Paks managed to meet her eyes steadily, though she felt as frightened and helpless as she had when a new recruit. She said nothing for some time, wondering what if anything she could say. At last she looked away and shook her head rueftilly.

"I don't know, my lady, what I could say to convince you. For me, I have been trained as a warrior, not to argue. I think perhaps you feel what I felt in Brewersbridge -there was a young girl there, who wanted to join me, and be a squire to me. I knew I didn't know enough to be her-her commander, or whatever, but also-I used to think she only wanted the glory she could see. To wear a sword like mine, to have a scar to show, perhaps-but she didn't know what it cost, what lay behind it. I tried to tell ! ::.

her, tried to get her to join a regular company, as I had-"

"And did she?" The Marshal-General s voice was still remote.

Paks shook her head. "Not as far as I know. I tried-but she wanted adventure, she said. It would be too dull, she didn't tike people yelling at her; she said she could get enough of that in Brewersbridge." Paks stopped before saying, "She had a very bad father, my lady."

"You ran away from yours."

"Oh, well ... he wasn't like that. But I see what you mean-you think 1 want to-to make a name for myself, from the fame of your Company. That would be wrong. You're right. But-I can't swear to follow Gird until I know-until I'm sure of myself-that I can do it."

"That's coming out differently than what you said before. Then you didn't seem to trust Gird."

Paks floundered, unable to define what she meant. "I don't-I mean, I don't know Gird, but you all say Gird is a saint, and I won't argue. But / don't know Gird-I have known good Girdsmen, but also good warriors following other G.o.ds and saints. How do I know Gird is the one I should follow?"

The Marshal-General's eyebrows went up. "You would not believe the evidence of the medallion?1 Paks set her jaw stubbornly. "I'm not sure. And I won't swear to something I'm not sure of."

To her surprise, the Marshal-General laughed. "Gird be praised, you are at least willing to be honest against the Marshal-General. Child, such stubbornness as yours is nearly proof that Gird claims your destiny-but it may take Gird's cudgel to break a hole in your head to let his light in. The G.o.ds grant you are this stubborn about other things that matter." She sat forward, leaning her forearms on me table between them. "Now, what sort of training did you look for?"

Paks could hardly believe her ears. "You mean-you'll let me stay?"

"Let you! By Gird, I'm not likely to let someone like you wander the world unconvinced without giving my best chance to convert you. Of course youll stay."

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"But if I don't-"

"Paksenarrion, you will stay until either you wish to leave, or you give me cause to send you away. When- notice that I do not say if, being granted almost as much stubbornness as you, by Gird's grace-when you find that you can swear your honor to Gird's fellowship, it will be my pleasure to give and receive your strokes. Is that satisfactory, or have you more conditions for a Marshal-General of Gird, and Captain-Temporal of the High Lord?"

Paks blushed. "No, my lady. I'm sorry, I-"

"Enough. Tell me what you thought to learn."

"Well--everything about war-"

The Marshal-General whooped. "Everything? About war? Gird's grace, Paksenarrion, no one knows that but the High Lord, who sees all beginnings and endings at once." I meant," muttered Paks, ears flaming, "weapons-skills, and things about forts-things the Duke's captains knew about, like tunnels-"

"All right," said the Marshal-General, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I see what you mean. Things about forts. Honestly! No, sorry, I see you're serious. Well, then. I'll a.s.sign you to the training company. Many of diem are younger than you-n.o.bles' youngsters, from Fintha and Tsaia, mostly. They've been someone's squires, and now they're preparing for knighthood. Some have come up through the granges, and have been yeoman-marshal somewhere for three years. You may not know, but all our marshals are trained here, along with the knights. You'll be a.s.signed s.p.a.ce in the courts-we don't have open barracks, for you'll need to study alone. You do read, don't you?" At Paks's nod, she went on, now writing swiftly on a loose sheet of paper. "Weapons practice daily-the senior instructor will a.s.sign the drills once he's examined you. Riding-do you ride? Yes, because Argalt mentioned putting up your horse. You're a few weeks behind one group they arrived just after harvest. That's when we start the new cycles. But we'll see if you can catch up to them." She looked up from her writing. Although she was smiling, it seemed to Paks that she was even more formidable. "What weapons do you have?" she asked.

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"This sword," said Paks, laying her hand on the hilt. "Another one, not so good-"

"That one's magical," said the Marshal-General. "Did you know?"

"Yes, my lady. And a dagger, and a short battle-axe."

"Do you use all of them?"

"No, my lady. Just sword and dagger, and I can use a long-bow, though not well."

"And I see you have mail as well. For the first weeks, though, you will not use your own weapons. The weapons-master will a.s.sign you weapons for training; yours may be stored in your quarters or in the armory, as you prefer."

"Yes, my lady."

"Your clothes-" she glanced at Paks's traveling clothes. "We have training uniforms, but we are not strict, except during drill and cla.s.ses. We discourage display of jewels and such, but you don't look the type to show up in laces and ribbons."

"No, my lady."

"Very well." She signed the end of her note, and handed it to Paks. "Take this down, and ask Argalt to direct you to the Master of Training. h.e.l.l a.s.sign your quarters, and see that you're set up with the instructors. You will take your meals in the Lower Hall-by the way, you have no difficulties with the elder races, have you?^ "Elder races-you mean elves and dwarves?"

"Among others. We have quite a few here-you'll be meeting teem. Don't get in fights with them.**

"Oh no."

"Good. You may go, Paksenarrion. May Gird's grace be on you, and the High Lord's light guide your way." She rose, and Paks stood quickly, knocking her hand on the table edge.

"Thank you, my lady-"

"Thank the G.o.ds, Paksenarrion, for their bounty. I have done nothing yet to deserve your thanks."

Chapter Nineteen.

Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of pa.s.sages on the ground floor, looked her up and down. "Training Master, eh? So you're going to become a Knight of Holy Gird, are you? Or a Marshal? Or is it paladin you're thinking of?"

Paks felt her ears burning again. "I-don't know, sir."

Argalt snorted. "I'm no sir, not even to the newest member of the training company. Argalt: that's my name and that's what you'll call me, young woman."

"Yes, si-Argalt."

"That's better. You're no hothouse flower of a n.o.ble house-where are you from?" Paks told him. He looked at her with surprising respect. "Sheepfarmer's daughter? That's like Gird s daughter herself-barring he raised cattle and grain, so the story goes. But still it means you know what work is, I'll say, and a few busters on the hands. Where'd you learn to wear a sword like you could use it?" When she mentioned the Duke's name, he stared. "You were in the Fox's Company? And came here? I'll believe anything after that!" He shook his head as he led her across the courtyard, past the Lord's Hall. "I was in the Guards at Verella when I was young; what I don't 306.

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know about that Duke-" But Paks asked nothing, and did not expect that he would have answered if she had. He gave her a long look outside the Training Master's office. "If you need someone to talk to, sometime, sheepfarmer's daughter-I'll share a tankard of ale with you."

"Thank you," said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned away.

The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man in dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird's crescent embroidered on the breast. He read the Marshal-General's note, and Cedfer's letter, in tight-lipped silence. When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.

"If you're to catch up with the others, youll have to work-and work hard. You'd best not loll about."

Paks repressed a surge of anger. She'd never been lazy. "No, sir,' she said stiffly.

"It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer's right about your weapons-skills. That would let us chop a gla.s.s or so off there, and give you more time in supply-though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for you, is beyond me." Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be still. He sighed, heavily, very well, then. How much gear do you have?"

"Only what was in my saddlebags, sir," said Paks. "I suppose it's-"

They'll have it brought to your quarters." He glanced for a moment at a chart on his wall. "Let me think. There's a room on the third floor, next to the end of the corridor. You can have that, for now. It's small, but it won't mean moving anyone else tonight. If it's too small, we can change things in a week or so." If you stay that long, his tone clearly said. "You'll need clothes; 111 have the steward send something up. Come along." He pushed past her to die corridor, and led the way upstairs.

Toe room he opened seemed amply large to Paks-larger than her room at the Jolly Potboy, with two windows looking out over a lower roof to a walled field. Besides a bed and chest, and a curtained alcove with hooks, it had a table, stool, and low chair. A narrow shelf ran along the 308.

wall over the table. Several blankets were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Paks had hardly taken all this in when he began speaking again.

"Students do not wear weapons except at practice," he said, with a pointed glance at her sword. "We prefer that personal weapons be stored in the armory, but the Marshal-General has given permission for you to keep yours with you." Paks did not want to let the magic sword out of her control; she said nothing. Just then a servant came in with her saddle-bags; behind him was the steward, with an armful of clothing, all dark gray but for the blue cloak. The steward eyed her.

"You said tall, Master Chanis; this should fit near enough for now. What name do you use-Paksenarrion, or Dort-hansdotter?"

"Paks is all."

"Paksenarrion," said the steward cheerfully. "I need something long enough it can't be mistaken in anyone's handwriting. Come by for measurements, or if you have something that fits well-"

Paks unstrapped her saddlebags, and pulled out her green shirt. "Will this do?"

"Good-good material, too. From Lyonya, is it?"

"No, but near there. Brewersbridge."

Hie steward shook her head. "I don't know it. Trousers, too, if you've an extra pair." Paks pulled out the patched ones, which the steward took without comment, and handed over a pair of socks as well. The steward checked the number of blankets, and left the room.

"If you're ready," said the Training Master, "there is time to see the weapons instructors Defore supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon enough." Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddle-bags behind the curtain, before following him out of the room. "You have fought mostly in a mercenary company, I understand."

"Yes, sir."

"Short sword or polearm?"

"Short sword."

"But you carry a longsword."

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"Yes, sir."

"Have you used a bow?"

"In training, yes-it's not my best weapon."

"PolearmsP"

"Only in training."

"Mace? Axe? Crossbow? Siege weaponry?" At each shake of her head, his lips seemed to tighten. Paks wondered if he really thought all of those important. She had trouble keeping up with his long sweeping strides, and noticed little of the building around them-only rows of doors, open and shut, and the stone flags of the hallway. They came out into a small court surrounded on three sides by stables; a pile of dung centered the court, and two youths were shoveling it into a cart. Past a row of box stalls, each holding a ma.s.sive warhorse, the Training Master ducked through a narrow archway into another pa.s.sage. This time they emerged on the edge of the walled field Paks had seen from her windows. On their right, the stone building irouted a long finger; the Training Master turned toward sproi this.

It was a single room, and resembled a small grange except that it had no platform and no doors at the far end, only the one on either side. It was empty at the moment, but Paks could hear grunts and the clash of weapons from die far side. The Training Master led her through it, and out the other door.

Here were perhaps a score of fighters, all in training gray, practicing with swords and-Paks was surprised to see-hauks. To one side a burly man in blue watched diem closely. He glanced over at the Training Master, and waved. Paks followed as they walked around the training area to meet him.

"This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said the Training Master abruptly. "The Marshal-General has a.s.signed her to this cla.s.s."

Sharp black eyes met hers. "Ha. She's no novice."

"So I understand. If you can spare her for more time in other studies, Cieri, do so."

"Am I to hood hawks so they may learn music?" Paks 310.

thought by the tone that this was an old argument begun again. The Training Master's face relaxed.

"There are other skills of war, Cieri-"

"Oh, and so there are, but none of them any good if you can't keep a blade from your guts." He shook his head. "Never mind, Chanis, I know what you mean, and the Marshal-General, too. If she can spare the time, 111 see to it. But only if, understand that." He c.o.c.ked his head at Paks, and looked her over.

"See that she knows where to go, when you're through," said the Training Master. He turned to Paks. "Gird be with you, Paksenarrion. If you have any need, come to my office at any time."

"Thank you, sir," said Paks, still ruffled.

"Well, now." Cieri, the weaponsmaster, was walking around her. She turned to watch him. "Where have you fought? What weapons? I see marks of a longsword on your clothes." For the third time that day, Paks outlined her training. Cieri, at least, showed no doubt. "That's good. Three fighting seasons with Phelan-that means you bow your way with short sword and formation fighting. And you've used a longsword since-very good. Many who come to us with your background cannot fight without the others in formation. Not until I've trained diem, that is." He grinned broadly. For all that he was younger and heavier, he reminded Paks of Siger. "What about unarmed combat?"

"I've done it," said Paks cautiously. She knew that Siger himself had mastered only a few of the many styles.

"Can you fight mounted? I know Phelan has infantry."

"I have, some. Marshal Cedfer in Brewersbridge was teaching me, and I fought a little with a sword."

"Without cutting up the horse? Good. I see you're wearing mail-Chanis didn't give you time to change, eh? But we don't wear mail in practice sessions-you must not come to count on it. Today I'll test you, but tomorrow you show up in training uniform, rightr "Yes, sir." Paks noticed that the others were watching covertly, slowing their own practice to see what she was doing. Cieri noticed that, too, and bellowed at them.

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"Gird's gut, may the ale hold out, you dolts keep gaping like that and 111 run you all around die field ten times before supper. D'you think an enemy'd let you gaze all around like a bunch of calves in pasture? Get to your work, or-" But the tempo had speeded back up at once. Cieri picked up two swords from a stack near the edge of the practice area. "Here-we'll start widi what you're comfortable with."

Paks took a sword and moved it, testing its balance. It was heavier than her own, and broader across die blade. Cieri stood casually, touched her blade with die tip of his, and leaped in so fast that she almost missed her own stroke.