Divided Allegiance

8

She woke at first light, to the clatter of small hooves in the road below. Looking out, she saw a herd of goats skittering along the north road. She looked east, at a clear dawn lightening over the hills, and shivered in the cold. Minutes later she was downstairs. The innkeeper was poking in the fireplace, and she could smell fresh bread from the kitchen.

“You’re an early one,” he said, surprised. “Did you want breakfast now?”

Paks grinned. “Not yet. I want to check on Star.”

“Sevri’ll feed her—”

“Yes, but she’s used to me. And I’m used to being up early.” Paks went out the side door of the common room into the stable yard. The green tailed rooster was racing after a hen, and a clutter of cats crouched near the cowbyre. Paks watched as a stream of milk shot out the door, neatly fielded by one of the cats. She went into the stable, and found Star looking over the top of the stall door. The pony looked well-rested, and Paks rubbed her behind the ears and under the jaw. When she checked her tack, the packbags were intact.

“Is it all right?” asked Sevri, who had come into the passage.

“Yes, fine. I didn’t realize I’d gotten up too early for you.”

“It’s not. Most of the travelers sleep late, that’s all. Some of them sleep through breakfast. Star doesn’t get much grain, does she?”

“Not when she’s not working. Let’s see your measure—oh, half of that, and tell me where your hay is—I’ll bring it.”

“Over there—” Sevri nodded toward a ladder that rose to the loft. “You can just throw it down, if you want.”

Paks was already up the ladder. “Why don’t I throw down what you need for all of them?”

“You don’t have to—but if you wish—” Sevri looked up as Paks tossed down an armload for Star.

“It’s no trouble; I’m already up here.”

Sevri peered up at her. “I didn’t think soldiers knew how to care for animals.”

“I grew up on a farm,” said Paks shortly. “How much more hay?”

“Just pitch it down, and I’ll tell you.” Sevri disappeared from the hold, and Paks threw down several armloads. “That should do it. We have just the two big horses in.” Paks climbed down, brushing off the hay.

“Who does your milking?” she asked, wondering if Sevri did everything but the inside work.

“My brother, Cal,” said Sevri. “He’s got bigger hands; it takes me too long, and Brindle is a crabby cow.” Paks laughed.

“We milked our sheep,” she said.

“Sheep?”

“Yes. I’ve never milked a cow, but I’ve milked my last sheep. I hope.” Paks watched as the girl dumped hay into each feeder. She noticed a blaze-faced black horse that laid its ears back when Sevri neared the stall: obviously one of the “big horses” she’d mentioned. “When can I ask for breakfast, without being rude?”

“There won’t be anything cooked, yet,” said Sevri doubtfully. “The bread’s out, and you could have eggs and cold roast and bread, if that’s enough.”

“It’s plenty.” Her stomach churned in anticipation.

“Just tell father, then.”

“Thanks.” Paks returned to the common room to find the innkeeper waiting.

By the time she had finished breakfast, other guests were stirring. First down was a man in dark tunic and trousers over soft boots. He gave Paks a look up and down that lingered on her sword-hilt, and sat down to his meal with no comment. Then came two heavily built men that Paks classified as merchants, followed by a tall man in a stained leather tunic over patched trousers. He had a longsword at his hip, a dagger at his belt, and the hilts of two more daggers sprouted from his boot tops. Paks noticed that he chose a seat against a wall, far from the others.

After breakfast, she managed a private word with Hebbinford. He willingly told her about the moneychangers in town.

“Well,” he began slowly, “as you ask me, I’d say Master Senneth. He’s a Guild member, but the northern guild’s not the same as that in Aarenis, if that means anything to you.”

“Which guild?” asked Paks.

“The moneylender’s, of course. I’ve heard that down south they were mixed up in a lot of—well—all sorts of trouble, let’s say. But Master Senneth is as honest as any of that sort, say what you will. He’s given me honest weight, at least. Or there’s Master Venion—some prefer him. He’s not a Guild member, but some say his commission’s less. But for myself, I’d see Senneth.”

Paks did not know what he meant by commission, and asked.

“Well, if he takes your raw gold and gives coin, say, or changes southern coin for local, he’s got to make something on the trade. Or if he arranges a transfer far away—you said you wanted your dowry to go home. If you don’t want to take it yourself, he could arrange it for you. But it would cost you. Now Venion might charge you less, but—how would you know it got there? The Guild, now, it’ll see things are done right. It’s whether you want to pay for it, that’s all.”

Paks nodded. “Where is Master Senneth?”

“Just across from the Hall.” Paks looked blank, and he explained. “When you went to the grange last night, before you crossed the bridge: did you see the large building on your left with a fenced yard?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s the Hall. Master Senneth is right across from it. It’s easy to find. He’s got a guard at the door.” Paks raised her eyebrows. “And you won’t be able to take your weapons in, either. The guard stacks them for you.”

Master Senneth was a brisk, trim man in a tight-sleeved gown of black wool. He smiled at Paks as she came through the door. “Yes? What may I do for you?”

Paks explained her needs.

“Hmmm. Valuation, yes. It would be better for you, actually, to take anything really valuable to a larger town, or to Vérella. For one thing, you can get several appraisals, and for another, they can offer more who have a market to hand. I’ll tell you frankly that I probably can’t give you the best price you could get, except for southern coin. That’s because we trade coin across the mountains each year. Some items I may not be able to take at all; those, of course, I’ll note as we go along. Now transfer—if it’s money alone, that’s the easiest. If it’s specific items, that can be quite expensive. Have you brought it all along?”

“Yes,” said Paks. “But most of it’s outside; your guard said he would watch the packs.” She had tied Star to the railing outside.

“Well, let’s bring it in and take a look, if you wish.” Paks nodded and he came from behind his counter to the door. “Arvid, bring this lady’s packs in, please.” The guard unloaded Star, staggering a bit at the weight, and carried the packs inside. As he left, Master Senneth called after him. “And see that we’re not disturbed until we’re through, Arvid.” Then to Paks. “I suppose you don’t want half the town wandering in as we’re counting, and knowing just what you have.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted Paks.

“Ah, they would,” he said darkly. “They saw you come in yesterday, and watched you come here with a loaded pony. If they could look through walls—” He made a warding sign. “But they can’t. Now, what’s first?”

Paks began unstrapping the packs. “I don’t know what—some of this is weapons, but fancier ones than I’d use.” She pulled out the pair of jewelled daggers sheathed in silver. Senneth caught his breath.

“My—those are lovely. Where did you say—no. No matter. Only—” he looked at her sharply. “Were these stolen, somewhere in Aarenis?”

“No.” Paks shook her head. “I didn’t steal them. You can ask Marshal Cedfer or Master Oakhallow, if you like.”

“You’re not a Girdsman nor a kuakgannir.” He said that with certainty; she wondered how he knew.

“No, I’m not. But they know where these are from, and how.”

“I see.” He returned to the daggers. “What lovely tracings. And these gems are valuable in themselves, not just in this design.”

Paks pulled out the small battleaxe. She had forgotten the gold inlay tracing runes along the blade.

“That’s dwarf-work!” Senneth shook his head. “A rare piece, though I don’t know where I’d find a buyer. That’s the sort of thing you’d get a better price for in Vérella.” Looking at it again, Paks wished she could keep it. But she knew she had no use for a battleaxe, one weapon she’d never handled. She pulled out the ivory-handled dagger with a red stone set in the pommel, and the matching sheath with the dragon carved around it, and two red stones for eyes. Laying these aside, she pulled out one of the sacks of coins.

Master Senneth looked at the treasure, then at Paks, with dawning respect. “Young lady, that’s a remarkable amount of wealth you have there. Are you sure you’re not an elf princess in disguise, checking to see if humans are still greedy? I assure you, my honest commission for handling all this will well repay my time.”

Paks sat back on her heels, grinning. “No, Master Senneth, I’m no princess, elf or human. A very lucky young warrior, yes. And my old sergeant said, if ever we got a chance to set some aside, to do it. If there’s enough, after sending my dowry home, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Not spend it all on new clothes and wine, eh? Wise head on young shoulders—and a fighter, at that. You’re a new one on me. What was your name again?”

“Paksenarrion.”

“Lady Paksenarrion, what other surprises have you?” He smiled over the coins, sorting them quickly into heaps of like kind, while Paks pulled out everything else. When all the coins had been counted, he turned to the jewels, rolling them out on a square of black velvet on his counter, and angling a mirror to catch sunlight from the window. His fingers moved among them deftly, turning them this way and that. At last he looked up.

“Unless your father was a very wealthy man, I’d say you have ample to repay any dowry, and my commission for the transfer, and enough over to live well for a long time. Let me start making notes. If you don’t accept my value for anything, just retrieve it: as I said, you can get more for many of these things in a city. Now—” He opened a tall book, fetched a pen and a soft piece of chalk to mark the slate that topped one end of his counter. “Let me start with the coins. You realize that those are all quite old. I don’t even know the issue on the ones where the imprint is visible. They have value only for the metal content; they’ll have to be melted and re-struck. So I use the weight to determine the value—” He pulled out a set of scales.

As Paks walked back toward the inn, leading Star, she tried to think how much money she actually had. She was hungry; by the sun it was long past time for lunch. How many hours, then, had she been closeted with the moneychanger? She had seen the spiky columns of figures climb up the pages of his account book, as he added the value of coins, jewels, the small pieces of weaponry. But she couldn’t make sense of it in terms of her salary in the Duke’s Company. He spoke of gold crowns and silver coronets and halflings instead of the natas and nitis she was used to. But it seemed she could send home twice what she thought her dowry had been and have plenty left. She could buy a riding saddle for Star—perhaps even a full-sized horse. She need not take the first guard job that came along. She had left most of her money on deposit with Master Senneth, but she had enough with her to order a few new clothes, and eat the best The Jolly Potboy offered for that night’s dinner.

On the way back, she remembered Sevri’s directions to the smithy, where Master Doggal shod all the horses for miles around. Now she turned from the main road, and led Star between two small stone buildings down an alley that led to the forge. In the paved courtyard before the blacksmith’s shop, the tall, rough-looking man from the inn was haggling with the smith over the cost of shoes; his black warhorse, its ears twitching nervously, stamped and shifted, the shoes in question ringing on the stones. Paks recognized it by the blazed face; it had tall white stockings on all four legs.

“I charges fair,” the smith rumbled. “Nobody says but what I charges fair. That beast of yours has feet so big, and stands so bad—aye, he come near tearing loose, that he did, and kicked me as near as maybe. It’s not the shoes being set wrong has him tittupy like that: he’s a wrong ’un, and too handy with them white socks.” The smith was a head shorter than the other, but his massive arms and shoulders made his hammer look small.

The tall man put his hand to the hilt of his sword, but the smith hefted his hammer.

“You just pay me, now,” the smith went on. “Pay as you ought, and we’ll have no trouble.”

“And if I don’t?” The black horse shied at that harsh voice; the tall man jerked the bridle viciously. Neither man had noticed Paks, but the horse winded Star and stood still, head high and ears pricked, snuffing.

“Well, if ye don’t, I’ll have the law on ye—”

“The law, is it!” The tall man laughed contemptuously. “In this town? What law here could touch me?”

“This,” said the smith, and quick as a snake’s tongue his hammer tapped the man’s shoulder.

With an angry snarl, the big man dropped the reins, drew his sword, and swung at the smith. The black horse walked over to Star as Paks dropped the lead and whipped out her own blade. Only then did the smith see her.

“Another one of ye, eh?” He blocked one swipe of the big sword with his hammer; she noted that he handled it as if it were weightless. “Well, I can take two of ye, no doubt, but still—Aieeeh! By the Maker!” His bellow split the early afternoon stillness. Paks heard a startled outcry in the distance, as she ran forward.

“Not against you, Master Smith,” she said as her sword rang against the other. “But you, you coward. I can see that horse has new shoes—and you owe the smith—and you’ve no business attacking an unarmed man with a sword!” The swordsman had turned, furious, with her first blow, and now concentrated on her.

“Unarmed, is it?” cried the smith. “And you a woman? Is any smith unarmed that has his hammer and the strength of the forge in his arm?” Paks made no answer; the tall man had more skill than she’d expected from a bully, and she saved her breath for the fight. The smith threw his hammer on the ground and bellowed at them both. “Is it a barton of Gird you think I have here, and not a smithy? By the Maker, is a smith to be reft of his fight by any wandering female? I can collect my own debts, you silly girl, without your help. I was just teaching this fellow a lesson—” Paks quit listening. The tall man had the reach of her, and a heavier blade. She missed her helmet and shield; he had a round iron pot on his head, and heavy bracers on both arms. His black eyes gleamed from under the helmet.

“Eh—the girl from over the mountains! A wild one, I see. I like wild ones.” He grunted as her sword pricked his shoulder. “I’ll tame you, little mountain-cat, and then I’ll see to him—” He jerked his head at the smith, without giving Paks an opening.

“You will, will you?” yelled the smith. “By the Maker, you’re a fine one, if you think you can!” And before Paks realized what he was about, he darted behind the tall man and brought the hammer down on his head with a resounding clang. The tall man sagged to his knees and fell over in a heap. The smith glared at Paks over the crumpled body. “A sword,” he said severely, “is a pitiful weapon, young woman, and only fit for those that don’t have the strength for a hammer. It was by the hammer that Sertig the Maker forged the world on the Anvil of Time. The hammer will always win, with the strength of the faithful behind it.”

Paks had dropped the tip of her sword and stood panting. “Uhm—yes—”

“Don’t forget that.”

“No—” She took a deep breath and wiped her sword on her leg before sheathing it.

“Not that yours isn’t a fine bit of work,” the smith went on. “It’s just that swords are inferior weapons.” Paks did not feel like arguing with him. She was, however, a bit disgruntled. She’d only tried to help someone.

“Doggal!” A shout from the alley. “Need help?” Paks could see two hefty men, armed with clubs.

“Nay, nay. ’Twas a bit of trouble with a fellow from outside, that’s all.” The smith sounded smug. “He’ll have a headache, if he wakes at all.”

“Will you need someone to take him away?”

“He’s not dead yet. He’s still snorting. If this lady will lead his horse back to the inn, I can throw him over—” He turned to Paks. “If you’re going that way, that is.” The men waved and turned back up the alley.

“I was coming here,” said Paks. “To get my pony shod. But if—”

The smith suddenly grinned, and looked like a different man. “Oh? That’s no problem. He’ll keep a bit, just there. I did wonder what you were doing up my alley, to be sure, but if it was on business, then—” He looked around. “That your pony, with the star?”

“Yes. Just a moment.” Paks started toward Star, who stood stiffly, nose-to-nose, with the black horse. Both shifted away from her, eyes wide.

“Come on, Star,” said Paks crossly. She felt the smith was laughing at her. “Come on, pony.” She rubbed her thumb on the gold ring. The wildness left Star’s eyes, and the pony minced toward her. The black horse, too, lowered his head and stretched his neck.

“Catch up that fancy-socks, if you can,” called the smith. “Be careful: he’s a mean one, but he’ll do no good running loose.” Paks caught Star’s lead, and rubbed the ring again, talking softly to the black.

“Come on, then, big one. Come on. I’d like to have one like you someday.” The black horse came forward step by slow step until she could reach the reins. She talked on as she led them toward the smithy itself. She could feel the horse’s fear trembling in the reins as they neared the building.

“Well!” The smith sounded surprised. “You’ve a rare way with a horse, that you have. I’ll take the pony, then, if you’ll hold that one. What sort of shoes? Are you going into the mountains again?”

Paks shook her head. “No. And she won’t be carrying as much weight. I’ll be going toward Vérella, I think.”

“Umph.” He had one of Star’s feet up, then another. “I’d still say low caulks in front. It’ll frost before these wear out.”

By the time Star was shod and the shoes paid for, the tall man had grunted and groaned and shifted around on the stones. His eyes were still closed, though, and he had said nothing coherent.

“You wanted to help,” said the smith with a bit of his earlier belligerence. “Suppose you take him back to the inn for me. I’ll tell the watch about it, and Jos can ask me, if he wants. And look—” The smith bent down with a grunt and opened the man’s belt pouch. “You know he owes me for the shoeing of that devil there: see, I’m taking just what he owes.” Paks nodded, and the smith heaved the man upright and slung him over one broad shoulder. “Now, I think your pony would carry him better than his horse. Can you lead both?”

“Yes—” Paks was reluctant, nonetheless, to go out on the streets leading another man’s horse, with the man himself slung unconscious over her pony. “But don’t you think that—I mean, since you hit him, shouldn’t—?”

“A warrior like you doesn’t want credit for defeating him?” The smith’s voice was scornful, and his look more so. Paks reddened. Nothing and no one in this town had been what she expected. “I’d have thought,” the smith continued, “that such as you were quite used to hauling bodies around. Or did you just leave them?”

Paks opened her mouth and shut it again. There seemed nothing to say to that. But as the smith folded the man over Star’s back, the Gird’s Marshal walked into the courtyard. His glance rested on Paks, then on the smith and his burden.

“I heard, Master Doggal, that you had had a disturbance.”

The smith stopped, with a hand on the tall man’s back where he lay across the pony. “If you heard that, Marshal, you heard I needed no help.”

The Marshal glanced at Paks again. The smith caught the look and raised his voice. “No, and I didn’t need her, either. Is that it, is she one of your precious yeomen?”

“No. I merely wondered.”

The smith began tying the man to Star’s pack pad with the thongs. “Took you long enough. If I had needed help, I’d have been dead long since.” He turned to Paks. “Now, lady, just you work whatever magic you used on that horse, and take him and this fellow back to the inn for me.” Paks saw the Marshal give her a sharp look at the word magic, but he turned back to the smith as that individual kept talking. Paks started to move away, but the Marshal raised his hand to stop her.

“You seem to think, Marshal, that we’d have no order here without you Girdsmen. I’m not denying you’re a brave bunch, and useful when we have trouble too big for one man or two. But I can hold my own with any single man, and most two or three. As I was telling this lady—” Paks wondered why she had been promoted from “girl” and “female” to “lady.”

“As I said to her, the Maker’s hammer wielded by a faithful arm will stand over a sword any time.”

“Yet the Maker is said to have made many a blade, in the old tales,” said the Marshal, with a kindling eye. “And you, I know, have made most of the blades in this village—”

“Oh, aye, that’s true. When I have time. And it’s a test of the art, that it is, to make a fine-balanced blade that will hold an edge and withstand a hard fight. I won’t say against that. But I will say—”

“That you can hold your own in a fight. And I’ll agree to that, Master Doggal. But the captain did ask me to keep an eye on things, after that last trouble, and the Council as well—”

The smith had calmed down a lot, and the discussion seemed, to Paks, to be working over well-plowed ground. “That’s so. If it’s for the Council, then I might as well tell you all that happened. Saves seeing the watch. This fellow came to have his horse shod—that black one there—and quarreled with my price, after. The horse is vicious: doesn’t look it now, I’ll admit, but just you try and put a shoe on it. I charged more for it. Always do, as you know. If I’m to risk my head, I must have gain for it.” He paused and the Marshal nodded. “Well, then, he said as much as that I’d no way to make him pay. I tapped his arm to show I meant my words, and he drew on me. Then this lady—I’d not seen her come—she drew as well. I thought they were together, and raised a yell. Then it seemed she thought to aid me—but, you see, I’d already raised a cry—so I thought I’d let her fight, was she so eager to. They were well-matched. He’d the reach of her, and was heavier, but she was quicker and her blade had more quality. Then—well—it’s hard to stay out of a fight, so I broke his head with the hammer, after all.”

“Mmm.” The Marshal looked at Paks. “I’d have told you our smith can handle himself in a fight. It’s not well for newcomers to brawl in the streets.”

Before Paks could answer, the smith was defending her. “ ‘Tis not her fault, Marshal. I’d think you’d be pleased, even if she’s not one of yours. She thought she saw an old man—” he rumpled his thin gray hair, “—beset by an armed bully. She did well.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose—if you have no complaint against her—” The Marshal was frowning.

“Not at all. Not at all. Suppose I had slipped and fallen? She was trying to help. And, you might notice, on the side of that law and order you praise so highly. I’ve no complaint. In fact—but go on, now, and get that lummox out of my yard.” He turned abruptly and dove back into the forge.

“I’ll walk with you to the inn,” said the Marshal to Paks in a neutral tone. Paks followed him down the alley, leading both animals. She kept her thumb firmly on the ring.

They were almost to the crossroad when the Marshal spoke again. “If I’d defended you,” he said without preamble, “old Doggal would be lodging a complaint to the Council somehow. He won’t agree with me on anything but smithing itself if he can help it.”

“Then—you aren’t angry with me for this?”

“For going to his aid? Of course not. You might wait, another time, to see whether your aid is needed, or someday you’ll be killed over some little thing, and nothing gained. I’ll just have a word with Hebbinford,” he said as they came to the inn door. “You take that horse around back.”

Paks found herself leading the tall black warhorse to the stable before she quite realized the Marshal had taken Star’s lead. She heard, behind her, the innkeeper’s voice and the Marshal’s, and the exclamations of the serving wenches.