Divided Allegiance

19

Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of passages 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 noble 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 blisters 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 Vérella when I was young; what I don’t 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, you’ll 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 glass 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; I’ll have the steward send something up. Come along.” He pushed past her to the corridor, and led the way upstairs.

The 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 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 saddlebags; 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 Dorthansdotter?”

“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.”

The 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 before supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon enough.”

Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddlebags 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.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you used a bow?”

“In training, yes—it’s not my best weapon.”

“Polearms?”

“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 massive warhorse, the Training Master ducked through a narrow archway into another passage. This time they emerged on the edge of the walled field Paks had seen from her windows. On their right, the stone building sprouted a long finger; the Training Master turned toward 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 the 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 them 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 assigned her to this class.”

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 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, I’ll see to it. But only if, understand that.” He cocked 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 know 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 them, 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, right?”

“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.

“Gird’s gut, may the ale hold out, you dolts keep gaping like that and I’ll run you all around the 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 with what you’re comfortable with.”

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

“Aha!” he said. “If you were that slow with enemies, you would have more scars than you do. Don’t hold back, girl—I’m better than Cedfer, if you want the truth of it.” Indeed he was, and Paks found herself working hard to keep his blade from clashing on her mail. She had gotten used to the delicate balance of the magic sword—that responsive light spring—and she felt, at first, that she was fencing with a length of iron firewood. Several minutes later, sweating freely, she found her balance, and tried offensive strokes as well as defensive. Cieri countered them easily, but grinned even more widely. “You’re learning,” he said. “You’ve got a reach on you, too. And reasonable speed.” He tried one of the tricks she knew about, and she thrust it aside, lunging quickly to mark his tunic. “And you know something. Very good. You haven’t wasted your time.” But in a flash he shifted his blade to the other hand. Paks, confused, missed her parry, and felt the sharp blow along her side. Another, in the same place, and then she countered with a blow that drove him back a step.

She had forgotten that he wore no mail, until after a fast exchange of heavy blows she caught his arm and blood darkened the tunic. “Hold,” he said, but she had already lowered her blade. He glanced at his arm, and then at her with new respect. “You do know something. By Gird, we may have a swordsman in this class after all.”

“I’m sorry—” she started to say.

“No matter. In a Hall full of Marshals, little wounds like these are no problem. Look here—” He pulled aside the ripped sleeve to show a narrow jagged wound already closing. “You must all learn to fight, and strongly, and therefore I take a lot of healing.”

Paks was startled. “But I thought—”

He looked closely at her. “Oh. You’re not Girdish, are you? Most are. With an arm like that, you should be. It’s nothing, here—Marshals can heal themselves as well as others, and Gird does not begrudge healing to weaponsmasters.”

“Then you’re—”

“A Marshal, yes. You didn’t know? Most of your instructors here are Marshals.”

“Oh.”

“Now put away that sword you obviously know how to use—not that you can’t learn more—and let’s see what you do with staves.” Paks had never fought with staves before, and collected a quantity of bruises proving her incompetence. Cieri then tried her in archery; her form, he said, was passable, but her ability to judge windage was abysmal. She could not throw a javelin at all, and when he saw her grip on a battleaxe, he told her to put it down at once. “And I won’t have you try unarmed combat in mail just yet—tomorrow will do for that.” By this time Paks was sweaty, tired, and sore enough to be glad of a rest. “You’re beyond most of the class in sword handling,” he said, after thinking a few moments. “Some of them have had lessons for years, but no actual fighting. That’s what makes the difference. You’ll need regular practice with the sword, but instead of new tricks with it, I want to improve your other weapons skills. When you finish, you should be able to instruct with at least five weapons. More if you’re interested. Tomorrow morning, come with the others for mounted drill—do you have your own horse?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you can ride your own horse tomorrow. If it’s trained enough, you’ll bring it to every session, but we switch around. Marshal Doggal takes most of the mounted classes. Mounted work first thing in the morning, then your other studies, before and after lunch, then drill here. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. But—what about my horse? Where is he, and what about grooming—”

“You’ve been caring for your own? Good, good. You won’t do that, for awhile—this autumn session, we keep the class busy enough without, but in the spring each student is assigned a mount to care for. Just show up at the right time in the mornings, and saddle up.”

“Oh.” Paks thought of explaining Socks’s character, but decided not to.

“Now—” He looked at her closely. “I don’t mean to insult you, but the order provides adequate clothing. Leave your soiled things near the door each morning, and they’ll be cleaned.” Paks nodded. “You look to be in fair condition, but you’ll be sore and stiff with the schedule you’ve got. Hot baths are available each night. Many students prefer to bathe and change before supper—if they have time.” He looked around at the rest of the students, and shook his head. “Nearly time to quit, and they know it. As you’ve come in from traveling, and are wearing mail, I won’t send you—but we end with a run most days.” He turned to the others, and raised his voice. “Rufen!” A young man with dark brown hair stepped back from his partner, and came forward. “This is Paksenarrion; she’s a new member. Take her back to the House, and show her where things are. She’s got a horse for tomorrow, but doesn’t know where it’s stabled.”

Rufen bowed, giving Paks a quick glance. She thought he was several years younger than she, half a hand shorter, and more slender. As he led her away, back through the empty armory, he looked at her again. “You’re not a Girdsman?” he asked. Paks could not place his accent, which seemed slightly melodic.

“No,” she said. She was not going to explain everything all over again. Not then.

“You fence well,” he said, with another sidelong glance. “I’ve never seen Cieri move so fast, except against the knights. What kind of horse have you?”

Paks answered stiffly, suspecting a joke. “Just a—a black horse. Warhorse.”

They were in the stable courtyard by then, and he asked one of the workers. “That black with the stockings? And a wide blaze? He’s in the new court stables.”

“That’s where guest horses are housed,” explained Rufen. “I expect they’ll move him in here, if they’ve got a free stall.” He led the way through a tack room full of racked saddles into another, larger, stable complex. Before he could find someone to ask, Paks heard Socks, and saw his wide head peering out over a half-door. Rufen looked startled when she pointed him out. “That’s yours? If he’s not Pargunese-bred, I’ll take up the harp. Look at the bone of him.” By this time they were at the stall, and Socks had shoved his nose hard into Paks’s tunic.

“I don’t have any,” she said sharply. He seemed in good shape, and had obviously been groomed carefully; no saddle marks showed on him. Rufen hung over the door, still talking.

“Great gods, what a shoulder. How’s he trained? Did you train him? Do you have a pedigree? No speed, I’d say, but a lot of bottom.” Paks had no chance to answer; the questions came too fast, and Rufen wasn’t paying attention to her anyway. A groom came up.

“This horse yours?”

“Yes.”

“He don’t like his hind legs messed with, do he?”

“No—did he kick?”

“Kick! Look there at that board—” the man pointed. It had split along its length.

“He was hurt before I got him,” said Paks. The groom eyed her sourly.

“That’s what they all say,” he said. “Hurt before I got him, pah! Could have trained him out of it, couldn’t you?”

“I did,” said Paks, suddenly angry again. “Look.” She jumped up on the stall door. Socks threw his head up and snorted. “Be still,” she said firmly, and slipped onto his broad back, then down to stand beside him. She ran her hand over his massive rump, down the hind leg, and chirped. He lifted his hoof obediently into her hand, and she tapped the sole, then put it down. “There, you see?” The groom nodded.

“All right. Now tell that beast to let someone else do it.”

“Come on in.” The groom opened the stall door. Socks stiffened his ears, and clamped his tail. Paks soothed him with a hand, and the man followed her gesture and picked up the other hind hoof. “I suppose, come to think of it, that no one’s handled his legs but me since I got him,” she said.

“I hope he’ll remember this,” said the groom.

“Try apples,” said Paks.

“Bribe a horse?”

“That’s what I did.”

“It works,” put in Rufen. “They’re such greedy-guts, horses are. We use apples in our training.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the groom, with a slight bow. Rufen colored, glancing at Paks. When the man had left, and they were walking back across the stable court, he sighed.

“I suppose you know we use only one name here?”

“No—” Paks hadn’t thought about it.

“Well, the—the servants and all, they know our full names. But don’t worry about it. Just call me Rufen.”

“And I’m Paks,” she said. He nodded, and led her back into the maze of buildings.

“It’s simple, really,” he said a few minutes later, after taking her to the Low Hall where they would eat, and then to the bath house and past some of the classrooms. “The High Lord’s Hall opens into the Forecourt, and directly across from it is the Marshal-General’s Hall. Her quarters are upstairs, but they hold large meetings downstairs. And several other Marshals live there as well. Where you came in—that archway—that’s all quarters for the gate guards and some of the servants. The other side of the Forecourt is the Training College—where we live and meet for classes. It used to be quarters for the Knights of Gird, but when the order grew too big for it, they converted it for us. The ground floor is much larger—rooms on the back side look over the roofs. That’s because it doesn’t have cellars; all the storerooms are above ground.”

“Why?”

Rufen shrugged. “I don’t know. I never wondered; they just told us when we came. Anyway, the Low Hall is more—or-less behind the Marshal-General’s quarters; you saw where the kitchens were, between the steward’s office and the Hall. The stables are really confusing, and I hear they’re thinking of redoing them. Most of our horses—those assigned to training—are stabled in that little court just back of us. But the only way from there to the guest stables is through the tackroom—so you’ll have to ride out the back of the guest stables, and around the smithy. Then the Knights’ horses are stabled on the other side, south of the training armory.”

Paks was still confused, but hated to admit it. “There are other armories, then?”

“Gird’s teeth, yes. Each order of knights has its own, of course, and the paladins have theirs—and by the way, don’t even think of trying to see what magical things they’ve got. Elis of Harway tried that, a year ago, and was knocked senseless for two days by the guard power they’ve set.”

“Oh.”

“And the Marshal-General chewed her out when she came to, and had her assigned to be Suliya’s servant for a week.” When Paks looked blank at that, he explained. “Suliya’s a paladin—she—well, she stays here now.” Paks said nothing, since he seemed uneasy. Finally he went on. “Sometimes, they say, even a paladin is defeated. You think of them dying, but sometimes—” He shook his head. “Of course, I’ve never seen her. Elis said it was—well, she said she’d fight any of us if we tried violating paladin secrecy. You don’t know Elis, of course.”

Paks began to think she’d like to know Elis. She was about to ask which of the students was Elis, when Rufen went on. “You won’t, anyway, unless she comes back before you leave.”

“Was she dismissed?”

“Elis? No, but her father died, and she was the oldest. She had to take his place. As soon as one of the others is old enough, she wants to come back. And she will. In the long run, if Elis wants it, she gets it.”

They were now in the passage outside Paks’s room. A neatly lettered card fitted into a slot she had not noticed before, so that anyone would know it was her room.

“I’m down four doors, across the passage,” said Rufen. Paks finally found words for something that had puzzled her.

“How did you know about Elis? I thought the Marshal-General said the new class had been here only a few weeks.”

“Oh, them.” Rufen laughed. “There are—oh—a dozen of them. They’re all younger than you. I’ve been here a year and some.”

“Were all those in practice with you?” Paks did not want to reveal how unskilled they had seemed to her.

“No—we train in groups according to skill. That’s the most basic group, in sword-work. My father, you see, planned for me to be a scholar. I had a badly broken arm, as a boy, and he thought it would never hold up to fighting. I thought differently.”

“Oh.” Paks found his composure as interesting as his story. He did not sound angry, or defensive—he might have been talking about the training of a horse.

“You won’t do your sword-work with us, I’m sure. But then Aris and Seli won’t do staves with you. By Gird, I’ve never seen anything so clumsy as your grip on a staff.” Paks flushed, but he obviously meant no insult. “It gives me hope for my sword-work, for I was just as clumsy to start—perhaps you were so with a sword, and yet you’ve learned great skill.”

“Well—I’ll work hard,” said Paks, trying to copy his calm.

“Oh, you’ll learn. Cieri could teach a cow grace, if he wanted to. And he likes you somewhat—not that that will take the sting out of his blows. But if we want baths before supper, we’d best get going. The rest of them’ll be crowding in soon enough.” He went in his own room, and Paks turned to hers. Already two complete sets of gray tunics and trousers were folded neatly on her bed. She took off her mail, and her sweaty clothes, and put on the loose bath-gown of heavy gray wool. A knock on her door. Rufen called from outside. “I forgot to tell you—lots of us don’t wear the uniform to supper. It’s up to you, but don’t wear mail, or weapons but the dagger.”

“Thanks,” she called back. She rummaged among her things, and decided finally to wear her second-best shirt from Brewersbridge. Perhaps they would think it strange if she showed up in students’ gray at once. Then she thought of the Training Master, and wondered. It seemed that she could be wrong either way. Why hadn’t they told her exactly what to do? She was willing to do what she was told. She looked from one stack of clothes to the other, biting her lip nervously, trying to remember exactly what the Training Master had said. At last she took up her own shirt and trousers, and headed for the bath house.

Bathed and dressed once more, Paks returned to her own room, wondering now how she would know when it was time to eat. No one had mentioned a gong or other signal. Rufen’s door was shut; she was too shy to knock. She heard voices in the passage, but could not distinguish the words. Suddenly a commotion began—shouts, thuds—Paks leaped for her sword, then stopped short. No weapons. She snatched at her door, and looked out.

A black-haired boy in red velvet lay flat on the floor, blinking up at two who had their backs to Paks. She saw Rufen’s door open, and his narrow good-humored face peering out.

“And if you come up here again, Aris—” said one of those standing.

“What are you doing now, Con?” asked Rufen.

“Don’t bother yourself, Rufen. Just reminding the juniors that they’ve no right to come up here—”

“I do!” began the boy in red, but the second of the standing pair laughed shortly.

“You do, eh? Then we’ve a right to dump you on your tail.” He took a step forward, but Rufen came out of his room.

“No one has a right to brawl, Jori, and you and Con know it. I don’t know where you got the idea that this is your passage—”

“You’d dispute that?” asked Con scornfully. “You? By Gird’s toe, Rufen, I can throw you with one arm alone.”

“I doubt that,” said Rufen. The boy had started to roll to his feet, but Con aimed a kick in his direction.

“Stay there, little boy.”

Paks had been growing angrier. Jori sneered at Rufen, and said, “We have to do something—the Master’s put one of ’em on our floor!”

Rufen cocked his head. “So?”

“So, we’ll have to teach them all a lesson—I don’t suppose a peasant girl can be much trouble.”

Paks felt her anger like a leaping flame. “You don’t?” she asked, trying for a pleasant tone. The two whirled; she saw the shock in their faces as they saw her size and condition. Behind them, Rufen helped the boy in red to his feet. “What kind of lesson,” she asked, rocking slightly from heel to toe, “did you think to teach me?” She hoped they would jump her; she wished she had gone for them at once.

“Who in Gird’s name are you?” asked Con, glancing sideways at Jori for support.

“Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” said Paks quietly, still ready to jump. “A—peasant girl, I believe you said, wasn’t it?”

“You’re the new—?” Con seemed unable to believe it.

“Yes.” Paks waited, suddenly finding it funny.

“Paksenarrion,” said Rufen pleasantly from behind them, “is a veteran of the wars in Aarenis. I believe she is known to Sir Fenith, as well as Marshal Cedfer of Brewersbridge and others.” Paks glanced at him quickly, still balanced to fight. The boy Aris was grinning openly.

Con shook his head. “I’m sorry for what I said, then. You’re no novice, barely trained as a squire. I had heard you were a sheepfarmer’s daughter, but obviously—”

“I am a sheepfarmer’s daughter,” said Paks, dangerously quiet. “Does that change your opinion?”

He looked confused. “But you’re not Girdish. Where did a—a girl like you learn warfare, outside the granges?”

“In Duke Phelan’s Company,” said Paks, glad to see the surprise return. “I began there, as a recruit.”

“Phelan!” That was Jori. “But he’s—” He looked quickly at Con.

“Yes?” Paks let her hand slip to her dagger hilt.

“I didn’t say a thing—” began Jori. He held out his hands, palm up.

“Look, Pak-Paksenarrion—I don’t know Duke Phelan, I only know what I’ve heard. Don’t—”

“And what is this?” The Training Master had turned into the passage from the stairs. Paks, facing them all, saw their faces stiffen at his voice. She stood silent, waiting to see what would happen. No one spoke for a long moment. Then—“Well? Have you set a gauntlet for our new student to run? Aris, I thought you were to escort her to supper, and now I find you all standing about up here as if you had all night to chat.”

Even Rufen seemed to have no quick answer to this. Paks moved forward, passing Con and Jori without looking at them. “Pardon, sir,” she said. “I did not know the usual signal for supper, and delayed them talking about your customs. You did say, did you not, that I need not change to the student uniform for tonight?”

“Yes—I did.” The Training Master looked taken aback. “But—”

“Is it permitted to wear one’s own dagger to the table?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Then,” she said, with a glance back to the others, who were watching in some kind of shock, “I apologize again for making everyone late. Aris, will you show me the way?”

The boy in red seemed the least dazed of them all, and came quickly to her side, nodding respectfully to the Training Master, who looked down at him thoughtfully. “Someone downstairs reported a disturbance up here,” he said at last.

“Oh, sir?” Aris managed to look doubtful.

“Yells,” said the Training Master.

Paks intervened. “They were expecting a peasant girl,” she said, carefully not looking at Con and Jori. “I think I surprised them.”

“I see.” The Training Master looked them all over carefully. “I will see you after supper, Paksenarrion; we must be sure you understand the rules of the house.”

“Certainly, sir. Where shall I come?”

“Aris can show you.” Aris colored at this, and Paks surmised that he had been called often to the Training Master’s study. With a last nod, the Training Master turned away; they all descended the stairs behind him, silently. When he turned away, and they were alone in the passage between the kitchens and the Lower Hall, Rufen spoke.

“Paks, thank you for not going into all that with him—”

“I thought we were in for it,” added Con. Paks looked at him with distaste.

“Soldiers don’t complain to commanders about every trifle.”

Con reddened. “That’s not what I meant—”

“It’s what I meant.” She turned pointedly to Aris, who had not spoken to her yet. “Where are you from, Aris?”

“From Marrakai’s House, in Tsaia—do you know it?”

Paks laughed. “No—but I’ve heard of Duke Marrakai.”

“My father,” said the boy proudly. “I’m the fourth son.”

“And knows it, too,” muttered Jori, from behind them. Aris whipped around.

“At least my father is a duke!” he said. “And I have three estates already to my name—”

“Oh Gird’s grace,” muttered Con to Jori, “did you have to start him off again?” Even Paks was tempted to smile at the boy’s intensity. But they were at the doors of the Lower Hall, and looking for a place to sit at the crowded tables. Obviously more than students ate here: it seemed to Paks that a whole village was in the room, and the noise confirmed it. She followed the others between the tables, to a serving hatch. There her platter was stacked with sliced meat, a dipper of redroots in gravy, a small loaf of bread, and a slice of something that looked like nutbread dipped in honey. On a table beside the hatch were mugs; she had seen that each table had two pitchers.

The Hall was so crowded that they could not sit together; Aris found a space for the two of them, and the other three wandered away. Paks was hungry and began eating at once. When she slowed down enough to look around, the crowd was thinning out a little. Aris was chatting with another fairly young boy across the table—he was straw-blond, with gray eyes, and slightly crooked teeth. The person next to Paks had left without her noticing. She mopped up the rest of her gravy with the bread, and looked around the table. Next to Aris was a heavy-set redheaded man in a blue tunic, munching away steadily. Next to him, on the end, was a tall, slender—Paks stopped, and stared.

The elf looked up, and smiled at her. “I did not hear your name, lady—will you share it?” The voice held that strange music that all elves’ voices shared, a hint of harpstrings or bells.

Paks choked down the last bit of bread. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, sir.”

The cool gray eyes sharpened. “Would you be that Paksenarrion who traveled with one Macenion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Indeed. It is my pleasure, then, to welcome you—you are welcome to us, as to the Girdsmen. I am one of the embassy from the Westforest elves to Fin Panir; my elven name would be difficult for you to say, but you can call me Ardhiel.”

Paks realized that Aris was staring at her, openmouthed. He hissed at her. “Paksenarrion! The elf spoke to you? He’s never said anything to me!”

Silvery laughter fell around them; the elf’s eyes sparkled. “I do not know your name, young sir—and what would I speak with you about?”

Now the man beside Aris was also alert, listening.

Aris changed color. “I—sir, I—I only meant that—that I thought elves didn’t talk to—”

“To students, rarely. We fear it might distract you from your own affairs—and your affairs, young sir, are not mine.”

“But I—but she—but my father is Duke Marrakai!”

“Oh—you are the Kirgan?”

“No, sir. I’m the fourth son; the Kirgan is my brother Juris.” The elf waved his hand, dismissing.

“Whatever, young Marrakai—your father’s affairs might march with mine, but yours—no. I mean you no discourtesy, but—”

“I’m not a child!” insisted the boy. Paks had to admit he seemed childish even to her; the elf’s face expressed nothing, but she could feel his withdrawal.

“No? For me, young Marrakai, all in this room are but a summer’s memory. If you would be comfortable with elves, you must admit this. I have known your family for more generations than you have lived in your House.” Aris flushed, and set his jaw stubbornly. When his friend across the table whispered, he rose to go, looking pointedly at Paks.

“The Training Master said I was to show you where to go.”

“Yes—thank you, Aris, I’ll be right there.” She looked back at the elf, whose eyes seemed for a moment sad. “Sir, I thank you.”

“Lady Paksenarrion, it is nothing. I hope to see more of you hereafter.”