hadn't used in years; Ivis clearly had never heard it and didn't understand. "Go away, then. I want to talk to her." Ivis vanished, as if whisked away by magic. Gird looked around for Rahi. There she was, grinding grain as placidly as any housewife by her hearth. He had a sudden sinking feeling, as if a hole had opened in his chest, and let his heart fall out on the ground. Could he possibly be about to do what he was going to do? He swallowed against the feeling, and called her. She looked up, smiled, and came to him. He noticed that she had, even in that moment, scooped the ground meal into a bowl, and laid another atop it to keep out dirt.

This time he looked her over as if she were a real recruit. Within a finger of his height, broad shouldered, as Mali had been. Thin, from the fever, but with strength in her arms. The scar down her face made her too distinctive to send into a village or town—but she could still see out of both eyes, and had two good arms and legs. He had men with less. She stood there calmly, not arguing. Not intending to change her mind, either; he could feel the force of that determination as if it were heat from a fire.

"I don't think you understand," he said without preamble, "how hard it is for me. I've already seen you lying at my feet in a pool of blood. I don't think I can stand seeing that again."

Her face paled. "You don't understand how hard it is for me," she said. "I
lost
that blood, lost my husband, lost my child, and could not strike even one good blow to stop it. I
know
I cannot stand that—I will not be that helpless again. Not ever. Either you teach me, or—I don't know, but I'll learn somehow."

"And die somewhere I never know," Gird sighed, near tears again. "And that will be my fault, as it was my fault for not protecting you before. You give me a hard choice, Rahi." She opened her mouth, but he shook his head. "You would say, as your mother said often enough, that it is a world of hard choices. All right. I give in, on this one thing. But if this kills you, Rahi, make sure it is not because you failed to learn what I could teach."

If she felt triumph, she did not show it. Only in the corner of her eye, the little wrinkle twitched, whether from surprise or delight, he could not tell, and would not ask.

"And you were right," he went on, "to call me 'Gird' when you first came. If you would be a soldier, then it is for that you are here, and not as my daughter."

She nodded, gravely. "Yes, Gird."

"And if you—if you need—" Now her eyes crinkled in what could only be laughter. Gird glared at her. "Dammit—!"

"Gird, if I cannot stay as a soldier, for some reason, I will tell you at once, and go. But it is not likely, even without what I know of herbs: the healer said so."

His arms ached to hold her, comfort her, restore to her the promises of her childhood—the promises all children should have. But it was too late for that. She looked content with what life had left her; he had no choice now himself. Her future was no more doubtful than his—and, he thought sourly, the only doubt was
when
they'd be strung on the spikes, not if.

But when she returned to grinding, and he saw by the glances passed around the campsite that everyone understood, and accepted his decision (he could not believe many of them actually approved) he was able to return to planning with a lighter heart. If he could establish training in the villages, bartons full of trained men—his mind put other women in that picture, and he hastily blanked them out—in time they would outnumber the lords and their guards. Would any of the guards come over? They had come from peasant ranks. If they saw their friends and family actually fighting, would that make a difference? He let himself imagine a series of battles in which the peasants stood their ground, in drill array, using their sticks and shovels, pushing back the guard and then the lords themselves. Of course, he still didn't know whether the sticks would work as he saw them in his head.

He sighed. Time to start the next level of training. He had in mind straw-stuffed dummies tied onto logs, to simulate horsemen. It would help if he'd ever actually ridden a horse, and knew in his own body how firmly a horseman could sit. He'd seen men bucked off—he remembered trying to ride calves—but that was not like a soldier on horseback firmly in the saddle. Still, it ought to work. If they could unseat horsemen, they could ambush mounted patrols. Even more important, if they could unseat horsemen—even one horseman—even a straw dummy tied to a log—it might convince the farmers in their villages that it was worthwhile spending all those hours learning to drill and use a stick.

Making the straw dummy was quick work, in the hot days of tall grass and long afternoons. Cob suggested weighting the body with rocks; Triga had the even better suggestion of seating a real person on the log, and pulling him off slowly—to see how a person felt—and then making the dummy feel the same. That turned into several days of experiment, with one after another trying to keep his seat on the log with friends pushing and pulling from one or both sides. Gird took a turn, wondering if it felt anything like riding a real horse, or if it could be a way to learn. It was easy to wrap his long legs around the log and hang on, but hard to keep his balance when someone yanked his arm. After his second fall, he watched Ivis on the log.

"We don't need the straw dummy," he said, "As long as we pad the ends of our sticks, and remember that this one is a friend. Whoever's up can tell us which moves are hardest to counter."

The rider—Ivis, then others—was equipped with a reed "sword" and laid about vigorously to simulate resistance. Slowly at first, then with increasing confidence and speed, they all learned where to strike a rider to throw him off balance. The game became so popular that Gird had to remind them that there were other ways—and enemies—to fight, or they would have spent all their time knocking one another off logs.

Rahi, in the meantime, had merged almost invisibly into the troop. Gird was acutely aware of her presence for the first few days; then he went off to the other camp, and when he returned it was as if she had always been there—but as a soldier, not his daughter. She did not avoid him, exactly, but she did not spend her free time with Pidi, or with Gird, and even seemed to steer clear of Fori. She had her place in drill, and made no more than the usual beginner's mistakes. As he would have expected, she learned fast. Gird waited for something to go wrong, but nothing did.

It was now nearing harvest. After harvest the field-fee collectors would be out; Gird wanted to introduce his barton idea to at least a few villages before then. For that he needed seasoned older men, men the farmers might trust as similar to themselves. They had to be proficient in the drill (although he didn't expect them to teach the farmers much in the short time until harvest—but they had to impress them.) And—perhaps most important—they had to be reliably close-mouthed. He himself would go, of course. Ivis had developed into a trusted lieutenant, as had Cob. Diamod was known in five or six villages as a Stone Circle organizer. Felis, who might have been another possibility, had broken his wrist on his last "ride" as a target, and would not be fit until after harvest.

After long discussions, Gird chose four villages to test his idea: Fireoak, Harrow (where Felis's group had supporters), Whitetree, where Ivis's brother lived, and Hardshallows. Cob and a man from Felis's group went to Harrow, Ivis to his brother, Gird to Fireoak, and Diamod to Hardshallows. They were to spend no more than two nights in the village, and talk to no more than five men.

Coming into Fireoak on a late summer day, as an active rebel organizer, was very different from leaving it as a fugitive who had only the ghost of an idea for rebellion. The two of them joined a stream of workers coming in from the fields: harvest markers, who went into the fields before harvest to make sure the boundary stones didn't roll an armspan one way or the other—herders prodding slow-moving cows toward home and milking time. Gird flared his nostrils, enjoying the scent of cow. He had never understood those who thought cows stank. Pigs stank; dogs stank; even people—but cows had a rich, joyful scent, as befitted animals who lived on fresh grass and herbs. Their droppings had never disgusted him. Someone—he could not right then remember who—had told him once that a man should keep only those animals whose smells were pleasant to him.

The Fireoak farmers and herdsmen knew perfectly well the two were outlanders, but they knew Diamod and had heard of Gird.

They sauntered down the lane, dusty and brown as the farmers with them, and no one spoke to them. Slow, traditional talk rolled by: harvest chances, taxes, a remedy for stiff ankles followed by a joke about the cause, comments on cows and weather and the uncommon number of rabbits that summer—a joke directed at Gird, which he well understood and knew better than to answer.

"Pop up and down everywhere, they do," someone said a second time, to see if he would rise to the bait. "Got so common, we might think they's people."

Then the village, with its familiar cottages, the wattle fences between smallgardens, the walls of bartons rising behind. It was at once strange and the same: so like his own village, and yet not his village—and his village was not his village. Gird sniffed: bread, cheese, the vegetables they had not yet planted for the camps, ale somewhere—his mouth watered. Children wandered about, too thin but not yet starving, noticing the strangers but warned away from saying anything by quick gestures from their elders.

He would have passed Mali's brother's cottage, if Diamod had not jabbed him in the ribs. It looked different by daylight, from the front. He remembered Rahi's harsh feverish breathing in the barton out back, the gray light of dawn when he'd eased out the gate into the field beyond. Now he saw a low fence enclosing a ragged smallgarden, the beaten path to the front door. And in the door, a thin girl, yellowhaired, who held one crooked arm as if it pained her. Her face whitened, and she ducked inside. Gird turned to see Diamod wink before he walked on.

Gird came to the door, stepped out of his boots, and said "Girnis?"