“It works best if you have the reach of your opponent,” she said. “You have to get your shield up above his shoulder, and then as the pivot continues, you’ve got it here—” she locked the shields together, “—and your right hand is free for the backstroke. And it’s hard for him to strike over the shields.”
“Is there a counter?”
“Yes—it’s easy. Just step back; don’t follow the pivot. Thing is, it works best against someone who thinks he’s got more weapon. The start of the turn looks like a retreat; if he follows it, you’ve got him. But if he stays back, you can’t lock shields.”
“Very good. Very good. Come this afternoon and I’ll show you that little twist that cost you your blade. A favor for a favor.”
“Thank you,” said Paks. She turned to her recruits as Siger moved away. They looked at her with more awe than before.
“Do we have to be that fast?” asked Jenits.
“It helps,” said Paks. “Suppose your opponent is. You need every scrap of speed and strength you can build. I’m faster than I was, and I hope I’ll keep improving.”
“I’ll never do it,” said Sim. “I’m strong. I know I’m strong, and I thought that would be enough. I could beat up anyone in my village. But I never was fast.”
“You’ll get faster,” said Paks firmly. “When I was a recruit, Siger thumped my ribs and yelled ’faster, faster’ at me every day—and finally I got faster. You will too, unless your ribs are tougher than mine were.” They laughed, a little nervously.
From across the yard came a shout: “Hey—Saben. Come here.” Paks stiffened, her head swinging automatically to look before she caught herself. She felt tears sting her eyes, and blinked fiercely. Saben was a common enough name; she’d have to get used to it.
“Paks?” They all looked concerned. Volya went on. “Did you know him before? Saben, I mean?”
Paks shook her head, and took a deep steadying breath. “No. A different Saben—a good friend. We’d been together since we came in, and he was with me on—on the trip you heard about. But he died.”
“Oh.”
“Well, it happens. We’re soldiers, after all. It’s just—there wasn’t another Saben in the Company, so when I hear the name, I think—I’ll get used to it. I suppose. Now, let’s get back to work. Sim, you and Jenits this time, and Keri and Volya.” They started again and Paks kept after them until time for the midday meal.
Within a week, Paks lost Sim to Cracolnya’s cohort. She was glad; a slow archer might live longer than a slow swordsman. Less welcome was the change in cohort position resulting from the number of recruits. Normally, recruits were kept to the rear, except for a few who had showed promise. But Arcolin decided that they should be close to their veteran instructors, which meant that Paks ended up as file sixth. She understood the reasons, but didn’t like it even so.
There were other changes. Horse-faced Pont was now Arcolin’s junior captain, and Valichi took Font’s place with Cracolnya. The Duke had hired a captain to replace Sejek: Peska, a dark, dour man who had been a watch captain at court in Pargun. He spoke Common with a curious accent that Paks had never heard; she was glad her cohort had Pont instead, though Barra had no complaints about him.
This year Paks could not ask Donag for advance information—and no one in the cohort seemed to know what the Duke planned, except trouble for Siniava. When they marched out of Valdaire on the southern road, the one to Czardas that Paks remembered, she expected to see Halverics—but instead they met the Golden Company a few miles from the city. Aesil M’dierra, mounted on a chestnut horse and armored in gold-washed mail, rode beside the Duke; her company fell in behind. Paks eyed her: the only woman in Aarenis to command her own mercenary company. What would that be like? What could she be like?
But the next day they turned aside, through Baron Kodaly’s lands, and Golden Company stayed on the road south. Through a steady rain they marched easily, guided by a wiry dark man who had come with the Baron. Paks thought he looked like a juggler, but Stammel laughed when she said it.
“Juggler! Tir, no. I’ll admit the jugglers you see in Valdaire are his subjects, more than likely. That’s one of the woods tribes—their king, or prince, or whatever.”
“But why—?”
Stammel shrugged. “I don’t know. They have a lot of power in the forests of Aarenis, I’ve heard. The Duke’s always made friends with them. Maybe he wants safe passage through some forest.”
Whatever he was, he led them by ways that avoided all hazards of bog and mud. Three days later he was gone, but they marched easily beside a larger stream with a village in sight.
They were met, in the fields above the village, by an old man in a long robe and a fat man in helmet and breastplate commanding ten unarmored youths with scythes and pikes. Paks could not hear what the Duke said to them, but the youths suddenly trailed their weapons in the mud and turned away. The village had a cobbled square, and a group of taller buildings around it. Paks looked for an inn, hoping for ale. She saw a battered sign with a picture of a tower by a river; the sign read
Across the stream was a rising slope of farmland, and on the southern horizon a long stony escarpment running roughly west to east. It reminded Paks of the high moors behind Three Firs, and looked like nothing else she had seen in the south.
“That’s the Middle Marches,” said Devlin to a curious recruit. “Once you’re up on those heights, it’s sheepfarming land. And downstream maybe a day’s march from here is Ifoss.”
“Who claims the Middle Marches?” asked someone else.
“Whoever can.” Devlin turned to look at the fire. “There’s petty barons enough, near the river—like Kodaly. Ifoss claims some of it. More barons downstream until Vonja. Up on the high ground it’s hard to say. There was a Count Somebody, when I first came south, but he died. I heard he left no heir of the body—a nephew or something in Pliuni. The Honeycat tries to claim it, as he claims everything else. I think—I think when he took Pliuni, he captured the nephew, or married him to a daughter or niece. Or maybe that was another place.”
“What’s beyond it?” asked Paks.
“Straight south?” She nodded. “Well, Andressat. That’s ruled by a count, if I remember. An old family, anyway, and very powerful. I think the Duke hired to Andressat once, before I joined. They’ve got only one city: Cortes Andres. They say its inner fortifications have never been broken.”
“Does the Honeycat control Andressat?”
“Tir, no! The count—Jeddrin, I think his name is—he hates him. Then south of Andressat are the South Marches. The Honeycat claims that, and for all I know he may have a right to it. He also claims the cities along the Chaloquay, and the Horn Bay ports on the Immerhoft. That’s Sibili and Cha, on the river, and Confaer, Korran, and Sul, on the coast.”
“How did he ever claim Pliuni?” asked Paks.
“Just took it. Waited until the Sier of Westland was fighting up in the western mountains, and marched up and took it. Pliuni was a free city, but had always looked to the Sier for protection.”
“What about the rest of the port cities?” asked Arne.
“I don’t know. I’ve heard the names, but I don’t know exactly where they are or who controls them. Seafang, that’s a pirate city, and Immerdzan, at the mouth of the Immer. Let’s see: Zith, Aliuna, Sur-vret, Anzal, and Immer-something. No, Ka-Immer. Some are pirate cities, and some are legitimate traders—so they say.”
Ifoss, when they came to it the next day, seemed small and dingy after Valdaire. A walled city of no more than eight or nine thousand, surrounded by plowland and orchards, it was bleak in winter. They camped outside the city on a long field sloping to the river, and wagons rolled out with provisions. With the wagons came Guildmasters to confer with the Duke; recruits and veterans alike gaped at their distinctive dress, the short-pointed, fur-edged hats, long pointed sleeves, and oddly cut jackets trimmed in elaborate braid.
They stayed at Ifoss several days. On the second night, Paks took advantage of her seniority to enter the city. Stammel had told them of a good new inn near the east gate,
It was new, clean, and the landlord seemed friendly. The ale was good, too, and not expensive. Paks ordered a fried fruit pie, and Vik decided on a slab of spicebread; soon they were enjoying an impromptu party. When Paks
