“She would. Well, Paks, I can see why you haven’t talked about this. I think you’re right, unless you decide to find a Marshal. Just in case something is going on, you might like to find out what.”
Paks frowned. “But I don’t think anything is going on. And I’m not a Girdsman.”
“Whatever you say. You’re either damned lucky or gods-gifted, or you wouldn’t be here today. What a year you’ve had!” Stammel stretched, arching his back. “Well, it’s getting on toward second watch—” He took a final swallow of ale, and nodded for Paks to finish hers. “Now these recruits, Paks, have had their basic training in swords, and they can go through the pair exercises without spitting each other. But they need weapons drill in formation, and a lot of two and three on one. Their shieldwork is as bad as yours was—or worse. Tomorrow I want you to take your four and work on the basics. Be tough with ’em, but try not to scare them so they can’t work. All right?”
Paks relaxed, draining her mug. “Yes, sir.”
“You heard the captain say the Duke might join us. If he does—he’d rather take a fall than have one of us do something stupid.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”
“Come on, then.” They unfolded themselves from either side of the table, passed through the noisy common room, and went out into the frosty night.
Chapter Twenty-two
Siger, the Duke’s old armsmaster, had come south since, as he said, the Duke had left him nothing to do at home.
“You must be some quicker,” he greeted Paks. “Or by what I hear you wouldn’t be alive. Here—take these bandas for your recruits. Who’ve you got?” Paks told him. “Volya’s quick, but not strong enough yet,” he said. “Her shieldwork’s wretched. Keri forgets things. Keep after him. Jenits is the best of those—just needs practice and seasoning. Sim’s very strong, but slow. Not clumsy, exactly—just slow. I’ll check on you later.”
Paks collected her little group in one corner of a yard that grew more crowded every minute. With swords alone, they looked fairly good. Sim hung a fractional beat behind the count, but it hardly showed. She had them pick up shields. Now the drill grew ragged. Sim slowed more, and Keri kept shoving his shield too far to one side. Volya couldn’t seem to get hers high enough. Paks had them pair off, still working on the counted drill. With this stimulus, Volya improved her shieldwork, but Sim stayed slow. Keri made touches he should not have, and Sim failed to take advantage of Keri’s bad shieldwork. Jenits still looked good. Paks moved around them, watching carefully at every stroke, and talking herself hoarse. Finally she stopped them for a water break.
“I suppose,” she said, after a drink had restored her voice, “that Siger told you, Sim, that you are too slow?” He nodded. “And Volya—if your shield is down around your ankles, it won’t do any good, right?” Volya blushed. “And you, Jenits,” she went on. “You may be the best of this group, but you have a long way to go.”
“Siger said I was coming well,” said Jenits. Paks grinned. She’d hoped for a challenge; it would be a welcome change from talking.
“Well, let’s see. Maybe I was fooled by watching you with another recruit. The rest of you: don’t sit; you’ll stiffen in the cold.” Paks drew her sword, took Volya’s shield, and faced Jenits. He did not look as confident as the moment before. “Come on,” said Paks. “Get that shield up where it’ll do you some good. Now start at the beginning.”
Jenits began the drill cautiously, as if he thought his sword would break on contact. She countered the strokes easily, without any flourishes, murmuring the numbers as a reminder. He put more bite in the strokes, and Paks responded by stepping up the pace, and strengthening her own. She did not deviate from the drill, but in a few minutes Jenits was sweating and puffing, and she had tapped his banda half a dozen times. She stopped him.
“Jenits, you have the chance to be very good. But right now you’re about half as fast as you should be—and half as fit. Your speed will come with practice; the way we’re going to drill will take care of the fitness, too. Now walk around and catch your breath while I try the others.” Paks was pleased to see that Jenits no longer looked sulky, just thoughtful. She beckoned to Volya, handed back her shield, and took another. Volya was very quick, and her strokes were firm, but she could not keep her shield high enough.
“Is that arm just weak, or did something happen to it?”
“It was broken once, by a cow. I’ve tried to strengthen it.”
“You’ll have to do better. If you can’t keep that shield up, you won’t survive your first battle. What have you tried?”
“Siger suggested some exercises. I do those—when I remember them.”
“You’ll remember them,” said Paks grimly, “unless you like the idea of dying very young. Right now, while you’re resting, raise and lower your shield fifty times—and go this high—” She pushed the shield until it was as high as she wanted it. “Go on, now. Sim, come here.”
Sim, a ruddy young boy with a husky build, moved flat-footed. Paks pointed this out, and he tried to stand on his toes instead, moving even more stiffly and slowly. “No, Sim. Not standing on your toes. Just lift your heels a little. Did you ever skip?” She knew as she asked that he had never skipped in his life, and he shook his round head. “Let’s try again, then.” Sim had a powerful stroke, but so slow that Paks could easily hit twice for each of his. Nothing she said or did made him faster, and she gave up in a few minutes. At least he was strong and tireless.
Keri was the last, and his main problems were sloppy shieldwork and a very short memory. At least, he kept getting the sequence of drill wrong. Several times Paks had to pull her stroke to keep from hurting him badly; he moved exactly the wrong way. She led him through the tricky parts again and again, then turned him over to Jenits. “No variations,” she said. “He’s got to do this right first.” Paks returned to Volya and Sim, and had them pair up without shields. When they started, she began her own exercises while watching them. All around her she heard the clatter of blades and shields, the busy voices of instructors.
“What do you think of them, Paks?” It was Siger, buckling on a sword belt. “Planning to take my job?”
Paks grinned. “I didn’t know it was so hard to teach—my voice gave out. But they’re about what you said. Sim’s impossibly slow; he’s dead if he doesn’t improve.”
“True. Want to go a round?”
“Gladly,” said Paks. “Swords only, or shields?”
“Both. Clear your group and give us room.” Paks told her recruits to break, and they stepped away.
“Ready?” asked Siger.
Paks nodded. They began with the same drill the recruits knew, but they picked up the tempo smoothly, until it was much faster. Siger began hitting harder; Paks followed suit. Then Siger left the drill sequence, skipping in for a thrust, but Paks countered it, and drove him back. Paks circled, looking for an opening. She tried to force Siger’s shield, and took a smart blow on the shoulder. In the next exchange, she tapped his chest. They circled and reversed like a pair of dancers.
“You are quicker,” said Siger. “You’re doing well. But do you know
“Ha!” he cried. “Enough! And where did you learn that little trick?”
Paks grinned at him. “Here and there, you might say.” She was breathless and glad for the rest.
“Here’s your sword, Paks,” said Rauf. She looked at the respectful faces around them and took the sword, checking it for damage. Siger drove the others away and came back, patting her arm.
“That was good. Very good. Show me slowly, please.” He stood in front of her, and Paks demonstrated the pivot again. She did not explain that she had seen it used on horseback, and had coaxed the Blue Rider to show her on foot.
