“No, sir, by your leave. Let all of you line up, and go slowly—do you ever count the cadence for a slow drill? Yes? Good. If those of your men with the short clubs use much the same strokes, they can partner you, and the line can be long enough to work. I can anchor the center of the opposing line.” The Marshal agreed, and soon they had a line of four swords (for another man took up a blade, a little uncertainly) against Paks and three men with clubs. At first the drill was very ragged, but in a few strokes they all caught on, and Paks was able to talk them through it.
“You see,” she said, as the blades met clubs with light taps, “if you are in close formation you’ll hurt your partners if you shift too much. And leave yourself open, as well. There is a rhythm—and a trust—that your partner will be there. Not so much turn to the side—yes—and if you have a shield as well, you may foul your partner’s blade if you turn.” As practice went on, they grew used to the limited sideways movement, and Paks encouraged them to increase the tempo. After some minutes, the Marshal called a halt.
“Very good!” he exclaimed. “Very good indeed. Anything else?”
“I didn’t notice it in the others, sir,” said Paks, “but you and Ambros still seem to have too much flex in the wrist. You are trying to do more with the point than a short sword allows—it’s the quick thrust you want, not fencing about.” She expected him to be angry, but he was not.
“So. Each craft has its masters, and a knight’s training ill-suits an infantry soldier. I’ll try to remember that. Perhaps you’ll give us the benefit of your training again. And now, since you carry a long blade by choice, you should have the chance to practice with it, if you will. He handed Ambros his short blade and gestured to Paks. She handed over the short sword and went to pick up her own blade. When she had settled it to her satisfaction, the Marshal had also armed himself, and awaited her.
“I suggest we go into the grange itself,” he said. “The light is better.”
Paks followed him in. So, she noticed, did many of the other men.
“I don’t suggest the platform, since you aren’t used to it. But here—” His glance cleared a space in the crowd, and he drew.
“Now,” said Paks, smiling, “I expect you will have plenty to teach me.”
The Marshal grinned. “I should hope so. You have some good strokes; I noticed that yesterday, but—” He moved to attack.
For the next few minutes they circled first one way then the other, blades ringing with stroke after stroke. Paks had to use everything she knew, and all her size, to keep from being pricked again and again. Sweat poured down her back and stung her eyes. The Marshal met every thrust with a firm repulse, and she found herself more often defending than attacking. She found no weakness she could exploit, and wondered what old Siger would do against him. That thought almost made her laugh—she’d still back Siger against anyone, even a Marshal of Gird.
“Very good,” the Marshal said finally, still hard at work. “You certainly have a thorough grounding in long blades. I have a few tricks, but as far as plain fighting goes, you do very well.” Paks said nothing, needing all her concentration. Despite her best efforts, he made a touch the next moment, ripping her left sleeve from shoulder to elbow. “There, now,” he said. “I have regained the respect of our yeomen. Would you rest a bit?” He stepped back, and Paks lowered her weapon.
“I could stand to,” she said ruefully, wiping her face. “I see I still have a lot to learn—just as I thought.”
“The willing student learns quickly,” he said. “You need naught but experience to master this weapon as well as the other. Common swordsmen you could defeat now, quite easily I imagine.”
“Ah, but I like learning weaponcraft,” said Paks. She thought of Saben’s teasing with a pang. “I always have.”
“Good, then. You’re welcome here, any time. I’ll be glad to drill with you; you’re good enough to give me practice. Ambros, too. And mind—” he said briskly, fixing her with a sharp glance, “Mind, I intend to have you a Girdsman before long. Such skill as yours should be dedicated to a good cause. We need such fighters on the side of right, not running loose after idle gain.” Paks felt a flicker of anger at that, and her chin came up. “No—” He stopped and rubbed his head. “I shouldn’t say that of you, when I don’t know your allegiance, but Gird knows we’ve trouble enough coming, and few to meet it.” He grinned at her suddenly. “I still think you’ll make a fine Girdsman someday—even a Marshal, who knows?”
The others milled about, replacing weapons in racks on the grange walls, and taking their leave. Paks sheathed her sword, and turned to go. The Marshal was talking seriously to two men, low-voiced.
A hand touched her arm. It was Ambros. “If—if you’d come again, I’d like to drill with you—”
“Oh, I’ll come again, while I’m here. It’s good practice. But—don’t you have any women drilling with you?”
Ambros shook his head. “No. Not at this level. We’d had some in the beginners’ class—in fact, we have two there now. But those who want to go on, the Marshal sends elsewhere for more training.”
“I see.” She wondered why, but felt it would be impolite to ask.
“Were there many women in your company?”
“Maybe a quarter of us. One of the cohort captains.”
“I’ve heard of Duke Phelan. Isn’t his title from the court of Tsaia?”
“Yes. He has lands in the north of the kingdom, on the border.” Paks sighed. “I might—I might be going back there.”
“But you left his company, didn’t you? We thought you were a free sword.”
“Well—I was due leave, and—and the Duke thought perhaps I should try another company—another service—for a time. But I miss it; I’ve thought of going back.”
“Oh.” Paks could hear the unasked questions. Ambros stopped at the door, started to say something and stopped, and finally said, “Well—Gird go with you. We’ll be glad to see you again.”
It was late; few torches burned along the lanes. Paks made her way down the dark streets with care, following some distance behind several others from the grange. Cold night air, damp from the river, soothed her hot face. She caught a whiff from the tanner’s crossing the bridge. As she neared the crossroad, she saw light spilling from the inn’s windows. She slipped in the door, ignoring the few who sat late in the common-room, and went up the stairs to her own room. Her shoulder ached pleasantly. She pulled off her tunic and washed the sweat off, then remembered her unfinished dinner. She put on her other shirt and went back downstairs. Hebbinford rose from his place near the fire.
“Do you want the rest of your dinner?”
“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.” Paks settled at an empty table. Hebbinford brought a candle; a serving wench came with a tray. They had heated the leftovers by the kitchen fire, and the gravy was bubbling hot. She cut a slice of bread and began eating.
Several of those who had been at the drill clustered at one table over mugs of ale, chatting. One caught her eye and grinned and waved. The man in black that Paks had seen the previous night sat across the room, a flagon of wine at his elbow. Two men in merchants’ gowns diced idly nearby. One of them, looking around the room, saw her and nudged the other. They both rose and came to her table.
“I’m Gar Travennin,” said the older. “A merchant, as you see, from Chaya. Could we talk with you?”
Paks nodded; her mouth was full. They sat across from her. Travennin was balding, with a gray fringe. The younger man was blond.
“We hear you came over the mountains, from Aarenis.” Paks nodded again. “I heard there was more fighting than usual down there, and no trade this year. Is that so?”