Saben shrugged. “I just go for what’s in front of me. It makes sense when Stammel shows us with sticks and things, but I can’t see it with real people. You can’t tell what they’ll do. All we can do is follow commands.”
“But those who give the commands have to know what they’re doing,” said Paks.
“We’re a long way from that,” said Saben dryly. “Or are you planning to leave and start your own company?”
Paks stopped a moment, and squinted up at the sky. “No. Or—I don’t know. I can’t say. No, I suppose not— it’s a silly thought. I just—just keep thinking about it. I can’t stop. Why the captains put us there, or why their commander never used his archers on the flank, like the Duke did. That was stupid, Saben, that last time. They had the archers, but they held them back where they couldn’t see. If they’d been in that wood on the right—”
“I’m glad their commander didn’t think of it.” Saben looked at his mending and tugged the cloth to test it. “Ah. One more chore done. Are you nearly finished?”
“Sword’s done. I notched the dagger yesterday.”
“I told you you’d honed it too fine. We’re on in less than a glass.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I just want to smooth this—one—spot. No, I’ll tell you, Saben, what I’d like. I’d like to make sergeant someday. Years away, I know, and only six in the Company, but—I’d like that.”
“Well, if you don’t lose an arm or leg somewhere, or get killed outright, you ought to do it. You don’t get drunk, or lose things, or brawl, or cause any sort of trouble. And you fight well. Now me—”
“Saben, you’re as good as I am. Better, even—”
He shook his head. “No, and you know it.
“You don’t need much practice; you’re already quicker.” Paks took a last stroke with her whetstone, wiped the dagger blade carefully with a scrap of soft hareskin, and sheathed it.
“Maybe. I used to be faster than you—but you’ve gotten better. The thing is, I’ve got what I want. A life I like, good friends, enough pay for the extras I want. The only other thing would be—” he slid a glance at Paks. When she met his eyes, she reddened and looked down.
“Saben, you know I—”
“You don’t want it. I know. Not from me or anyone. Well, I’m not asking: just if you did ever change. If it was just Korryn, I mean.”
Paks ducked her head lower and stared at the ground. “No. Even before. I just don’t feel that way.”
He sighed. “I’m glad it wasn’t Korryn. Don’t worry; I won’t bother you.”
She looked up. “You never have.”
“Good. I still want to be friends. Besides that, you are—Paks if you ever did have a company, you would be a good commander. I would follow you. I don’t think you’ll stop at sergeant, if you want more.”
Paks blushed, then grinned sheepishly. “Even a warhorse?”
Saben nodded. “Lady Paksenarrion, in shining armor on a great war-horse, with a magic sword—don’t laugh at me, companion! Here I’m giving you a good-luck prophecy and you laugh at me. Ha! See if I ever warn you about overhoning your blades again.”
“No, but really, Saben—a sheepfarmer’s daughter? That’s ridiculous!” But her eyes danced to think of it.
“So laugh. Would you rather a bad-luck prophecy? Let’s see—”
“No! Don’t ill-wish! Let’s go; I’ve got to get ready for guard.”
The fort’s wall, high above the village, was quiet in the late afternoon. Paks and Saben reported to the sergeant, an Ifoss militiaman, and took their station. West of the fort lay the hay meadows, striped with light and dark green as the second cutting dried in swathes. They walked back and forth, watching the road and tracks that converged on the fort, and looking along the rooftops and lanes below. The sun dropped, touching the woodland beyond the hay meadows.
“Good weather—it’s nice up here when it’s dry,” said Paks.
“Better this watch than the day, though. It’s been hot. I wonder how long we’ll be here.”
“I hadn’t thought. Do you think the Duke will get another contract this year?”
“Mmm. While you were working out this morning—”
“Go on, Saben.”
“A courier came in—from the northwest. Could be Valdaire. Anyway, he went straight to the captain’s chambers, Cully said.”
“Wonder what that’s about. Valdaire.”
“Or anything in between. Maybe one of the others has found where that wolf whatever is.”
“There’s a fight I’d like to be in.”
“And I.”
They turned at the corner tower and headed south again along the wall. A cool breeze had come with the falling sun; it brought the scent of hay. Paks stretched. “Umph. I’ve got a kink in my shoulder.”
“What from, this morning?”
“Yes. Hofrin had us working on unarmed combat, and I thought he’d tear my arm loose at the shoulder. Somehow I can’t get the hang of it. Either I don’t turn the right way, or not fast enough—but I keep ending up on the ground.”
“Best stick to sword fighting, then.”
“I’d rather, really. But Hofrin says—”
“I know what Hofrin says. Everyone should learn every conceivable weapon and unarmed combat, in case you lose your axe, sword, dagger, pike, spear, mace, bow, crossbow—”
Paks chuckled. “It’s not that bad. And I enjoy it—or will, when I’m not spending all my time in the air or on the ground.”
“I think,” said Saben tentatively, “—what I saw when I watched you for awhile, is that you are too direct. You go straight in, just charging ahead, and then—”
“Land in the dust again. You’re right; that’s what he says, too. I keep telling myself, but when I get excited —bam, there I go. Today, at least, I made it through a few minutes of practice without doing that. Maybe I’ll learn.”
“I expect so. When—” Saben broke off as they heard a shout from the north wall. By the time the other guards had manned the walls, a trumpet call rang out. Duke Phelan had come; but even at watch-change, later that night, no one knew why. More than a day later Bosk finally explained.
“Ours wasn’t the only bunch of wounded hit,” he said. “Reim Company—they’re small—lost a wagonful, and the guards for it. A trade caravan was hit, in spite of heavy guard. Golden Company lost some, and they even struck at the Halverics’s camp—stupid of them, whoever they are. Anyway, several mercenary companies have each pledged a unit to go hunting, and—”
“We’re going!” cried Coben.
“No. We’re not.” Over the general groan, he said, “The Duke wanted archers. He’s taking Cracolnya’s cohort, and some of Dorrin’s. The rest of us will spread thinner to cover these forts. Half of us will move to the next, where Dorrin’s half has been.”
Paks, to her disgust, was one of those staying. “Nothing’s happened here so far,” she grumbled to Saben. “And I’ll bet nothing happens now. We’ll stay and walk back and forth on the walls while nothing happens, and they get to go find the Wolf Prince or whoever he is, and do some fighting.”
He nodded. “At least Coben and those get to go to another fort, and see something new. But I doubt they’ll see any fighting there, either.”
Both were wrong. In the weeks that they held the line of forts, brigands tried to strike at the villages they guarded and rob the harvest. Every garrison had at least one good fight, and most had more. When the cohort reunited, before the march back to Valdaire and winter quarters, Paks learned that two more of her recruit unit had been killed: Coben, who had been a friend since her first day as a recruit, and Suli, a cheerful brown-haired girl who was Arne’s friend. Eight of them, altogether, had died in their first year of fighting.
“If we lose this many every year,” said Paks solemnly, “we’ll all be gone in a few years.”
“The—the veterans don’t lose so many,” said Arne. Her face was still marked with tears.
“We aren’t as good,” commented Vik. “We’ve all made mistakes this year. If we live, we’ll learn better.”
“But it’s not the worst ones who get killed. Not all of them. Coben was good—and so was Effa, and Suli.” Paks felt a restless anger, and forgot how annoying Effa had been. “It’s not fair.”
