Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Twenty-one

When they reached Valdaire, Arcolin took the remnant of his cohort and assigned them the same quarters as the year before. Paks almost wished he had left them with the others; alone in a barracks meant for a hundred or more, they were achingly aware of their losses. Even the winter routine of training and work could not distract them. Every night Paks faced the rows of empty bunks, and looked aside to meet eyes as unhappy as her own. They had been told the Duke would replace the missing—he had already ridden north—but this was no comfort. Who could replace Donag? Or Bosk? She would not let herself think of Saben and Canna. Day by day she and the others grew even more silent and grim.

Then Arcolin announced a feast for them at The White Dragon. This was no ordinary dinner; though they came unwillingly, the splendor Arcolin had ordered had its effect. The table was loaded with roast stuffed fowl, a great crown roast with candied fruit for jewels on the crown, roast suckling pig in a nest of mushrooms, a pastry construction of the city of Rotengre, with little figures assaulting the walls and gate, and colored sugar flames rising from the roofs. Dishes Paks had never seen before: steamed grain with bits of mushroom, nuts, and spices in it, vegetables stuffed with cheese or meat or another vegetable or nuts. Thick soups and thin soups, sliced cheeses in every shade from white to deep orange, sweet cakes and pies of every kind. They ate until they were full, and over full, washing it down with their choice of wines and ales. Paks drank more than she ever had, and felt, for the first time since seeing Siniava’s army come out of the trees, truly relaxed.

At the end of the meal, when the food was cleared away, and the servants had left, Arcolin passed around the rings which the Duke had made for them. Paks looked at hers before slipping it on her finger: a plain gold band with a tiny foxhead stamped on the outer surface, and the word “Dwarfwatch” and a rune that Arcolin told them stood for loyalty engraved on the inside. She ran her thumb lightly over the foxhead, and glanced aside to see Arñe doing the same thing.

Arcolin waited for them all to look up before speaking. “I wish,” he said quietly, “that I had been with you, to fight beside you. Not that you could have done better. Tir knows what I—what everyone—thinks of your fighting. But you have shared something now, bitter as it is, that will bind you heart to heart for the rest of your lives.” He stopped and looked around, gathering every eye that had dropped, before going on. “Very shortly,” he said, “the new recruits will be down; we’ll be back to size, or near it. You know, and I know, that they cannot take the place of those we have lost—but they can help avenge our friends. The Duke has sworn vengeance on Siniava. So has the Halveric. Let us, then, swear our own oath, for the memory of our friends and the destruction of our enemies.” He read out again the names of those who had died; they gave a great shout after each. Paks was crying; she saw tears glisten on most faces. Hand felt for hand around the table. Then Arcolin said, “Death to the Honeycat!” and the responsive roar shook the room. Paks felt a surge of rage, felt the anger in the others that made them one. She wished they could march at once.

But some weeks passed before the new recruits arrived. After the banquet, Paks felt more at ease; she and the others began looking forward to the new campaign almost as much as backward to the past one. They drilled with every weapon they had or had captured. Paks spent more time with the longsword. She enjoyed the great advantage her height and reach gave her with the longer weapon. But not all her time was spent in practice.

That winter the Vale of Valdaire seemed even fuller than usual of wintering troops. Paks met more of the Golden Company, commanded by Aesil M’dierra, a dark hawk-faced woman from the west. She saw Kalek Minderisnir, a scarfaced, bandy-legged little man who commanded the Blue Riders, and Sobanai Company, whose dapper commander looked, to Paks, too dressy to be a good fighter. The talk was of war: battles and encounters, siege and assault, tactics for polearms and blades. It was not long before they all knew of Paks’s journey. The Guild League militia had the tale from Sorellin, and the Halverics had not failed to spread it either. She found she was accepted by graying veterans as well as by eager young warriors her own age. And ever and ever again the talk turned to the Honeycat, and what could be done against him. Golden Company had fought him more than once; they argued fiercely with the Halverics about strategy. Paks listened carefully, trying to picture the coastal cities fair on their cliffs, and the grim forest where Alured the Black took toll of every passerby.

At last a runner brought them warning, and in an hour or so they saw a column approaching, with the Duke’s banner flying ahead. Paks watched the marchers critically. Had it been only two years since she had come that way? Had she looked so young? She saw the whites of the recruits’ eyes as they glanced from side to side. They were hardly more than children, she thought—then spotted a gray-headed man, and another, in the midst. Stammel led the second unit, and Devlin was behind him. The column halted. Paks tensed, waiting.

When Arcolin yelled, the Company formed, falling into place with the startling speed that never failed to impress the newcomers. Paks suppressed a grin, remembering her own reaction and seeing its mirror on the recruits’ faces. The Duke rode forward and looked them over. He turned to Arcolin.

“Well, they look fit enough. Are they ready?”

“They’d march today, my lord,” said Arcolin.

The Duke smiled. “Not quite today, Captains. Captain Valichi will break the column for you.”

“Yes, my lord.” The Duke rode away, and Valichi dismounted, coming to stand by Arcolin. Paks wondered why he had come. Who would captain the year’s recruits?

“Well, Val, what’d you bring us?” asked Dorrin.

“About the usual, plus veterans the Duke asked back in. He’s hired a captain, too, but he’ll tell you about that—should be here within the week. Arcolin, you’ll have Stammel and Kefer for sergeants, and Devlin and Seli for corporals. The Duke suggested that you take most of the veterans for your cohort, since it was worst hit; you’ll also have almost half the recruits.”

Arcolin stretched, shaking his head. “Well, then, we’d best settle the troops. Go ahead, Val.”

Valichi sent two files from Kefer’s unit and all of Stammel’s unit to Arcolin’s cohort, where they moved up behind the survivors. The rest of Kefer’s unit and two files of Vona’s went to Dorrin; the remainder to Cracolnya. The sergeants relocated themselves; Stammel gave the cohort a long, appraising look. When he met Paks’s eyes, one eyelid drooped in the merest suggestion of a wink.

Two hours later, the newcomers had distributed their gear in the barracks, and the bustle of sixty-two additional members gave the feeling of a full cohort again. Paks had been assigned four recruits to introduce to their new life, three men and one woman. As she told them where to store things, and where they would eat and sleep, she was reminded of her first night with the regular Company. But then there had been many more veterans than recruits.

She could tell they were full of questions, but she kept them busy. She didn’t want to talk about it yet with these people she did not know. Stammel came around to check, before supper, and gave her a grin.

“Well, Paks, I heard about you—you’ve had quite a year.”

Paks nodded. “It’s been—difficult.”

“Sounds like it. I’ve heard the Duke’s version; I’d like to hear yours. How about a mug at The White Dragon after supper?”

Paks frowned. “I’ve got second watch tonight—”

“That was before we came. Arcolin said to work in the recruits at once; they’ll start tonight. What about it?”

“Yes, sir; I’d like that.”

“Good. We’re not eating in formation; just make sure your group gets over there and back. I’ll be around somewhere.” Stammel moved on, and Paks surprised an expression on the recruits’ faces that made her uncomfortable.

“Come along,” she said brusquely. “Time to eat.” She led them to the serving lines, then to a table. Vik was there with three recruits. He rolled his eyes at her. Paks grinned.

“Paks, these are Mikel, Suri, and—and Saben.” Paks felt her face freeze. The recruit flinched; she realized she must be glaring. She swallowed and nodded at them, trying to smile. “This is Paks,” said Vik to them. The new Saben was thin and dark, with green eyes. Paks looked away, swallowed again, and introduced her own recruits, pointing a finger at each in turn.

“Volya, Keri, Jenits, and Sim; and this is Vik. Don’t dice with him; he’ll win.”

“If you’re going to tell tales, Paks, I’ll start on you,” threatened Vik.

“Huh. There’s nought to tell.”

“Is there not? Well, I’ll let them find out for themselves. Did you hear that Stammel’s changed the watch lists?”

Paks nodded, her mouth full of food.

“We’re off for two days, all the old ones. Want to come in to Valdaire with us tonight?”

Paks shook her head, spat out a piece of gristle, and said, “Not tonight. Stammel wanted to talk.”

“About—?” Vik jerked his head to the northeast.

“I expect so.” Paks went on eating, aware of the recruits’ interest.

Rauf sat down across the table from Paks with an older man and two recruits. “Paks, Vik—this is Hama, and Jursi, and Piter, who thought he’d retired.” Piter laughed at this; he had none of the recruits’ nervousness. He grinned at Paks.

“Are you the Paks that went seven days across country to bring the Duke word?” he asked.

“That’s right,” said Vik before Paks could answer. “Paks Longlegs—” Paks put an elbow in his ribs and he broke off.

“I’m impressed,” said Piter. “What did you do for supplies?”

“The first day we scavenged some food from a farm near the fort; the farmers had been killed. We tried to space it out—but we were short until—I think it was the fifth day. We tried to buy food at a little settlement, and they tried to rob us, and—we came away with enough to finish the trip.”

Piter nodded as he ate his stew. Then he frowned. “You say ’we’—I heard it was you alone that brought the message.”

“Three of us started. Two died.” Paks looked away, avoiding the recruits’ eyes.

“Umph. I remember trying to shadow a column once, just for a day and night, and that was in summer. I could see their dust. Even so, I lost them twice and was nearly taken.”

“I remember that,” said Rauf. “It was my second—no, third—year, and you were in—was it Simintha’s cohort?”

“No, that was the year Sim had that bad fall; Follyn had just taken it. That was Graifel Company I was following, you remember; they disbanded some ten years ago, but they had a very good light foot.”

Paks listened to their remembrances, well pleased to have the conversation turned. She finished her meal, and saw that her recruits were finished too. Vik turned to her as he climbed over the bench. “Paks, I’ll see you at weapons drill tomorrow, if you’re not up when we get back.”

“If you’re coming back that late, all you’ll see at drill is the ground or sky.” The recruits looked shocked. Paks and Vik grinned at each other, and Paks climbed up too.

“Glad to have met you, Paks,” said Piter, saluting her with a hunk of bread.

“And you,” she said. Her group was up, and waiting for orders. “Let’s get back,” she told them, and led the way out.

“Paks—” It was Volya, the single woman of her group.

“Yes?”

“Will you tell us, someday, about what you did?”

Paks shrugged. “There’s not much to tell.”

“But surely—” began Jenits. Paks cut him off.

“Not now. Some other time, maybe, if you haven’t heard enough from the others.” She led them to the barracks at a fast pace.

Captain Arcolin was standing with Stammel just inside the door; the recruits shied around them. Stammel beckoned to Paks, and she came to stand nearby.

“—and that’s all I know,” said Arcolin. “We’ve two months training to make up in as many weeks. The veterans—” he nodded at Paks, “will all be instructors. I understand you’ve put the recruits on guard duty—”

“Yes, sir. For a few nights anyway.”

“Good. Oh—by the way—the Duke was talking of taking a section for drill himself.”

Stammel grunted. “It won’t be the first time, sir, but thank you for the warning.”

Arcolin glanced at Paks again. “You’re going in to Valdaire?”

“The White Dragon,” answered Stammel. “I’ll be back by second watch.”

“No problem. I’ll be checking the guard posts as usual. Take care.” Arcolin went out. Stammel looked after him a moment, then turned to Paks and smiled.

“I’ve already told Kefer I’m going; are you ready?” Paks nodded. “Good.” He started out the door. “Have you done much drilling with polearms?”

“Some. We drilled with Vladi’s spears before the siege ended, but not so much since we’ve come back.”

“Hmm. The Duke wants us to be able to use ’em. I was hoping some of you could help teach—”

“I think we could use them. I don’t like ’em nearly as well as swords; they’re too clumsy in close.”

“We’ll have to try.” They were in the lane that led to The White Dragon; in the light spilling from open doors and windows Paks saw that Stammel was watching her from the corner of his eye. “Paks—these recruits, they’re greener than you were: they’ve had two months less training. You heard the captain. We have to work them into the Company in a hurry. I don’t know when the Duke plans to march, but I doubt he’ll wait until summer. Now, the Duke’s told them some of what’s happened, and what you did. They’re all excited—I thought you should know what he’d said, so when they ask—”

“Do I have to talk about it?”

Stammel took a great breath and blew it out, a pale frosty plume against the sky. “No. No, you don’t. Not even to me, if you don’t want to. But you may find it hard: they’ll be asking, you see. I know what you mean. Some things you don’t want to make light of, by too much talk. But they’ll be looking to you, Paks, whether you tell them or not. I thought you should know.”

“I wish they wouldn’t,” muttered Paks. She could feel her ears glowing.

“You would have yourself,” said Stammel reasonably. “I remember you with Kolya, and Canna: it’s natural. The youngsters always want to hear the stories and dream. And it will help get them ready fast, for them to think of all you veterans as heroes: song fodder.” Paks was glad they still had a distance to go; she knew she was red. “We have some old veterans back, too,” Stammel went on. “They’ll have their own problems—may be a bit touchy at first. Don’t pay any mind if they go on about how things have changed. Once we’re fighting, they’ll be a big help.”

“I met one tonight,” said Paks. “Piter—?”

“Yes, old Piter. He’s a good man. We started together, but he took a bad wound and fever, one year, and decided to retire. He joined one of his brothers running barges on the Honnorgat. Claims he’s kept his sword skill against river pirates: I don’t know about that, but he’s kept it. He’s good with a curved blade, too; knows every trick. How did you get along?”

“Fine. He wanted to know—but it was more like one of us. He asked what we’d done about food—it seemed natural, talking to him.”

“Good. Oh! I nearly forgot. Kolya sent you her greetings and a bag of apples. It’s somewhere in the baggage; I’ll find it tomorrow.”

“That was nice of her.” And a surprise; she heard it in her own voice.

“She had a good harvest this year. She wanted to come, but the Duke had other plans.”

“Is it true the Duke left the stronghold empty?”

“How did you know that?”

“I heard the captains say something—”

“Well, don’t you say anything. Gods above! I hope no one else mentions it. It’s true—except for those in the villages—and I hope the Regency Council doesn’t hear about it.”

“But what if something breaks out in the north?”

“We’ll just hope it doesn’t. Nothing’s happened for years.” Stammel sighed and changed the subject. “What did you get from the sack of Rotengre? Wasn’t that your first?”

“Yes,” said Paks slowly. “It was.”

“Didn’t like it, eh? What about it?”

“It was—everyone shoving and yelling and breaking things. I—I can’t see breaking up good furniture for the fun of it, and tearing things and spilling wine all over.”

Stammel chuckled. “No—I suppose you wouldn’t. But surely you found something for yourself.”

“Oh, yes. Some unset jewels, coins, a jeweled dagger, and a length of embroidered silk. I’m keeping that for my mother. I was thinking of keeping the dagger, but it looks silly with these clothes.”

“Couldn’t you have found some finery to go with it?”

Paks snorted, then laughed, remembering the militia primped up in velvets and laces. “Well, sir—I looked at some of the others—and it just looked silly. And besides, where would I keep the things?”

“It’s not impossible. You’re a veteran now; you’re entitled to some space in the Company wagons and stores.”

“I suppose. I didn’t think of that then.” They were nearly at the inn, and Stammel led the way to the door. Once inside they found the usual assortment of customers: mercenaries of half-a-dozen companies, a scattering of merchants, and a few professional gamblers (or thieves) who tossed their ivory dice whenever conversation and business lagged. Stammel looked at the crowded common room and crooked his finger at the landlord.

“Yes?” Rumor said the landlord was a veteran of Sobanai Company.

“A quiet corner anywhere?” asked Stammel.

“Sergeant Stammel, isn’t it? Yes, I think we can find you a quiet spot. Just follow me.” He led the way down a passage to a tiny room which had a bench built against either wall and a table close between them; it might have been possible to squeeze in four people. Two fat candles in a wall sconce gave bright unsteady light. Stammel took the bench on one side, and Paks took the other.

“Bring us some ale,” said Stammel, and the landlord withdrew. Paks threw her cloak back and pushed up her sleeves. Stammel looked at her critically.

“You’ve been keeping fit, I can see that. You may have strengthened that left arm even since last year. How’s your unarmed combat coming?”

“Better. At least, when I needed it on the way, it worked.”

“Ah. Now that’s what I’d like to—” The door opened, and the landlord put a jug and two mugs on the table, then waited while Stammel fished out some coins. When he was gone, Stammel poured a mug of ale before speaking. “Go on,” he said to Paks. “I won’t drink all of this myself. Now—if you don’t mind telling me about it, I’d like to hear it from you.”

Paks sipped the ale before replying. “I don’t mind telling you, sir. In fact, I wished you were there, right after, to talk to. But—but it still—” her voice faltered.

“You still feel it when you tell it,” said Stammel. “No wonder.”

Paks nodded, staring at the scarred tabletop. When she began to speak again, the story came out in fits and starts. Stammel did not interrupt, and asked few questions. By the time she came to the incident with the mounted sentry, the story seemed to be rolling out of her, almost as if she were telling a tale that had happened to someone else. Then she came to that last afternoon, and the memory bit deep. She stopped, drained her mug, and started to pour another; her hands shook.

Stammel took the jug and poured for her. “Take it easy,” he said. “Do you want something to eat?” Paks shook her head. “It’s amazing you made it so far without losing someone,” he went on. “You took more precautions than I would have, I think. I’m not sure I would have thought of a sentry at the first crossroad. With food so short—I might have tried a village; hunger’s hard to ignore. You knew that place was risky; you got out of it with the food you needed. And on the last day, so close to the Duke, so far ahead of the enemy—I’d have felt fairly safe myself.”

Paks wrapped her hands around the mug and stared into it. “I heard one of the squires talking to the Duke. He said we should have been more careful.”

“The Duke?”

“No—the squire.”

Stammel snorted. “As if he’d ever done anything like that! I’ll warrant the Duke didn’t back him up.”

“Well—no. He didn’t. But—”

“Then don’t fret about a squire’s opinion. Which was it, anyway?”

“The youngest one. Jostin, I think his name was. I haven’t seen him today.”

“You won’t. The Duke sent him home. He’s got Selfer, Jori, and Kessim now.”

“What about Rassamir?”

“Oh, he went back to Vladi. He’s a nephew, or something like that. Well, then: what happened in the forest?”

Paks had relaxed; now she hunched her shoulders again. “We were moving fast; the light was fading…” She told it as it lived in her mind: the brigands suddenly around them, Canna down before she could string the bow, Saben fending off three, her own fall into the stream, the grinning man who ran down after her, sword in hand. “So—so I turned and—and ran.” Paks was trembling as she finished.

“Best thing you could have done,” said Stammel firmly. “Did they come after you?”

Paks nodded. “For awhile. They had bows—they shot. But the trees were thick, and it was getting dark—” There wasn’t much to tell about that long wet run in the dark, no way to describe what she’d felt, leaving her friends behind. “It took a long time, with the mud and all,” she said. “The sentry didn’t believe I was in the Duke’s Company at first. No wonder, really, dirty as I was. But Canna and Saben—” Paks could not go on.

“If you’d stayed,” said Stammel, “there’d have been three dead right there, besides all the prisoners, and those in Dwarfwatch as well. You didn’t kill them, Paks; the brigands did. Save your anger for them.” He leaned back against the wall and gave her a long look. “Do you really think their shades are angry with you? Canna left you her Girdish medallion, didn’t she?”

“How did you know that?”

“The Duke, of course. He was curious about that—asked me about you two. But think, Paks—if she’d been angry, she wouldn’t have left it for you.”

“I—I suppose not.”

“Of course not.” Stammel reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. “Paks, the Duke thinks you did well—and by Tir, he should! So did Canna. So does everyone I’ve heard speak of it. It was a hard choice; you chose well. Sometimes there’s no way—”

“I know that!” interrupted Paks, fighting tears. “But—”

Stammel sighed. “They were your best friends—and after that—Paks, you may hate me for this, but—did you ever bed Saben?”

Paks shook her head, unable to speak.

“That’s part of it, then.” He held up a hand as she looked up, angry. “No, hear me out. I’m not arguing about whether you did or didn’t: that’s your choice. But you two were closer than friends; it’s natural in friends to want to have given everything. I’d wager part of your sorrow now is that you didn’t give him that, when he wanted it. Isn’t it?”

Paks nodded, staring at the table. “Yes,” she whispered, “And yet, I—”

“You truly don’t want to—that’s obvious. You know, Paks, you really have chosen the most difficult way—or it’s chosen you, I’m not sure which. Remember, though, that Saben respected your choice. I know, because he told me that back when you were a recruit, in that trouble with Korryn.”

Paks felt herself blushing. She had never imagined Saben and Stammel discussing her that way.

Stammel chuckled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Anyway, if it’s not your nature—and I think it’s not—you have nothing to reproach yourself for. Saben liked you, and respected you, and even loved you. Grieve for him, of course—but don’t hamper yourself with guilt.”

Paks shook her head. She felt hollow inside, as if she had cried for a long time; yet she felt eased, too. She realized how silly it was to think of Saben’s shade hanging around unsatisfied because of her. Such a man, after such a death, would surely have gone straight to the Afterfields, to ride one of the Windsteed’s foals forever. She let a last few tears leak past her eyelids, took a long breath, and sipped her ale.

“Better?” asked Stammel. She nodded. “Good. Now,” he said briskly, “I’m still curious about that Girdish medallion. You never listened to Effa—had Canna been talking to you? Had you handled it?”

Paks leaned back, staring at her mug. “Well—I did handle it, once.”

“Well?” prompted Stammel.

“It was—well, I don’t know. It was strange.”

“So you didn’t tell the Duke’s scribe about it?” suggested Stammel.

“No. No, I didn’t. It wasn’t anything that concerned the Company, like the rest of it. And I don’t know what happened. If anything happened.”

“Were you thinking of becoming a Girdsman?”

“No. Nothing like that. I suppose it started the first night, when Canna asked us to pray with her. She knew we weren’t Girdsmen, but said it would be all right. The next day we could tell that she was having a lot of trouble with her wound. It was swollen and hot, very red. When Saben and I woke up the next morning, I remembered hearing that St. Gird healed warriors sometimes. Canna was a Girdsman; I thought he might heal her.” Paks paused for a sip of ale. Stammel watched her, brows furrowed.

“I asked her; she said it had to be a Marshal or paladin. But I thought if we could pray to Gird to help our friends, why not for healing?” Stammel made a noncommittal sound, and Paks hurried on. “Canna said to hold the medallion, and then ask for what I wanted. I put it on her shoulder, where the wound was, and asked for it to be healed.”

“Then?”

“It didn’t work. It just hurt her; she said it felt like a cramp. It didn’t get worse, and she could walk fast all that day, and from then on. But we found that pot of ointment, too. I don’t know—”

Stammel heaved a gusty sigh. “That’s—quite a story, Paks. Have you told anyone else?”

“No, sir. I don’t truly think I did anything. But it might be why Canna left the medallion to me. Maybe she hoped I’d become a Girdsman.”

“Maybe. They encourage converts. But that healing, now—”

“But it didn’t work,” said Paks. “Not like that magical healing, my first year. Some the mage touched, and some got a potion, but it didn’t hurt, and the wounds were healed right away.”

“Yes, but that was a wizard, someone whose job it was. You aren’t a Marshal or paladin; I wouldn’t have expected anything at all to happen. Or if it angered Gird, or the High Lord, it should have hurt you, not Canna. Did you feel anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

“And she did get better, well enough to draw a bow only five days later.”

“That might have been the ointment,” said Paks.

“Yes. It could have been. Or else—Tir’s bones, Paks, this makes my hair crawl. If you did do something—maybe you ought to find a Gird’s Marshal, and tell him about it.” Paks shook her head, and Stammel sighed again. “Well. Has anything strange happened since you’ve been wearing it? You are wearing it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And nothing’s happened—really.”

“No mysterious cramps that healed anyone, or saved lives?”

“No. Well—it’s not the same thing at all, but—it was a cramp in my back that saved me from a crossbow bolt in Rotengre.”

“What!”

“But it’s nothing to do with the medallion, Stammel. I’m sure of it. We’d been loading plunder all day; we were all tired. I was stooping over this slave we’d found, trying to talk her into getting up and coming along—she was so frightened, I didn’t want to drag her—and I got a kind of cramp in my back, and had to straighten up.”

“Yes?”

“And the crossbow bolt went where I’d been. There was a second concealed room behind the niche where we’d found the slave, and Captain Dorrin said the man in it was a priest of the Webmistress, Achrya.”

Stammel made a warding sign Paks knew. “One of her priests! And you—you just happened to get a cramp. What did Dorrin say?”

“That I was pushing my luck.”

“She would. Well, Paks, I can see why you haven’t talked about this. I think you’re right, unless you decide to find a Marshal. Just in case something is going on, you might like to find out what.”

Paks frowned. “But I don’t think anything is going on. And I’m not a Girdsman.”

“Whatever you say. You’re either damned lucky or gods-gifted, or you wouldn’t be here today. What a year you’ve had!” Stammel stretched, arching his back. “Well, it’s getting on toward second watch—” He took a final swallow of ale, and nodded for Paks to finish hers. “Now these recruits, Paks, have had their basic training in swords, and they can go through the pair exercises without spitting each other. But they need weapons drill in formation, and a lot of two and three on one. Their shieldwork is as bad as yours was—or worse. Tomorrow I want you to take your four and work on the basics. Be tough with ’em, but try not to scare them so they can’t work. All right?”

Paks relaxed, draining her mug. “Yes, sir.”

“You heard the captain say the Duke might join us. If he does—he’d rather take a fall than have one of us do something stupid.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”

“Come on, then.” They unfolded themselves from either side of the table, passed through the noisy common room, and went out into the frosty night.