The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Siger, the Duke’s old armsmaster, had come south since, as he said, the Duke had left him nothing to do at home.

  “You must be some quicker,” he greeted Paks. “Or by what I hear you wouldn’t be alive. Here—take these bandas for your recruits. Who’ve you got?” Paks told him. “Volya’s quick, but not strong enough yet,” he said. “Her shieldwork’s wretched. Keri forgets things. Keep after him. Jenits is the best of those—just needs practice and seasoning. Sim’s very strong, but slow. Not clumsy, exactly—just slow. I’ll check on you later.”

  Paks collected her little group in one corner of a yard that grew more crowded every minute. With swords alone, they looked fairly good. Sim hung a fractional beat behind the count, but it hardly showed. She had them pick up shields. Now the drill grew ragged. Sim slowed more, and Keri kept shoving his shield too far to one side. Volya couldn’t seem to get hers high enough. Paks had them pair off, still working on the counted drill. With this stimulus, Volya improved her shieldwork, but Sim stayed slow. Keri made touches he should not have, and Sim failed to take advantage of Keri’s bad shieldwork. Jenits still looked good. Paks moved around them, watching carefully at every stroke, and talking herself hoarse. Finally she stopped them for a water break.

  “I suppose,” she said, after a drink had restored her voice, “that Siger told you, Sim, that you are too slow?” He nodded. “And Volya—if your shield is down around your ankles, it won’t do any good, right?” Volya blushed. “And you, Jenits,” she went on. “You may be the best of this group, but you have a long way to go.”

  “Siger said I was coming well,” said Jenits. Paks grinned. She’d hoped for a challenge; it would be a welcome change from talking.

  “Well, let’s see. Maybe I was fooled by watching you with another recruit. The rest of you: don’t sit; you’ll stiffen in the cold.” Paks drew her sword, took Volya’s shield, and faced Jenits. He did not look as confident as the moment before. “Come on,” said Paks. “Get that shield up where it’ll do you some good. Now start at the beginning.”

  Jenits began the drill cautiously, as if he thought his sword would break on contact. She countered the strokes easily, without any flourishes, murmuring the numbers as a reminder. He put more bite in the strokes, and Paks responded by stepping up the pace, and strengthening her own. She did not deviate from the drill, but in a few minutes Jenits was sweating and puffing, and she had tapped his banda half a dozen times. She stopped him.

  “Jenits, you have the chance to be very good. But right now you’re about half as fast as you should be—and half as fit. Your speed will come with practice; the way we’re going to drill will take care of the fitness, too. Now walk around and catch your breath while I try the others.” Paks was pleased to see that Jenits no longer looked sulky, just thoughtful. She beckoned to Volya, handed back her shield, and took another. Volya was very quick, and her strokes were firm, but she could not keep her shield high enough.

  “Is that arm just weak, or did something happen to it?”

  “It was broken once, by a cow. I’ve tried to strengthen it.”

  “You’ll have to do better. If you can’t keep that shield up, you won’t survive your first battle. What have you tried?”

  “Siger suggested some exercises. I do those—when I remember them.”

  “You’ll remember them,” said Paks grimly, “unless you like the idea of dying very young. Right now, while you’re resting, raise and lower your shield fifty times—and go this high—” She pushed the shield until it was as high as she wanted it. “Go on, now. Sim, come here.”

  Sim, a ruddy young boy with a husky build, moved flat-footed. Paks pointed this out, and he tried to stand on his toes instead, moving even more stiffly and slowly. “No, Sim. Not standing on your toes. Just lift your heels a little. Did you ever skip?” She knew as she asked that he had never skipped in his life, and he shook his round head. “Let’s try again, then.” Sim had a powerful stroke, but so slow that Paks could easily hit twice for each of his. Nothing she said or did made him faster, and she gave up in a few minutes. At least he was strong and tireless.

  Keri was the last, and his main problems were sloppy shieldwork and a very short memory. At least, he kept getting the sequence of drill wrong. Several times Paks had to pull her stroke to keep from hurting him badly; he moved exactly the wrong way. She led him through the tricky parts again and again, then turned him over to Jenits. “No variations,” she said. “He’s got to do this right first.” Paks returned to Volya and Sim, and had them pair up without shields. When they started, she began her own exercises while watching them. All around her she heard the clatter of blades and shields, the busy voices of instructors.

  “What do you think of them, Paks?” It was Siger, buckling on a sword belt. “Planning to take my job?”

  Paks grinned. “I didn’t know it was so hard to teach—my voice gave out. But they’re about what you said. Sim’s impossibly slow; he’s dead if he doesn’t improve.”

  “True. Want to go a round?”

  “Gla
dly,” said Paks. “Swords only, or shields?”

  “Both. Clear your group and give us room.” Paks told her recruits to break, and they stepped away.

  “Ready?” asked Siger.

  Paks nodded. They began with the same drill the recruits knew, but they picked up the tempo smoothly, until it was much faster. Siger began hitting harder; Paks followed suit. Then Siger left the drill sequence, skipping in for a thrust, but Paks countered it, and drove him back. Paks circled, looking for an opening. She tried to force Siger’s shield, and took a smart blow on the shoulder. In the next exchange, she tapped his chest. They circled and reversed like a pair of dancers.

  “You are quicker,” said Siger. “You’re doing well. But do you know this—” and with a peculiar stroke Paks had never seen he trapped her blade and flicked it away. Someone laughed. Their encounter had attracted more watchers than her recruits. Paks glared at Siger, who was bouncing toward her again. She had her dagger out now, and the watchers were very quiet. With good shieldwork and her long reach, she kept him from touching her, but she couldn’t reach him. She thought hard, catching stroke after stroke on her shield until she remembered something she’d seen a Blue Rider do. Suddenly she pivoted to his shield side, jammed the edge of her shield behind his, and threw her weight toward him. Siger staggered to the side, and her dagger stroke was square in the back of his banda.

  “Ha!” he cried. “Enough! And where did you learn that little trick?”

  Paks grinned at him. “Here and there, you might say.” She was breathless and glad for the rest.

  “Here’s your sword, Paks,” said Rauf. She looked at the respectful faces around them and took the sword, checking it for damage. Siger drove the others away and came back, patting her arm.

  “That was good. Very good. Show me slowly, please.” He stood in front of her, and Paks demonstrated the pivot again. She did not explain that she had seen it used on horseback, and had coaxed the Blue Rider to show her on foot.