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

"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Very good indeed. Anything else?"
"I didn't notice it in the others, sir," said Paks, "but you and Ambros still seem to have too much flex in the wrist. You are trying to do more with the point than a short sword allows—it's the quick thrust you want, not fencing about." She expected him to be angry, but he was not.
"So. Each craft has it masters, and a knight's training ill-suits an infantry soldier. I'll try to remember that. Perhaps you'll give us the benefit of your training again. And now, since you carry a long blade by choice, you should have the chance to practice with it, if you will." He handed Ambros his short blade and gestured to Paks. She handed over the short sword and went to pick up her own blade. When she had settled it to her satisfaction,the Marshal had also armed himself, and awaited her.
"I suggest we go into the grange itself," he said. "The light is better."
Paks followed him in. So, she noticed, did many of the other men.
"I don't suggest the platform, since you aren't used to it. But here—" his glance cleared a space in the crowd, and he drew.
"Now," said Paks, smiling, "I expect you will have plenty to teach me."
The Marshal grinned. "I should hope so. You have some good strokes; I noticed that yesterday, but—" He moved to attack.
For the next few minutes they circled first one way then the other, blades ringing with stroke after stroke. Paks had to use everything she knew and all her size, to keep from being pricked again and again. She could feel the sweat pouring down her back and burning her eyes. The Marshal was much more a swordsman than Macenion. Every thrust was met with a firm repulse, and she found herself more often defending than attacking. She found no weakness she could exploit, and wondered what old Siger would do against him. That thought almost made her laugh—she'd still back Siger against anyone, even a Marshal of Gird.
"Very good," the Marshal said finally, still hard at work. "You certainly have a thorough grounding in long blades. I have a few tricks, but as for as plain fighting goes, you do very well." Paks said nothing, needing all her concentration. Despite her best efforts, he made a touch the next moment, ripping her left sleeve from shoulder to elbow. "There, now," he said. "I have regained the respect of our yeomen. Would you rest a bit?" He stepped back, and Paks lowered her weapon.
"I could stand to," she said ruefully, wiping her face. "I see I still have a lot to learn—just as I thought."
"The willing student learns quickly," he said. "You need naught but experience to master this weapon as well as the other. Common swordsmen you could defeat now, quite easily I imagine."
"Ah, but I like learning weaponcraft," said Paks. She thought of Saben's teasing with a pang. "I always have."
"Good, then. You're welcome here, any time. Ill be glad to drill with you; you're good enough to give me practice. Ambros, too. And mind-—" he saia briskly, fixing her with a sharp glance, "mind, I intend to have you a Girdsman before long. Such skill as yours should be dedicated to a good cause. We need such fighters on the side of right, not running loose after idle gain." Paks felt a flicker of anger at that, and her chin came up. "No—" He stopped and rubbed his head. "I shouldn't say that of you, when I don't know your allegiance, but Gird knows we've trouble enough coming, and few to meet it." He grinned at her suddenly. "I still think you'll make a fine Girdsman someday—even a Marshal, who knows?"
The others milled about, replacing weapons in racks on the grange walls, and taking their leave. Paks sheathed her sword, and turned to go. The Marshal was talking seriously to two men, low-voiced.
A hand touched her arm. It was Ambros. "If—if you'd come again, I'd like to drill with you—"
"Oh, I'll come again, while I'm here. It's good practice. But—don't you have any women drilling with you?"
Ambros shook his head. "No. Not at this level. We'd had some in the beginners' class—in feet, we have two there now. But those who want to go on, the Marshal sends elsewhere for more training."
"I see."
"Were there many women in your company?"
"Maybe a quarter of us. One of the cohort captains."
"I've heard of Duke Phelan. Isn't his title from the court of Tsaia?"
"Yes. He has lands in the north of the kingdom, on the border." Paks sighed. "I might—I might be going back there."
"But you left the company, didn't you? We thought you were a free sword."
"Well—I was due leave, and—and the Duke thought perhaps I should try another company—another service—for a time. But I miss it; I've thought of going back."
"Oh." Paks could hear the unasked questions. Ambros stopped at the door, starting to say something and stopped, and finally said, "Well—Gird go with you. We'll be glad to see you again."
It was late. Most torches in the village were out. Paks made her way down the dark streets with care, following some distance behind several others from the Grange.
Cold night air, damp from the river, soothed her hot face. She caught a whiff from the tanner's crossing the bridge. As she neared the crossroad, she saw light spilling from the inn's windows. She slipped in the door, ignoring the few who sat late in the common-room, and went up the stairs to her own room. Her shoulder ached pleasantly. She pulled off her tunic and washed the sweat off, then remembered her unfinished dinner. She put on her other shirt and went back downstairs. Hebbinford rose from his place near the fire.
"Do you want the rest of your dinner?"
"Yes, if it's not too much trouble." Paks settled at an empty table. Hebbinford brought a candle; a serving wench came with a tray. They had heated the leftovers by the kitchen fire, and the gravy was bubbling hot. She cut a slice of bread and began eating.
Several of those who had been at the drill clustered at one table over mugs of ale, chatting. One caught her eye and grinned and waved. The man in black that Paks had seen the previous night sat across the room, a flagon of wine at his elbow. Two men in merchants' gowns diced idly nearby. One of them, looking around the room, saw her and nudged the other. They both rose and came to her table.
"I'm Gar Travennin," said the older. "A merchant, as you see, from Chaya. Could we talk with you?"
Paks nodded; her mouth was full. They sat across from her. Travennin was balding, with a gray fringe. The younger man was blond.
"We hear you came over the mountains, from Aarenis." Paks nodded again. "I heard there was more fighting than usual down there, and no trade this year. Is that so?'
Paks took a sip of her ale. "Yes. That's so. Had you heard of Lord Siniava?" The man nodded. "Well, he tried open war against the Guild League cities and the northern mercenaries all at once. He lost."
"Ah … so. Do you think, then, that trade will be back to normal by next spring? I held off this year, but I've a caravan of fine wool that needs a buyer."
Paks thought back to the turmoil in Aarenis. She spread her hands. "I can't say, sir, for certain. I came north with a late caravan, as far as the Silver Pass, but whether they made it safe to Valdaire I don't know."
"Were you with a regular company?" Travennin asked as if he had heard already.
"Yes. Duke Phelan's Company. The Duke was—much involved." Paks was not sure how much to say; the old habit of silence held her still.
"Mmm. And why did you leave?"
Paks felt irritated. "Why, sir, I enlisted for two years. My time was up."
"I see. You had had no trouble—?"
Merchants! she thought disgustedly. No honor at all. "No, sir. No trouble." She went on eating.
"I heard the Duke and Aliam Halveric were much in each other's pockets," said Travennin, his eyes roaming around the room.
Paks gave him a hard look and returned to her meal. "Oh? I couldn't say."
"After some kind of trouble last year—over the pass? Some border fort, I forget the name—"
She thought of Dwarfwatch at once, and said nothing. The smell of that mountain wind came to her, and her last sight of Saben and Canna in the rain, and Captain Ferrault's dying face.
"-—do you know it?" the merchant persisted.
Paks stopped eating and slowly put both hands flat on the table. He glanced at her and froze as she glared at him. "Sir," she said finally, in a voice she hardly recognized. "I have nothing to say about our—the Duke's—Company. Nothing. And by your leave, sir, I’ll finish my supper in peace." She stared at him until he reddened and pushed back his stool. She had lost her appetite. All those deaths, that grief and rage—The merchants she had traveled with had not been so crass. But of course, they had been in Aarenis during the war. They knew. Her breathing slowed; she took another sip of ale. The merchants were back at their own table, heads together. The man in black was watching her. As he met her eyes, he lifted his glass in salute and grinned. She looked away. All at once she wished she were anywhere but here. No, not anywhere, but back with the Company, laughing with Vik and Arne, talking with Stammel or Sell or Dev. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back angrily. She drew a long breath and drank more ale.
She had thought she'd feel at home in the north; she was northern. But Brewersbridge was for from home. Maybe that was it. She thought of Verella, thought of going straight on to Three Firs. She had money enough now; she could make more show than even her cousin. She imagined her mother's smile, her father's scowl—but he might not be angry, with the dowry repaid. She wondered what she would tell them, and what they would ask. Her musings ended there. She could not tell them anything they would understand. They would see her as these folk did: dangerous, wild, a stranger. She started to pour more ale, and found the tankard dry. She was still thirsty. She beckoned to Hebbinford, but when he came she doubted the steadiness of her voice and asked for water. His expression approved that choice. The merchants left the room and went upstairs.