"I'll take a look." At the Kuakgan's touch, the horse relaxed even more, and did not flinch even when the Kuakgan ran his strong hands down the hind legs. He paused when he came to the scar on the near leg. "A rope or wire cut him deeply here; it's a wonder he was not crippled by it. The wound healed cleanly, but the scar has grown to hamper the action of the joint a little. Do you find he sometimes seemed to drag his hoof there?"
Paks shook her head. "I've never seen it myself. But Marshal Cedfer says he does so, when I'm training with him."
"Hmmm. Perhaps I can ease that for him." Paks did not see him do anything, but he laid his hand over the scar a long moment, and then on the other leg. "Now," he said, as he straightened up, "I would see you ride, young woman."
Paks felt her belly clench. Would he make the horse rear and buck? Run away? She was sure he could do that. Or would he criticize what Marshal Cedfer had taught her? Her fingers felt huge and clumsy as she set the saddle on the horse's back, arranged the crupper and breastband, girthed up, and bridled. The Kuakgan inspected the tack, running the leather through his hands, touching the bit with his fingers. At last there was nothing to do but mount. The horse had picked up Paks's tension, and stiffened his ears, but he stood still while she gained the saddle.
Once up, habit reasserted itself, and she gave to the horse's movement. She rode around the stableyard twice, then made a few circles and other figures around the dungheap. She looked at the Kuakgan; he gestured for her to ride outside. Paks sighed, nodded, and guided the black through the gate.
The Kuakgan led her out of town, eastward. Paks followed, the black horse stepping along lightly. He turned as she caught up with him.
"I think you have done well so far," he said. "Ride ahead, now, and turn back when you come to the edge of the grove."
Paks nudged the horse into a slow trot, halted and turned where she was bid, and rode back.
"He should have no more trouble with those scars," said the Kuakgan. "He's moving easier. Could you feel it?"
"It seems springier, somehow."
"Yes, and he will be able to do some of those fancy things the Marshal would like to teach you. Too bad they're used for fighting only. If it did not risk his death or yours, I'd be happier about it." He smiled up at her. "But you and he were meant to be so, perhaps. I wish you well, Paksenarrion. You may come again to the grove, if you wish; you have a definite talent with animals. That is, in part, what hurt you so when you misused it." He waved and turned away. Paks sat still, and watched him cross the road and enter the grove by leaping the wall. She almost called a warning, then realized that it would hold no perils for him. He had disappeared among the trees when she lifted the reins and rode to the grange along the street for the first time.
Chapter Thirteen
In the next few days, Paks rode along most of the roads near town, and began to explore the small lanes and paths that led to outlying farmsteads. She found nothing; she was not even sure what she was looking for. But at least, she thought, she had a better idea of the surrounding land. It was richer than the land around Three Firs. Most farm folk had an orchard of apples and pears; for grain they grew wheat as well as northern barley and oats. Redroots, onions, and other vegetables grew in every kitchen garden. Paks saw the local hogs, hefty red beasts with yellow eyes, rooting in the roadside woods and hedges. Sleek dun-colored cattle with dark horns grazed the pastures.
Then, returning to Brewersbridge on the west road one afternoon, she got her first clue. Low sun behind her threw her shadow far ahead. In that slanting light, she saw something glint on a treetrunk beside the road. She rode toward it, suddenly alert.
As she came nearer, she saw that it was nothing but the tree itself—instead of dark furrowed bark, pale underbark lay open to the sun from a narrow gash. Paks halted the black horse, her brow furrowed in thought. She'd heard of such signs—the scouts in the Duke's Company had had a system of marks on trees and wayside rocks. But she had no idea what this one meant—if indeed it were anything but an accident.
She turned the black horse off the road, and made a half-circle in the woods around the marked tree. Nothing but a game trail, that ended a few yards from the road. She came out to the road again, and thought about it. Game trail? Why would a game trail stop suddenly? She had seen others that crossed the road. Her neck prickled, and she looked around at the silent trees. Nothing. She thought of returning to the mysterious trail, but decided to ride on as if she had found nothing. As she jogged on toward town, she heard a distant call off to her right—a herdsman, perhaps, or perhaps someone else.
That night was drill night again. Paks drank a quick bowl of soup in the crowded common room, then went upstairs to change. When she came downstairs, the tall young man she'd noticed the first day in the common room called to her.
"Lady Paks! Going to drill? Walk with us, why don't you?" His grin was nearly as wide as his shoulders. Two other men, that Paks remembered but vaguely from the first night's drill smiled at her.
Paks nodded at them. She wondered who they were.
"I'm Mal Argonist," said the one who had called her. "I'm the forester here, since my brother went away. I saw you the day you came in."
"Amisi," said the dark one at his side. "I'm a farmer, just east there—beyond the grove, those grain fields."
"Adgan," said the redhead. "I work for Amisi, right now."
"He's my senior herdsman."
"They're just learning sword drill," said Mal. "I told 'em they should use an axe, but—"
"Mal, for Gird's sake don't start on that—"
"What?" asked Paks.
"Axes. Mal thinks everyone should fight with an axe. It's all right for him, as big as he is, and using an axe every day. But—"
"In formation?" Paks tried to imagine it. She knew that some knights fought with small axes, but she'd never heard of a foot soldier using one.
"Nah—not formation exactly." Mal laughed loudly. "It's a right Girdish weapon, that's all, being taken from our tools, you see. And I've killed wolf with it—"
"With an axe?" Paks stared at him.
"Oh, aye. Just you swing it from side to side, see—like the Master Smith does his hammer, that's all. It's the very thing. Won't break like a sword will." He laughed again, and Paks eyed him narrowly. If she had seen him in a tavern in Aarenis, she'd have thought him a stupid lout. He was two fingers taller than she, and built like an ale barrel. She'd seen him drain a tankard at one swallow. Yet he didn't move like a drunkard, and his great arms showed solid muscle.
Several more yeomen had joined them, hurrying out of side lanes. For a few moments, Paks felt almost at home, almost as if she were going somewhere with Stammel and other friends. Then one of them nudged another and spoke.
"Is it true, lady, that the Council has hired you?"
Paks was too surprised to make a good pretence of ignorance. "Why do you ask?" she said finally.
"Well—you've got money enough, that's obvious, and you make no sign of leaving. Could be you bribed them, or could be they hired you."
"Doryan!" Mal's bellow startled Paks as much as the statement.
"Don't yell at me, Mal. I've a right to ask, as much as anyone." Doryan shifted away from Mal, nonetheless, and winked at Paks. He was middle-aged, slightly stooped, and she had no idea what his trade was. "If you don't want to say, that's all right. Just asking."
Paks thought what she could say. The Council had not told her to keep her mission quiet, but she had planned to say nothing. How else could she find the spy they thought lived in Brewersbridge? "The Council decided," she said, "that I was no threat to the peace here. I had ordered goods, and they gave me leave to stay until these were made up. They did say you'd had trouble with brigands attacking caravans. Since I have been a soldier, they asked me to consider leading some volunteers against them."
"Huh!" Mal grunted and rubbed his neck as he walked. "Have to find them first, don't you? We all know they're out there, but no one's seen them."<
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"But who would go with you?" asked Doryan. He had an irritating whine in his voice. "We don't know you—the militia don't—and they don't think you could fight all those brigands alone, do they?"
Paks answered Mal first. "You're right, no one can say where they are. I don't even know where to start looking. If I ever get that black horse tamed down—"
"I've seen you riding out," said Adgan. "One time I saw him shy, and you nearly went over his ears."
Paks blushed, grateful for the evening gloom. "Yes—the Marshal's teaching me, but I still fall off now and then. Anyway, I thought I could ride around and look for the brigands that way, but not until I can look at something besides his ears."
"You rode through town today," said Doryan. Paks began to dislike him very much.
"Yes," she said shortly.
"You don't want to go looking for brigands alone," said Mal, more quietly than she'd heard him speak. "What if you found them?"
"I'd ride away," said Paks. "Very quickly."
"That's right; you're not a Girdsman." Doryan managed a sneer. Before Paks could react, Amisi and Adyan took him up on it.
"Doryan, that's stupid—"
"What's she to do, be hogstuck by a dozen brigands? That's not Gird's way; you know the Marshal says Girdsmen have to think as well as fight."
"I still think—" began Doryan. Mal punched his shoulder hard enough to make him gasp.
"Doryan, you don't think. You just talk. The lady Paks is our guest in the grange, and if you treat her like this she never will join the Fellowship. We've all seen her drill; we know she'd be a good Girdsman. Marshal hopes she'll join the grange, and so do I. Leave her be, man. You haven't caught any brigands yourself."
By this time they were approaching the barton gate. This time the boy on guard recognized Paks and grinned at her as she entered. Drill went much as before, with most of her time spent teaching the few swordsmen to use short blades in formation. Ambros and the Marshal did much better; Paks decided they must have been practicing in private. As he was dismissing them from drill, the Marshal asked Paks to carry a message to Sir Felis.
"Cal or Doryan could take it," he said, as some of the men turned to listen. "But even though they live on that side of town, it's an extra couple of miles for either of them—and they start work early in the morning. It wouldn't take you long, to ride out there—"
"I'll be glad to," said Paks honestly. She had been looking for a good reason to talk to Sir Felis in privacy.
"And I can't work with you for a couple of days," the Marshal went on. "That's why the message must go tonight. I'm leaving for barton court rounds immediately. Ambros here will handle matters at the grange. Drill as usual—" he said to the others. "I expect I'll be back in a few days, but Ambros will take drill if I'm not. Paksenarrion, I suggest that you and Ambros ride together an hour or more a day—but don't try mounted drill until I return. And if you can give him a couple of hours of swordplay, it'll be good for both of you."
The other men left at last, and the Marshal ushered Paks back to his study. On his desk was a leather tube; Paks could see the paper rolled inside. He nodded at it. "That's for Sir Felis; it explains what I'm doing. Now—you seemed uneasy tonight. What have you found?"
Paks told him about the blazed tree, and the "game" trail that ended a few yards from it and the road. The Marshal nodded. "I think you've found something important. If you'll take my advice, don't ride that way tomorrow. If you were seen pausing there—well, it could be very dangerous. Right now a single arrow could end your campaign. Anything else?"
Paks hesitated. She glanced at Ambros, leaning against the door. He shrugged and moved back into the passage. "I—I'm not sure. One of the yeomen said something—"
"Asked or said?"
"Asked, at first, about my business with the Council. He asked if I'd been hired or if I'd—I'd bribed them."
The Marshal's face stiffened. "Who?"
"Sir, I don't think he meant insult—"
"I didn't ask that. I asked who it was."
"I think his name is Doryan."
The Marshal nodded. "That doesn't surprise me. Doryan is—difficult, sometimes. He became a Girdsman after he moved here. Anything more?"
Paks thought of Doryan's words and decided none of them were important. "Not really, no."
He looked thoughtfully at her before going on. "Paksenarrion, it's my business to defend my yeomen, if they need it. Don't be afraid to tell me what they say."
"But I don't want to be—" she couldn't think how to say what she meant, that no soldier held another to close account for every word, or told even a sergeant what a friend had said.
"You are not of our fellowship yet," said the Marshal with a smile. "Now—I meant what I said about you and Ambros riding out together. Race the horses, if you will—anyone will understand that. Ride north and east for a day or so. Wear your mail, and keep alert. If you find where the brigands are hiding out, talk to Sir Felis before you do anything. Don't wait for my return, if you need to take action, but don't rush things, either. Ambros will not be able to go with you on an attack; until I return, his primary responsibility must be the grange."
A little later, Paks rode north out of town toward the keep. Most of the houses were dark; the black horse's hoofbeats echoed in the quiet streets. She had put on her mail shirt, and kept one hand close to her dagger.
At the keep, torches burned at the perimeter fence and on the building itself. An alert sentry challenged her; she waited while he took her name in, and returned to escort her to the entrance. There another soldier led her upstairs to Sir Felis's workroom, a long room with two tables littered with papers and maps. Sir Felis and Master Zinthys, standing together near one table, looked up as she entered.
"You have an urgent message from the Marshal?"
"Yes, sir." Paks pulled the leather tube from her tunic and passed it over. Zinthys smiled at her, as Sir Felis, frowning, worked the paper out of the tube and unrolled it. Zinthys wore a different, but equally rich-looking velvet robe, trimmed in white fur around the shoulders. Paks noticed, once again, the graceful movements of his hands.
"Why don't you sit down, Paksenarrion? We have spiced wine ready on the fire—would you care for some?"
Paks shook her head, not certain what courtesy demanded, but sat in the chair Zinthys pointed out. He moved to the one next to her, and sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs.
"I'll have some then, if you permit." He hooked a potlift in the handle of a can on the hearth, and poured the wine into his mug. "Ah. These chill autumn nights make the best of wine. You should try it." He slid his eyes sideways at her. "Or perhaps you drink only ale?"
"I—most soldiers drink ale," said Paks. "Wine—we had that with an herb in it, if we were wounded."
"Numbwine. Yes. Not as good as a potion, but good enough. But you're hardly a common soldier now, lady, and you might find you liked spiced wine." Zinthys poured another mug full and passed it to her. Paks took it, and sipped. Zinthys watched her, his eyebrows raised. "Well?"
"It's—very good." She looked down, and sipped again. It was good, a red wine flavored with her favorite spices.
"Have you found any trace of our brigands?" asked Zinthys.
"No, sir, unless something I saw today—" She told him about the blazed tree, and answered his questions. She started to add what the Marshal had explained about the possible uses of such a blaze in setting an ambush, but remembered in time that Sir Felis probably already knew that. He nodded.
"Fresh blazes. There's that merchant from Chaya in town now—wasn't he planning to leave tomorrow, Zinthys?"
"That's right. Master merchant Cobai Trav-something, and his gnome partners—"
"Gnomes?" asked Paks, sitting up.
"Yes. What is it, haven't you seen gnomes before?"
"No. I've heard of them—" she remembered Bosk talking about gnomes, elves, and dwarves on her first trip south.
"Well, around here you
'll see gnomes fairly often. I'm surprised you didn't see these at the inn today. Two of the gnome kingdoms are less than a three days' ride from here. If you meet them, remember that they're very strict."
"Strict?"
Zinthys laughed. "They make a court judge look like a juggler, Paksenarrion. They are full of dignity, and pride, and the right way to do everything—Ashto help you if you laugh at a gnome, or fail to complete a contract."
"They don't like wizards," said Sir Felis dryly. Paks glanced at him, and he grinned slightly, cocking his head at Zinthys. Zinthys flushed.
"It's not that, Sir Felis—it's that they're so—so—" He waved his hands in the air. "Sober," he finished. "Dead serious all the time, that's gnomes."
"Anyway," Sir Felis went on, "there's a west-bound caravan in town now—headed for the gnome kingdoms next, and then Vérella. And if that blaze is fresh, it could mean that the brigands are planning to attack."
"It won't do any good to tell gnomes," said Zinthys.
"No, perhaps not. But I will send word to the caravan master. Not you, Paks—" he said, as she opened her mouth. "I don't want you to ride with this caravan—you weren't hired as a guard. If the brigands do strike, they should leave some trace you can follow to find their lair."
Sir Felis agreed with the Marshal's advice to ride out in other directions for the next day or so. Paks took this chance to look at his maps one more time, and fix in her mind the location of the ruined buildings he thought might harbor brigands.
* * *
The next morning when Paks went out to care for the black horse, she found the inn yard noisy and crowded. The day before she had been so excited about the blaze that she hardly noticed the new arrivals. Now teamsters were hitching teams of heavy mules to wagons. Paks realized that the short fellows she'd dismissed as someone's boys were actually not human—gnomes, she assumed. They were not so stout as the dwarves she'd seen; they wore plain clothes of gray and brown. Sevri merely nodded to her, darting quickly from one stall to another as she finished her morning's work. Paks decided to eat breakfast at the inn, after feeding the horses, so that she could watch the caravan leave.
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