“—and that’s all I know,” said Arcolin. “We’ve two months training to make up in as many weeks. The veterans—” he nodded at Paks, “will all be instructors. I understand you’ve put the recruits on guard duty—”
“Yes, sir. For a few nights anyway.”
“Good. Oh—by the way—the Duke was talking of taking a section for drill himself.”
Stammel grunted. “It won’t be the first time, sir, but thank you for the warning.”
Arcolin glanced at Paks again. “You’re going in to Valdaire?”
“
“No problem. I’ll be checking the guard posts as usual. Take care.” Arcolin went out. Stammel looked after him a moment, then turned to Paks and smiled.
“I’ve already told Kefer I’m going; are you ready?” Paks nodded. “Good.” He started out the door. “Have you done much drilling with polearms?”
“Some. We drilled with Vladi’s spears before the siege ended, but not so much since we’ve come back.”
“Hmm. The Duke wants us to be able to use ’em. I was hoping some of you could help teach—”
“I think we could use them. I don’t like ’em nearly as well as swords; they’re too clumsy in close.”
“We’ll have to try.” They were in the lane that led to
“Do I have to talk about it?”
Stammel took a great breath and blew it out, a pale frosty plume against the sky. “No. No, you don’t. Not even to me, if you don’t want to. But you may find it hard: they’ll be asking, you see. I know what you mean. Some things you don’t want to make light of, by too much talk. But they’ll be looking to you, Paks, whether you tell them or not. I thought you should know.”
“I wish they wouldn’t,” muttered Paks. She could feel her ears glowing.
“You would have yourself,” said Stammel reasonably. “I remember you with Kolya, and Canna: it’s natural. The youngsters always want to hear the stories and dream. And it will help get them ready fast, for them to think of all you veterans as heroes: song fodder.” Paks was glad they still had a distance to go; she knew she was red. “We have some old veterans back, too,” Stammel went on. “They’ll have their own problems—may be a bit touchy at first. Don’t pay any mind if they go on about how things have changed. Once we’re fighting, they’ll be a big help.”
“I met one tonight,” said Paks. “Piter—?”
“Yes, old Piter. He’s a good man. We started together, but he took a bad wound and fever, one year, and decided to retire. He joined one of his brothers running barges on the Honnorgat. Claims he’s kept his sword skill against river pirates: I don’t know about that, but he’s kept it. He’s good with a curved blade, too; knows every trick. How did you get along?”
“Fine. He wanted to know—but it was more like one of us. He asked what we’d done about food—it seemed natural, talking to him.”
“Good. Oh! I nearly forgot. Kolya sent you her greetings and a bag of apples. It’s somewhere in the baggage; I’ll find it tomorrow.”
“That was nice of her.” And a surprise; she heard it in her own voice.
“She had a good harvest this year. She wanted to come, but the Duke had other plans.”
“Is it true the Duke left the stronghold empty?”
“How did you know that?”
“I heard the captains say something—”
“Well, don’t you say anything. Gods above! I hope no one else mentions it. It’s true—except for those in the villages—and I hope the Regency Council doesn’t hear about it.”
“But what if something breaks out in the north?”
“We’ll just hope it doesn’t. Nothing’s happened for years.” Stammel sighed and changed the subject. “What did you get from the sack of Rotengre? Wasn’t that your first?”
“Yes,” said Paks slowly. “It was.”
“Didn’t like it, eh? What about it?”
“It was—everyone shoving and yelling and breaking things. I—I can’t see breaking up good furniture for the fun of it, and tearing things and spilling wine all over.”
Stammel chuckled. “No—I suppose you wouldn’t. But surely you found something for yourself.”
“Oh, yes. Some unset jewels, coins, a jeweled dagger, and a length of embroidered silk. I’m keeping that for my mother. I was thinking of keeping the dagger, but it looks silly with these clothes.”
“Couldn’t you have found some finery to go with it?”
Paks snorted, then laughed, remembering the militia primped up in velvets and laces. “Well, sir—I looked at some of the others—and it just looked silly. And besides, where would I keep the things?”
“It’s not impossible. You’re a veteran now; you’re entitled to some space in the Company wagons and stores.”
“I suppose. I didn’t think of that then.” They were nearly at the inn, and Stammel led the way to the door. Once inside they found the usual assortment of customers: mercenaries of half-a-dozen companies, a scattering of merchants, and a few professional gamblers (or thieves) who tossed their ivory dice whenever conversation and business lagged. Stammel looked at the crowded common room and crooked his finger at the landlord.
“Yes?” Rumor said the landlord was a veteran of Sobanai Company.
“A quiet corner anywhere?” asked Stammel.
“Sergeant Stammel, isn’t it? Yes, I think we can find you a quiet spot. Just follow me.” He led the way down a passage to a tiny room which had a bench built against either wall and a table close between them; it might have been possible to squeeze in four people. Two fat candles in a wall sconce gave bright unsteady light. Stammel took the bench on one side, and Paks took the other.
“Bring us some ale,” said Stammel, and the landlord withdrew. Paks threw her cloak back and pushed up her sleeves. Stammel looked at her critically.
“You’ve been keeping fit, I can see that. You may have strengthened that left arm even since last year. How’s your unarmed combat coming?”
“Better. At least, when I needed it on the way, it worked.”
“Ah. Now that’s what I’d like to—” The door opened, and the landlord put a jug and two mugs on the table, then waited while Stammel fished out some coins. When he was gone, Stammel poured a mug of ale before speaking. “Go on,” he said to Paks. “I won’t drink all of this myself. Now—if you don’t mind telling me about it, I’d like to hear it from you.”
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?”
