Divided Allegiance

20

In the next few days, Paks felt that her mind and body both were battered and confused. Her instructors were forthright with both praise and criticism; other students accepted her presence without comment, but tested her skills relentlessly. Yet they tested each other just as freely, and seemingly held no rancor. She found it somewhat like being a recruit at the Duke’s Stronghold, with the many hours of required drill. Yet out of class and drill there was no regimentation, no barracks chores. Clean clothes appeared in her room each day, and the room itself was cleaned while she was out. Someone else maintained the jacks and the bath house; someone else groomed the horses and polished tack. She began to wonder if this was the way the nobles lived, playing at war with weapons drill, but with someone else doing the dirty work. She had to admit she liked it.

Once she knew where everything was, and which place to go when, she began to enjoy it as she had never enjoyed anything else. Most of the students cared as much about weaponry and tactics as she did. They sat up late, arguing problems assigned by the instructors: where should a cohort of archers be set, or which order of march was best in heavy forest. At first Paks was shy of speaking up to Marshals and High Marshals, but silence was no protection: they would ask her. For Marshals in Aarenis had brought reports of the last season’s fighting to Fin Panir, and the problems set were those she had fought through.

It started with an analysis, in a discussion of supply, of the march from Foss Council territory to Andressat. “Assuming a march of five days,” Marshal Tigran said, “what would you need to supply a cohort of a hundred soldiers?” Paks tried to remember if it had indeed been five days. When the others had answered, and she was called on, she simply remembered how many mules they’d used, and blessed Stammel for insisting that she learn how to divide everything by three.

“Mules?” asked Tigran, and someone laughed. He frowned at them. Paks shook her head.

“To carry the supplies, Marshal.”

“Aha! That was going to be my next question—how to transport it.” Somehow Paks was getting credit for a right answer she had never actually given. But the next one she earned on her own. “Then,” he went on, “how do you figure the extra transport for the supply taken up by transport?”

Paks knew that, from Stammel’s many tirades on the subject. One Tir-damned mule in four, he’d muttered, just to make sure the beasts have enough for themselves. Tigran looked at her with respect, as did the rest of the class. When he found she knew how long fresh mutton or beef could travel in different seasons, and how long it took to grind the grain for a cohort’s bread ration, he grinned, and turned to the other students. “This is the value of practical knowledge,” he said. “Some of you know in theory, and the rest of you are learning, but here’s a soldier who has been in the field, and knows what the ration tastes like.”

“Can you tell us if it’s true what Marshal Tigran says, about not being able to fight without supply even for one day? I still think brave troops could do without—not for long, maybe, but for a day or so.” That was Con, more interested than aggressive. Tigran nodded to Paks, and she thought back to the various campaigns, and the day of the ambush in the forest near the Immer.

Paks described the enemy’s apparent retreat, her Company’s forced march trying to catch them, and the ambush in the forest. No one interrupted with questions; even Con was quiet. She told them of the damp cold that night, when the wounded had no shelter, and no one had food, when the smell of the enemy’s food drifting across the locked squares made their hunger worse. And the next morning’s attack, their allies’ arrival. And finally the sudden weakness that toppled more than one of them, that long march and heavy fighting without food or rest.

“It’s not a matter of bravery,” she said. “You can live long without food, and stand and fight for a time, but not march and fight.”

Tigran nodded at her. “Most of you have never been hungry for long—and since you aren’t seasoned warriors, never when fighting.”

“I wonder why you came to study, Paks,” said Con after that class. “You already know as much as the Marshals—”

“No. No, I don’t.” She wondered how to explain what she didn’t know. “I know what a private knows—the soldier in the cohort—”

“It seems plenty—”

“No, listen. I always wanted to learn, and so I paid attention to the sergeants, and the captains when they talked in my hearing. But I only know it from the bottom. I don’t know how to plan—how to think of more than one cohort at a time. You know how to reckon amounts for any number—right?” He nodded. “Well, I don’t. My sergeant taught me to divide by three, to find our cohort’s share of the Company’s supplies. And I can add that three times, to go from a cohort’s share to the whole Company. But that’s all. He told me one time that Marrakai, when he goes to war, has five cohorts. I can’t reckon in fives at all.”

“You can’t? But it’s not hard—”

“No, maybe not. But you know how, and I don’t. And in tactics, I know some things not to do, but I don’t always know why. I can write well enough, and read—but I can’t write a description of a battle, as Marshal Drafin showed us, or read one and make sense out of it. The sand table is one thing, but those books—”

“Huh. I thought after the first night that you knew everything—or thought you did.”

Paks shook her head again. “I won’t ever know everything—there’s not time enough to learn all I want to know—”

“Now that’s an interesting sentiment.” The Training Master had appeared, as usual, without warning. Paks had begun to wonder if he had magical powers. “Are you serious in what you say?”

Paks was, as always, wary around him. “Yes . . . sir.”

“You feel you have much more to learn—even with your practical experience?”

Paks felt an edge of sarcasm in his voice. She stiffened. “Yes. I said that.”

“Don’t bristle at me.” To her surprise, he was smiling. “One thing that worried the Marshal-General was the possibility that you might find these things too boring—”

“Boring!”

“Don’t interrupt, either. We have had a few other veterans who found them so—who were so intent on what they had done already that they could not learn new things.” He looked intently at Con, who colored. Paks wondered what that was about, but was glad enough he wasn’t after her. “How are you coming with your reading?” He was after her. She wondered if he’d heard what she had said to Con. She hated having to admit her weaknesses.

“Not—very fast, sir.”

“I thought so.” It did not sound too sarcastic. “Paksenarrion, the only way to learn to read faster and better is to read—just like swordplay. You can’t learn swordplay from a book, or reading from your sword.”

“But if I can listen to someone who knows—”

He shook his head. “Paksenarrion, no one knows everything—you’re not alone in that. Writing stores knowledge, for others to use who may never know the writer. You know how tales told change in the telling—” She nodded, and he went on. “That’s why writing is so important. Suppose you are in a battle; if you can write well enough to describe it accurately, then others can learn from your experience many years from now.”

“It’s too late.” Paks looked down. She had hated turning in her scrawls when the others wrote neat, legible hands. “The ones who can write started earlier.”

“And when did you start with staves? And you’re already out of the novice class, into intermediate. Work at it. As for you, Con,” the Training Master turned to him. “You quit worrying about your standing with the juniors, and start spending your evenings on tactics. And supply. Perhaps if you’ll explain reckoning in all numbers to Paks, she’ll explain why you can’t march a cohort for two days on sixteen measures of barley and a barrel of apples.”

“Apples? I meant to write salt beef.”

“Your writing is not much better than Paks’s—neither Tigran nor I could decide what you really meant, so we called it apples. So might your supply sergeant, someday.”

She could not remember when she had felt so at home. Not even in the Company, that last year. Instead of Saben and Canna, she had Rufen, Con, and Peli. They spent hours with pebbles and beans, teaching her reckoning. She taught them all one of her favorite sword tricks, so that Cieri, bested three times in one day, glared at them all, and accused Paks of trying to get his job as weaponsmaster. She began to read faster, and understand more complicated books and scrolls. They began to realize, as Rufen explained one night, that the soldiers they might command one day were real people.

“I knew they were,” he said thoughtfully, “and yet I didn’t. Here we talk about supplying a cohort, or positioning a squad of archers over here, and a couple of cohorts of pikes there. They’re just—just bodies. Soldiers. Gird forgive me, being a Girdsman, but I looked like that at my father’s guardsmen . . . they all wore a uniform, they all wore the same weapons. But after knowing you—and you were, as you say ‘just a private’—I know they’re real people.”

Paks looked down, suddenly moved almost to tears. She felt, for the first time, that these were real friends. She could talk to them about the Company—about the people in it—with no betrayal of trust. Little by little she opened up, a few words at a time about Stammel and Devlin, Vik and Arñe—even Saben and Canna.

She had special status with the juniors—for Aris Marrakai had told his friends about her protecting him from Con’s bullying. They did not venture to intrude on the upper floors very often, but she was conscious of shy smiles and friendly greetings from the whole group that Con despised.

Then there were the other races, seen close-to for the first time. The elf who had spoken to her the first night often ate at her table. When he saw her interest, he taught her a few words of elventongue—polite greetings and other courtesies. Some evenings he played the hand harp and sang; Paks and the others listened, entranced. Paks might have thought him a mere harper and wordsmith, but he came to weaponsdrill from time to time, and only the most advanced students fenced with him. Paks lost her sword twice in one session.

The dwarves kept more to themselves, and Paks might not have met them but for an accident with an axe. She had asked to learn axe-fighting, remembering Mal’s effectiveness, and Cieri shook his head.

“I can teach axe-work, but to be honest, Paks, I don’t know as I’ve ever seen a good swordfighter take to the axe. You’re likelier to make a good spearman than be good with it. But whatever you want—as long as you keep improving with staves.”

“I still don’t understand why that’s so important.”

Cieri grinned. “You don’t, eh? Well, keep in mind that the rest of us are Girdsmen. Gird was a farmer, not a lord’s son to have a sword at his side. He won the freedom of the yeomen with weapons they could find or make: clubs, staves, cudgels—and an occasional axe. Every Girdsman learns to use those first; every Knight of Gird can not only use, but teach the use of, the weapons you can find anywhere. Then no yeoman of Gird is helpless, so long as a stick is within his reach.”

Paks thought about it a moment. “You mean—ordinary farmers—fighting regular soldiers?”

“Yes, exactly. Surely you’ve heard that?”

“Well, yes—but—”

“But you still don’t believe it?” He shook his head. “You were a farmer’s daughter—and you wanted to fight—so in your mind you built up what a soldier’s weapon can do. When you become a Girdsman, Paksenarrion, I’ll show you, wood against steel, how Gird won.”

“Why not now?”

Cieri gave her a long look. “Because you are not under Gird’s law yet, and I just might lose my temper.”

“Oh.” Paks was not sure what he meant, and didn’t think she should ask more.

“But as for axes, that’s a Girdish weapon. Have you ever used one much for chopping?”

“No—we didn’t have forest where I grew up.”

“And in Phelan’s company?”

“The sergeants said they didn’t have time to teach us axe-work.”

“Wise. Well, go get one from the armory, and we’ll start.”

For a few days things went well; the basic drills were not hard, and Paks soon adjusted to the heavy axe-head hanging on the end of her arm. Or so she thought. Then Cieri set up a roughly carved log for her to “fight.” It had a couple of branches for “arms.” Paks looked at it disdainfully. She had seen the amusement on the others’ faces.

“Isn’t this just like chopping a tree?”

“Yes, but you haven’t chopped any trees, and we don’t happen to need any trees chopped. This will be fuel for the main kitchens later, if you’ll get busy and do what I tell you.” He took the axe from her, motioned her back, and with two smooth swings took a four-finger deep chunk out of the log. “Like that,” he said. “And remember what I told you about backswing and bounce. Wood is harder than flesh, but softer than armor—at least this wood is.”

Paks took the axe, which now felt comfortable in her grip. The basic stroke, he had explained, was much like the sideswing in longsword—but for using two hands. Paks had not used a two-handed sword; she did not think that mattered. She swung the axe back over her shoulder, and brought it around smoothly. Harder than flesh—softer than armor: she put what she thought was the right force into it. Whack! She felt the blow in both shoulders, and the axe-head recoiled, dragging her off balance, and missing her knee by a fingersbreadth.

“You have to hit harder than that, Paks,” said Cieri. “A two-handed blow is a twisting blow; get your back into it.”

The next stroke caught the axe-blade in the wood. She struggled to wrench it free, while Cieri described what happened to fighters whose weapons caught in an enemy. She felt the back of her neck getting hot; yet she knew he was right. That didn’t help. When she began again, she managed a series of effective strokes, knocking off chips much smaller than Cieri’s, but not making any serious mistakes. He called a halt, and nodded.

“You’re doing well for a beginner. Now see if you can hit a certain target.” He brought out his pot of paint, and daubed red on both of the “arms,” as well as two spots on the “body.”

“Let’s see you get the left arm first, then the upper body, then the lower body, then the right arm. Make your strokes work; use as few as you can. Remember, he’s got a spear he’s poking at you in the meantime.”

Paks looked at the targets. “Axe fighters don’t carry shields, do they?”

“Not using this kind of axe. There’s a light battleaxe for riders that you can use one-handed—you could carry a shield with that. But here it’s your quickness.”

“I could break the spear with the axe, couldn’t I?”

“You’d better. But that’s a smaller target than you’re ready for. And it moves. You’ve something to learn before you face a live spearman with an axe.”

Paks nodded, and turned to the enemy tree. She had just gotten in position for a stroke at the left-hand branch when Cieri stopped her.

“Now look, Paks—you’ve got more sense than this. Look where you are.”

She was sideways to the “enemy,” in easy reach of the right “arm.”

“You can’t face him directly with that axe—think! Where can you strike, and be out of range.”

Paks was annoyed at herself. She moved around the side of the tree, and swung at the left branch from there. She heard the wood creak as the axe sank deep, and was halfway into the next stroke when Cieri yelled again.

“Gird’s blood! Do you think he’ll stand still while you chop him up? Move, girl!”

Paks felt the blood rush to her face. She jumped, whirling the axe high, and swung again at the branch. It split before taking the full force of her blow, and the axe swung on to lay a deep gash in her leg as she landed from the jump. Furious, she ignored the pain and aimed a vicious slash at the main trunk, straight at Cieri’s mark. The axe stopped in midstroke, wrenching her shoulders, and hung in the air.

“Let go,” said Cieri mildly. Paks looked at the axe, down at her leg, and then unwrapped her hands from the axe handle. The axe fell with a clang. “If the blade’s damaged,” Cieri went on, “you can grind it down yourself. I’d thought you too seasoned a fighter to lose your temper for a little thing like that.”

Paks said nothing, still angry. Pain from her leg began to demand attention. He came forward, and picked up the axe, running his fingers over the head and blade edge. Then he looked at her.

“You’re damned lucky, Paks. Now will you believe me about axes?”

“I can learn.” She was surprised at her own voice, furry with anger.

His eyebrows rose. “Oh? How? By cutting off your limbs one at a time? The way you’re going, you’ll be an axe-fighter about the time you’re holding the axe in your teeth.”

“I could—if you weren’t badgering me.” Paks glared at him, saw the flash of his dark eyes.

“Me! You—not even a yeoman—you’re telling me, the weaponsmaster, that I shouldn’t heckle you? I thought you had more sense—and here you stand flatfooted like a novice yeoman, then lose your temper just because I tell you so, and then this! I suppose I should be glad you aren’t a Girdsman.”

“I—” Paks was suddenly conscious of all the other listening ears. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“So you should be,” he said crisply. “You’ll miss days of work with that leg, and I don’t think you’ll find yourself in the same class when you come back. If you do.”

Paks looked up, startled, to meet a grim cold Cieri she had never seen. “Sir?”

“It might pass in a novice, Paksenarrion, but not in someone who claims to be a veteran. Was all that just an act?”

“What?” Now she was completely bewildered. It must have shown, for Cieri’s face softened a trifle.

“That even disposition you showed until today. That smile, that willingness. Which is the real you, Paksenarrion? Do you know yourself? Or are you acting a part all the time, inside and out?”

“I—I thought you—liked me,” she said. She knew at once it was the wrong thing to have said.

“Liked you? Gird’s arm, what do you mean by that? Listen, Paksenarrion, you come here on trial, not even a Girdsman—you come in full of life as a yearling colt, showing off, taking every trick I know, everything the other Marshals can teach you—and teaching your own tricks to the others—and you expect us to like it? Well, any teacher likes a willing student—but that’s not enough for us. We’re training Knights of Gird, Paksenarrion, and paladins, who will go and and die for the justice Gird brought. You—you’re playing with us, enjoying a safe, exciting time doing what you like to do. Then you’ll go where you please, using what you’ve learned for your own ends. The rest of us aren’t playing a game.” He shook his head. “I’ve let you play; after all, you’re a good practice partner for the others. I thought, from the way you seemed to be, that you might join the Fellowship and justify the time I’ve spent. But I won’t waste my time on games any more. We’ll see what the Marshal-General says, before you return.” Paks could hardly believe her ears. He was turning away when he glanced at her leg. “Better wrap that; you’ve bled a lot.”

Paks watched him walk without a backward glance toward the other students, who were staring in the same shock she felt. He had them back to their drill in seconds, and did not look her way again. Paks forced herself to think, to move. She took off the scarf she had wrapped around her head against the cold, and bound it tightly around her leg. The bleeding had slowed, but she had left a sizeable stain on the ground. She could do nothing about that, but she did take a few seconds to stack the hacked limb neatly near the rest of the tree before limping back to the armory. Cieri still had the axe.

She looked back from inside the armory. Cieri was fencing with Con; no one looked her way. She felt cold, inside as well as out. She had been stupid—even rude—but was it really that bad? And had they all been resenting her since she came? She tried to think what to do. She took a roll of bandage material from its box beside the armory door, and retreated toward the stableyard, which had a well. It was midmorning; a stable worker trundled a barrow full of dung out the far archway as she came into the yard. No one else was in sight. Paks pulled the scarf away from her leg, wincing, and washed the wound out until the bleeding stopped before wrapping it with clean bandages.

The Training Master, she was thinking dully. I must see the Training Master—and then the Marshal-General. Her leg was hurting in earnest now, throbbing in time with her pulse. She rinsed the scarf in a bucket of water, and wrung it out, her fingers stiff from the cold water. When she looked up, two dwarves were watching her.

“Your pardon is it?” said the darker one. “Is it that you can say what way to the training field for the knights?”

Paks worked the meaning out of this. “Did you want Marshal Cieri?” she asked.

They nodded gravely. They hardly topped her head, the way she was leaning over the bucket, and she didn’t think it would be polite to stand. The darker one carried a double-bladed axe thrust into his belt; the yellow-bearded one carried his in his hand. “It is that we were asked to show something of this skill with the axe,” he said. “It is Marshal Cieri who teaches this, is it not so?”

“It is.” Paks felt her ears redden. She felt even worse than before. If he had asked dwarves to come and teach her—“It is through that arch,” she said, nodding toward it, “and then right, and through the building there.” She could not explain; besides, it might be something else.

“What is it that you do here?” asked the darker dwarf, peering into the bucket. “It looks blood.”

Paks blushed deeper. “It is—I cut myself, and this wrapped it at first.”

The dwarf nodded. “Cut—are you then not a student of the weaponsmaster?”

“I—am,” Paks hesitated, wondering if she should claim that now.

“But he is Marshal, yes? It is that he heals those injured in training?”

“Not this time,” said Paks, hoping they would go.

Four shrewd eyes bored into her. She could not read their expressions. Then the darker dwarf emitted a rough gabble of words that Paks had never heard before: dwarvish, she thought. The yellow-bearded one spoke to her. “I am Balkis, son of Baltis, son of Tork, son of Kertik, the sister-son of Ketinvik Axemaster, the first nephew of Axemaster. It is that you are not Gird’s?”

Paks had never met a dwarf, and did not know that this introduction was normal. She was trying to remember it all when the question came, and for a moment did not answer. The dwarves waited patiently. “I am not of the Fellowship of Gird,” she said finally.

“But you are here,” said the darker dwarf. “How is it that you are here?”

“I was offered a time of training here,” said Paks carefully, “because of something I had done.”

“Ah.” Another pause. Finally the yellow-bearded dwarf, Balkis, asked, “Is it that we might know your clan?”

Paks realized, belatedly, that she had not responded to his introduction with her name. “I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, of Three Firs.”

An exchange of dwarvish followed this. Balkis spoke in Common again. “Please—is it that Three Firs is a clan? We do not know this name.”

“No, Three Firs is the village nearest my father’s home. It is far from here, to the north.”

“Ah. And your father is Dorthan, but of what clan?”

Paks wondered how to explain. “Sir, my father’s father was Kanas Jorisson, but I do not think we have the same kind of clans you do—”

Both dwarves laughed loudly. “Indeed, you would not! No—no, you would not. But some men think they have clans as we do, and give themselves names for them, and if you were such then we wished no insult by failing to acknowledge that name.” Then Balkis leaned back on his heels, watching her. “What is it that you did, to make a hurt the weaponsmaster would not heal?”

Paks looked down. “I—cut myself.”

“Yes, but—” He stopped, and leaned close to place his face before her. “I would not have you to think that it is our nature to be inquisitive.”

Abruptly, Paks found herself grinning. “Oh, no,” she said. “I wouldn’t think that.”

“Good. But we have to study men, who come into our rocks and want things of us. So it is that you will tell us what is that cut?”

“I was trying to use an axe,” said Paks slowly. “And I became angry, and struck too hard, and cut my leg.”

“Ah. Angry with an axe is dangerous.”

“So I found,” said Paks ruefully.

“And this the weaponsmaster found badly done, is it so?”

“Yes. And I was rude.” She wondered why she was telling them, but their interest seemed to pull it out of her.

“Rude—to a Marshal.” Suddenly the darker one loosed a volley of dwarvish, and both of them began to quiver. Paks looked up to see their eyes sparkling with mischief. “You fear not Marshals?”

“I—” Paks shook her head. “I should fear them more. I was here as a guest, and my rudeness will cost my place.”

“Ha!” Balkis nodded. “They are as a clan of adoption, and you are not adopted. So it is they can be unjust.”

“It wasn’t unjust,” said Paks. “It—they think I have been unjust, to take their hospitality without giving in return.”

Now they frowned. “You haven’t?”

“No.” Paks poured the stained water out on the cobbles and watched it drain away between them. “I thought—but I haven’t.”

“Hmph.” The snort was eloquent. “But it is you that are the fighter interested in axes?”

“Less than I used to be,” said Paks.

“Would you try again?” asked Balkis. His voice held a challenge.

“I might—if I have the chance.”

“If it happens that your weaponsmaster refuses you, I will show something,” he offered. “It is not every human that will be rude to Marshals of Gird, and be willing to work with axes past the first blood drawn.”

“But I was wrong,” said Paks, thinking ahead to what the Training Master would say. The dwarves both shrugged, an impressive act with shoulders like theirs.

“It is the boldness of the fighter,” said Balkis. “We dwarves, we will not take lessons from Marshals, despite their skill, for they are always insulting us. Did you know any dwarves, where you came from?”

“No,” said Paks. “You are the first I have ever met, though I saw dwarves in Tsaia and Valdaire.”

“Ah. Then you know not our ways. It involves no clan-rights, but perhaps you would sit at our table some night?”

“If I’m here,” said Paks.

They shrugged again, and passed out of the stableyard toward the training fields. Paks gathered up the damp scarf, pushed herself upright, and limped back toward her room. On the way, she saw the Training Master turn into the corridor ahead of her and called to him. He stopped, looking back, and came forward, looking concerned.

“Paksenarrion—what’s happened? You’re hurt?”

“Yes, sir. I—” Suddenly she felt close to tears. She pulled herself upright. “It’s not that, sir, but I must speak with you.”

“Something’s happened?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, come along, then.” He led the way to his study, and waved her to a seat. “What is it?”