"Moon, Elizabeth - Deed Of Paksenarrion - 02 - Divided Allegiance V1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

"You just pay me, now," the smith went on. "Pay as you ought, and we'll have no trouble."
"And if I don't?" The black horse shied at that harsh voice; die tall man jerked die bridle viciously. Neither man had noticed Paks, but the horse winded Star and stood still, head high and ears pricked, snuffing.
"Well, if ye don't I’ll have die law on ye—"
"The law, is it?" The tall man laughed contemptuously. "In this town? What law here could touch me?"
"This," said the smith, and quick as a snake's tongue his hammer tapped the man's shoulder.
With an angry snarl, the big man dropped the reins, drew his sword, and swung at the smith. The black horse walked over to Star as Paks dropped the lead and whipped out her own blade. Only then did the smith see her.
"Another one of ye, eh?" He blocked one swipe of the big sword with his hammer; she noted that he handled it as if it were weightless. "Well, I can take two of ye, no doubt, but still—Aieeeh! By the Maker!" His bellow split the early afternoon stillness. Paks heard a startled outcry in the distance, as she ran forward.
"Not against you, Master Smith," she said as her sword rang against the other. "But you, you coward. I can see that horse has new shoes—and you owe the smith—and you've no business attacking an unarmed man with a sword!" The swordsman had turned, furious, with her first blow, and now concentrated on her.
"Unarmed, is it?" cried the smith. "And you a woman? Is any smith unarmed that has his hammer and the strength of the forge in his arm?" Paks made no answer; the tall man was skilled, and she saved her breath for the fight. The smith threw his hammer on the ground and- bellowed at them both. "Is it a barton of Gird you think I have here, and not a smithy? By the Maker, is a smith to be reft of his fight by any wandering female? I can collect my own debts, you silly girl, without your help. I was just teaching this fellow a lesson—" Paks quit listening. The tall man had the reach of her, and his blade was the heavier. She missed her helmet and shield; he had a round iron pot on his head, and heavy bracers on both arms. His black eyes gleamed from under the helmet.
"Eh—the girl from over the mountains! A wild one, I see. I like wild ones." He grunted as her sword pricked his shoulder. "I'll tame you, little mountauvcat, and then I'll see to him—" He jerked his head at the smith, without giving Paks an opening.
"You will, will you?' yelled the smith. "By the Maker, you're a fine one, if you think you canl" And before Paks realized what he was about, he darted behind the tall man and brought the hammer down on his head with a resounding clang. The tall man sagged to his knees and fell over in a heap. The smith glared at Paks over the crumpled body. "A sword," he said severely, "is a pitiful weapon, young woman, and only fit for those that don't have the strength for a hammer. It was by the hammer that Sertig the Maker forged the world on the Anvil of Time. The hammer will always win, with the strength of the faithful behind it."
Paks had dropped the tip of her sword and stood panting. "Uhm—yes—"
"Don't forget that."
"No—" She took a deep breath and wiped her sword on her leg before sheathing it.
"Not that yours isn't a fine bit of work," the smith went on. "It's just that swords are inferior weapons." Paks did not feel like arguing with him. She was, however, a bit disgruntled. She'd only tried to help someone.
"Doggal!" A shout from the alley. "Need help?" Paks could see two hefty men, armed with clubs.
"Nay, nay. Twas a bit of trouble with a fellow from outside, that's all." The smith sounded smug. "He'll have a headache, if he wakes at all."
"Will you need someone to take him away?"
"He's not dead yet. He's still snorting. If this lady will lead his horse back to the inn, I can throw him over—" He turned to Paks. "If you're going that way, that is." The men waved and turned back up the alley.
"I was coming here," said Paks. "To get my pony shod. But iЈ-"
The smith suddenly grinned, and looked like a different man. "Oh? That's no problem. He'll keep a bit, just there. I did wonder what you were doing up my alley, to be sure, but if it was on business, then—" He looked around. "That's your pony, with the star?"
"Yes. Just a moment." Paks started toward Star, who stood stiffly, nose-to-nose, with the black horse. Both shifted away from her, eyes wide.
"Come on, Star," said Paks crossly. She felt the smith was laughing at her. "Come on, pony." She rubbed her thumb on the gold ring. The wildness left Star's eyes, and the pony minced toward her. The black horse, too, lowered his head and stretched his neck.
"Catch up that fancy-socks, if you can," called the smith. "Be careful: he's a mean one, but he'll do no good running loose." Paks caught Star's lead, and rubbed the ring again, talking softly to the black.
"Come on, then, big one. Come on. I'd like to have one like you someday." The black horse came forward step by slow step until she could reach the reins. She talked on as she led them toward the smithy itself. She could feel the horse's fear trembling in the reins as they neared the building.
"Well!" The smith sounded surprised. "You've a rare way with a horse, that you have. I'll take the pony, then, if youTl hold that one. What sort of shoes? Are you going into the mountains again?"
Paks shook her head. "No. And she won't be carrying as much weight. Ill be going toward Verella, I think."
"Umph." He had one of Star's feet up, then another. "I'd still say low caulks in front. It'll frost before these wear out."
By the time Star was shod and the shoes paid for, the tall man had grunted and groaned and shifted around on the stones. His eyes were still closed, though, and he had said nothing coherent.
"You wanted to help," said the smith with a bit of his earlier belligerence. "Suppose you take him back to the inn for me. Ill tell the watch about it, and Jos can ask me, if he wants. And look—" The smith bent down with a grunt and opened the man's belt pouch. "You know he owes me for the shoeing of that devil there: see, I'm taking just what he owes." Paks nodded, and the smith heaved the man upright and slung him over one broad shoulder. "Now, I think your pony would carry him better than his horse. Can you lead both?"
"Yes—" Paks was reluctant, nonetheless, to go out on the streets leading another man's horse, with the man himself slung unconscious over her pony. "But don't you think that—I mean, since you hit him, shouldn't—?"
"A warrior like you doesn't want credit for defeating him?" The smith's voice was scornful, and his look more so. Paks reddened. Nothing and no one in this town was as she had expected. "I'd have thought," the smith continued, "that such as you were quite used to hauling bodies around. Or did you just leave them?"
Paks opened her mouth and shut it again. There seemed nothing to say to that. But as the smith folded the man over Star's back, the Gird's Marshal walked into the courtyard. His glance rested on Paks, then on the smith and his burden.
"I heard, Master Doggal, that you had had a disturbance."
The smith stopped, with a hand on the tall man's back where he lay across the pony. "If you heard that, Marshal, you heard I needed no help."
The Marshal glanced at Paks again. The smith caught the look and raised his voice. "No, and I didn't need her, either. Is that it, is she one of your precious yeoman?"
"No. I merely wondered."
The smith began tying the man to Star's pack pad with the thongs. "Took you long enough. If I had needed help, I'd have been dead long since." He turned to Paks. "Now, lady, just you work whatever magic you used on that horse, and take him and this fellow back to the inn for me." Paks saw the Marshal give her a sharp look at the word magic, but he turned back to the smith as that individual kept talking. Paks started to move away, but the Marshal raised his hand to stop her.
"You seem to think, Marshal, that we'd have no order here without you Girdsmen. I'm not denying you're a brave bunch, and useful when we have trouble too big for one man or two. But I can hold my own with any single man, and most two or three. As I was telling this lady—" Paks wondered why she had been promoted from "girl" and "female" to "lady."
"As I said to her, the Maker's hammer wielded by a faithful arm will stand over a sword any time."
"Yet the Maker is said to have made many a blade, in the old tales," said the Marshal, with a kindling eye. "And you, I know, have made most of the blades in this village—"
"Oh, aye, that's true. When I have time. And it's a test of the art, that it is, to make a fine-balanced blade that will hold an edge and withstand a hard fight. I won't say against that. But I will say—"
"That you can hold your own in a fight. And I’ll agree to that, Master Doggal. But the captain did ask me to keep an eye on things, after that last trouble, and the Council as well—"
The smith had calmed down a lot, and the discussion seemed, to Paks, to be working over well-plowed ground. "That's so. If it's for the Council, then I might as well tell you all that happened. Saves seeing the watch. This fellow came to have his horse shod—that black one there—and quarreled with my price, after. The beast is vicious: doesn't look it now, I’ll admit, but just you try and put a shoe on it. I charged more for it. Always do, as you know. If I'm to risk my head, I must have gain for it." He paused and the Marshal nodded. "Well, then, he said as much as that I'd no way to make him pay. I tapped his arm to show I meant my words, and he drew on me. Then this lady—I'd not seen her come—she drew as well. I thought they were together, and raised a yell. Then it seemed she thought to aid me—but, you see, I'd already raised a cry—so I thought I'd let her fight, was she so eager to. They were well-matched. He'd the reach of her, and was heavier, but she was quicker and her blade had more quality. Then—well—it's hard to stay out of a fight, so I broke his head with the hammer, after all."
"Mmm." The Marshal looked at Paks. "I'd have told you our smith can handle himself in a fight. It's not well for newcomers to brawl in the streets."
Before Paks could answer, the smith was defending her. " Tis not her fault, Marshal. I'd think you'd be pleased, even if she's not one of yours. She thought she saw an old man—" he rumpled his thin gray hair "—beset by an armed bully. She did well."
"Hmm. Well, I suppose—if you have no complaint against her—" the Marshal was frowning.
"Not at all. Not at all. Suppose I had slipped and fallen? She was trying to help. And, you might notice, on the side of that law and order you praise so highly. I've no complaint. In fact—but go on, now, and get that lummox out of my yard." He turned abruptly and dove back into die forge.
"Ill walk with you to the inn," said the Marshal to Paks in a neutral tone. Paks followed him down the alley, leading both animals. She kept her thumb firmly on the ring.
They were almost to the crossroad when the Marshal spoke again. "If I'd defended you," he said without preamble, "old Doggal would be lodging a complaint to the Council somehow. He won't agree with me on anything but smithing itself if he can help it."