Divided Allegiance

by Elizabeth Moon

  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?"

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Paks took a long breath, clutching the sodden scarf in her hands. "Sir, I—I lost my temper, and was rude to Marshal Cieri, and he doesn't want me in his class."

  "I see." His face looked almost as cold as the first day. "And you come to me about it—why? "

  "I thought I should." She swallowed painfully the lump that had been growing in her throat for the past half-hour. "Sir."

  "You want me to plead for you? Without hearing his story?"

  "No, sir." Why was everyone misunderstanding what she meant? Paks plunged on. "It isn't that—I thought I was supposed to tell you—"

  "He told you to?" That was with raised brows.

  "No, sir," said Paks miserably. "I mean—you're the Training Master—if this were the Company, I'd have to tell the sergeant—"

  His voice gained a hint of warmth. "You're saying that you are doing what you would have done in Duke Phelan's Company? Reporting something you did wrong?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I see." His fingers drummed on the desk. "You agree that whatever happened was your fault?"

  Paks nodded. Thinking back, she knew that Siger or Stammel would have reacted just as Cieri had—if not worse.

  "Well, suppose you tell me about it. And by the way, how did you get hurt?"

  "You knew I'd asked to learn axe fighting?" Paks waited for his nod, then went on. "I'd been doing drills with the axe—not hitting anything, and today Marshal Cieri set up a target. A log, with limbs." Paks stopped. It seemed even worse as she tried to think how to say what had happened.

  "Yes?"

  "Well—sir—I had trouble with it—he'd said I would—"

  "And you lost your temper over that?"

  "No, sir. Not then. After awhi
le I made some chips of it, and then he wanted me to hit specific targets. Only when I started, he—he got after me for not thinking of it as live, for giving it a chance to hit back." She looked up to see the Training Master's lips folded tightly. As bad as that, then. She went on. "Then I hit a limb—he said to think of it as an arm—and when I went to hit again, he was angry that I hadn't allowed for it to move. So I jumped at it, and hit it really hard, and the limb broke and the axe hit my leg."

  "How badly?"

  "Just a cut. But then I was angry, and I was about to—to swing as hard as I could, and he stopped the axe." Paks looked up again. "I didn't know he could do that."

  "It's not something we demonstrate very often," said the Training Master, in a neutral voice. "Go on."

  Paks ducked her head. "Then he said he thought I knew better than to lose my temper, and that I wouldn't be any good at axe-work, like he'd said. And that's when—"

  "What did you say, Paksenarrion?"

  "I said—" she paused to remember the words. "I said I could learn, if he wouldn't harass me. It—I was wrong, sir, and I know it. I knew it as soon as I said it—"

  "Did you apologize?"

  "Yes, sir; I told him I was sorry—"

  "Did you mean it?"

  Paks looked up, startled.

  "Were you sorry for being rude, or sorry he was angry with you, or sorry you'd lost your temper in the first place?"

  "I—I don't know, sir. I suppose—I was just sorry about everything."

  "Hmph. So then what happened?"

  Paks told the rest as well as she could, and on being prompted added the conversation with the dwarves. When she had finished, the Training Master sighed.

  "So you came to me, because you thought you should, and you expect me to do—what? What do you think will happen now?"

  Paks met his gaze squarely. "I think you'll send me away," she said. "If that's what all of you think—that it's unfair to spend the time when I'm not a Girdsman. And even if I were—he said it would be bad—you might still."

  "Do you think we should send you away?"

  Paks didn't know what to say to this. For a moment she looked away, but when her eyes returned to his face it held the same quiet expectancy. She thought the question over. "Sir, I—I don't know what your rules are—what your limits are. If I do what you don't want, then of course you have the right to send me away. But I can't think what is best for you—for the Fellowship. If it is best to, then you will. Otherwise—I don't know."

  "Well, if you are convinced we will send you away, why come to me? Why not simply go pack your things and leave? Or tell us you're leaving, and not wait to be dismissed?"

  "But—I couldn't do that. It would be—" She could not think of the right words; she knew it would be wrong, and somehow worse than wrong. "Discourteous," she finally said. "Ungrateful. It's my fault, and you have the right; I don't."

  He shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure I follow your reasoning, Paksenarrion. You agree that we have the right to dismiss you, if you displease us—but you think you have no right to withdraw?"

  "If I didn't want to stay—or if something happened, perhaps to my family or something—then I could, but it wouldn't be fair to—to walk out when it was my fault."

  He pounced on that. "Fair. You're trying to be what you think is fair?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you said 'if I didn't want to stay'—does that mean you do want to stay?"

  "Of course I do," said Paks, louder than she'd meant to.

  "There's no 'of course' to it," he replied crisply. "Many who come here to train don't like it, and don't want to stay. Are you saying that even after Cieri's thrown you out of his class—in front of everyone—you'd still prefer to stay here?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Why?"

  Her hands twitched. "It's—it's what I always wanted to learn. These weeks have been the best of my life."

  "Until today."

  "Yes, sir." Then she looked at him again. "If I could stay—today is not much, really—"

  "Oh?" His brows went up again; Paks's heart sank. "You call an axe wound, and having the senior weaponsmaster refuse to have you in his class 'not much'? We have different views, Paksenarrion."

  "I'm—"

  "You're sorry. I'm sure." He sighed again. "Paksenarrion, we accept occasional outsiders—non-Girdsmen—because we know that good hearts and good fighters may choose another patron. You have an unusual background; it may be that you have seen that which makes today seem minor to you. But to us it is important. We have all watched you, for these weeks, and been puzzled. You are capable, intelligent, hardworking, physically superior to most of the others. You have gotten along with the others, juniors and seniors both. You don't brawl, get into arguments, get drunk, or try to seduce the Marshals. If you were a Girdsman, we would be more than pleased with your progress. Yet you have reserves, you harbor mysteries, which we cannot fathom. All our skills say these are not evil—yet great evil has been known to masquerade as good, just as a beautiful cloak can cover an evil man. This—today—is the first chink in your behavior. Is it characteristic? Is this the true Paksenarrion coming out? And why have you refused to make any commitment? Marshal Cieri does, in this way, speak for all of us. We would welcome you gladly as a knight-candidate—perhaps more—if you were of the Fellowship of Gird. But until you show us some willingness to give in return for what you are given—more than that surface pleasantness you have shown, I must concur with him."

  Paks sat still, unable to move or speak. She had never really believed that anyone could think she was evil. She longed to be back with the Duke's Company, where Stammel, she was sure, would defend her against any such accusation. Why had she ever left that safe haven? Into that shock, her leg intruded, throbbing more insistently. She blinked a few times, and lifted her head.

  "Yes, sir," she said, through stiff lips. "I—I will go pack."

  "Gird's right arm!" The Training Master's voice must have echoed through the entire first floor. "That's not what I said, girl!" Paks stared at him. "You have the choice—make it!"

  "Choice?" Paks could not think.

  "You can become a Girdsman," said the Training Master crisply. "Has that not occurred to you?"

  "No," said Paks with more honesty than tact.

  "Then it should have. By the gods, girl, you think better than that in tactics class. You recognize what the problem is: you want to stay for more training, and we are unwilling to give more training without some return. How much do you want to stay? What are you willing to give? And what did you want the training for, if not to follow Gird?"

  Paks felt her heart pounding so that she could scarcely draw breath. "You mean I could join—but if you think I'm bad, why would you—"

  The Training Master gave a disgusted snort. "I didn't say I thought you were evil. I said it was a possibility. Do you want to join the Fellowship of Gird? Will you pay that price?"

  "I—" Paks choked a moment and went on. "Sir, I want to stay. If that is what—but will Gird accept it?"

  "We can talk of Gird himself later, Paksenarrion. What we, the Marshals, are looking for is something less than what Gird may ask. Is it something your Duke told you, that makes you dislike Gird so? Or have you another patron you haven't told us about?"

  Paks shook her head. "No, sir. It's nothing like that; all I have been told of Gird I admire, and here you teach that Gird is a servant of the High Lord, not a god to worship instead of him. But—" She could not explain the obscure reserve and resentment she felt, and worked her way toward it haltingly. "When I was in the Duke's Company, I knew Girdsmen. Effa was killed in her first battle—but that doesn't matter. I think it was when Canna was captured and killed. She was a Girdsman, but it didn't help. She died, and not in clean battle, even though we were trying to reach the Duke, and tell him about Siniava's capture of the fort. If Gird saved anyone, why not Canna, his own yeoman? Why me?"

  "You don't like the notion that great deeds
reward the hero with a quick death?"

  Paks shook her head more vigorously. "No, sir. And hers wasn't quick, by what I was told. Capture, and a bad wound—that's no reward for faithful service. And she was the one hit at the fort itself, by a stray arrow. Why didn't Gird protect her then? She kept us together, led the way—it should have been her chance, that last day, not mine." She felt the old anger smouldering still, and fought it down. "And more than that—the captain said it was probably Canna's medallion that saved me from death in Rotengre—but I'm a soldier. Why didn't Gird save the slave, or the baby? Why did they have to die?" Now more scenes from Aarenis recurred: the child in Cha, the frightened rabble in Sibili, Cal Halveric's drawn face, old Harek dying after torture. And worse things, from the coastal campaign. She set her jaw, feeling once more that old sickness and revulsion, that helpless rage at injustice, that had driven her from the Duke's Company to travel alone.

  The Training Master nodded slowly; she could see nothing mocking in his face. "Indeed, Paksenarrion, you ask hard questions. Let me answer the easiest one first. You ask why Gird did not save his own yeoman, and the answer to that is that Girdsmen are called to save others, not be saved." He held up his hand to stop the questions that leaped into her mouth. "No—listen a moment. Of this I am sure, both from the archives and from my own knowledge. Gird led unarmed farmers into battle with trained soldiers—do you think they won their freedom without loss? Of course not. Even the yeomen of Gird—even the novice members of the Fellowship—have to accept a soldier's risks. Above that level, as yeoman-marshal, Marshal, High Marshal, and so on—and as paladin—Girdsmen know that their lives are forfeit in need. Gird protects others through the Fellowship—he does not protect the Fellowship as a shepherd protects sheep. We are all his shepherds, you might say."

  Paks thought about that. "But Canna—"

  "Was your friend, and you mourn her. That is good. But as a yeoman of Gird, she risked and gave her life to save others—or that's what it sounds like you're saying."

  "It's true."

  "Now—about those innocents who are not Girdsmen, and are killed. This is why the Fellowship of Gird trains every yeoman—to prevent just that. But in many lands we are few—our influence is small—"