Struggle To Success
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“The man with the black mustache, I think,” said Paks. “Or the man with the gray mustache.” She could hardly see him, but she was sure it had been a man in that room who stood up first and went out. But she couldn’t tell what he looked like from here.
The other two men stayed seated on either side of the fireplace until the door closed behind them. Then one got to his feet too. He wore the uniform of the Duke’s guard; it seemed as though his companion might have worn similar garb once, for his clothing was slightly more shabby.
Both carried swords belted at their sides and both bore short bows. One had a sword belt slung across his shoulders, and the other held his sword by its pommel; both had quivers of arrows strapped over one shoulder.
It would seem the Duke kept these soldiers in readiness for emergencies—not that there were many enough to worry about. They didn’t wait long, for soon they all left the house together. The door slammed after them.
Paks felt herself shaking again, but this time not from fear or fatigue. “They’ve gone,” she managed to say when she had control of her voice again. A moment later, she added, “I’d like some more food now. Please.”
She sat down slowly at the table where the soup had been placed. The steward brought bread and cheese, and Paks forced herself to eat a little of each. She drank water too. When she finished the bread, she asked for another bowl.
As it came, so did an ewer of wine. Paks drained hers quickly; then she set it aside and waited while the steward filled it again. After he returned the empty dish to the kitchen, she poured the third goblet.
Then she turned to face the others around the table. “It doesn’t matter much which man left first,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “That means nothing. We must try to find out why they wanted us there and who sent them.
And I want you all to know we’ll do whatever we can.” The words sounded flat and uninspiring even to her ears, but they were the truth. Whatever happened next, she knew the only thing she could be depended upon to do was what had to be done.
That was the way of things; that was how her father’s band worked. It seemed to work just as well here. She glanced at the others; they nodded, though none looked very enthusiastic about anything except perhaps a cup of wine.
“But I don’t think we can stay here any longer tonight,” Paks continued. “I’ll ask permission to leave tomorrow; maybe the Duke will agree if we tell him what’s happened. And we should try to find someone else from Gird himself—”
“No!” cried Bremen. “We’re not going to run from the trouble! We’ve faced worse before; we’ll face this one too, whatever happens.” His manner was brisk; his tone took away some of Paks’ nervousness. At least the others seemed to feel better about things.
The steward was still standing near the door. “I’m sorry,” said Paks again, and tried to smile reassuringly. She got up and handed the ewer to Bremen, and went back into the hall. The steward’s eyes followed her until she passed through the doorway. Outside, the rain had stopped—the clouds were beginning to break up, though no stars yet shone.
A light breeze stirred the leaves in the trees along the wall, but the street beyond was still dark. Paks walked slowly toward the gate, watching the city walls for movement or noise. But when she reached it, she saw nothing suspicious—neither within nor without.
The gate was open; the night watchman was nowhere in sight. So far, it seemed, they had not been watched closely. Or had the guards merely let them pass? There wasn’t much point in worrying about that.
When they found themselves alone on the road again, Paks said, “You’ll sleep better in my bed tonight, Bremen.” Her tone suggested she didn’t think there would be any trouble. “And we’ll make plans for tomorrow. I expect we need to talk to Gird’s men, somehow. And we ought to be able to get word to Lord Randal.”
Bremen agreed that sleeping in Paks’ bed might be better than his own, and so it was arranged. When the others had taken their places in the small room, Paks led the way to hers. The steward was waiting at her door; as she entered, he bowed politely, and then closed it behind her.
He followed with the lamps. They gave off a pleasant smell, but the flame was low, and the wick was nearly burnt down. Paks lit several candles from the lamp and used the extra oil to light her hairbrush. She washed her hands, brushed her teeth, and changed into her nightshirt.
Then she lay down on her pallet with the candle glowing beside her, and listened to the sounds outside and inside the inn. All was quiet. She was soon asleep.
At dawn, she woke before anyone else. She rose silently to see what the sky looked like; the sun was coming over the wall to the west, throwing light enough in through the open windows to show she could have left without waking anyone.
The day was cool but bright; the rain had gone away and the air had begun to clear. Paks dressed quickly and went to see whether she might help herself to breakfast. She found the steward waiting for her in the kitchen, where she had slept earlier that evening. He held a platter with three large slices of ham on it. Paks accepted it with thanks. “Is breakfast ready?” she asked him.
He smiled, showing surprisingly white teeth. “Of course. You know that.” But then he noticed something odd about her face; she’d been sleeping on her cheek, and her right eye had swollen shut. “You’re hurt!” he exclaimed. “Did you fight with another lady?”
Paks shook her head, smiling apologetically. “Not exactly, but I think I broke my nose.”
“Oh—then it’s not serious?” Paks nodded again.
“It looks awful,” he said, “but the healers are good at that sort of thing.” He paused awkwardly. “I’m glad you aren’t hurt more seriously. It would be a bad business for me.”
Paks laughed aloud; it had never occurred to her before how important the steward might be considered by those who lived here. “I suppose I’d best look in at the healing rooms if I have time. Otherwise, I’ll go on with you.” She turned to leave, but then stopped, feeling suddenly awkward.
“Wait just a moment,” said the steward. He put down the food and went swiftly to the cupboard. He brought out a cloth-wrapped parcel tied with string, which he handed to Paks. “This is for your trouble,” he explained hastily. “Some bread, fruit, and cheese to keep you alive until I send for you.”
Paks accepted it with thanks and hurried off to see what she could do about her injury. The steward came after her; as Paks was leaving, he took her hand briefly and kissed it, smiling again.
As she passed the kitchens, she heard some familiar voices speaking, and one of the women turned to watch her pass. Paks recognized her and knew why the other woman had been watching her last night.
Now that she thought about it, she realized that she hadn’t seen any of the others since she’d arrived. Perhaps they weren’t well enough to come out yet. But if so, they should have let someone know where they were.
She saw the healer’s quarters as soon as she entered the hall. She was shown in and told to sit on the bench while the healer examined her. When she returned from a brief examination, Paks felt no better than before, and the healer seemed to agree.
“There won’t be much we can do for it,” she said, handing Paks a bowl of hot water, which Paks drank. The heat made a difference immediately: the swelling was already lessened.
The healer continued, “I have some salve which will help. We can clean it with a wet washcloth twice a day, and use the salve once; when it goes down, you may be able to sleep with it uncovered.”
Paks agreed, and the healer went back to her work. Paks washed carefully, using a damp cloth to rub the salve onto her nose. Then she wrapped her head tightly with a towel; she had a spare set, used that for an improvised bandage, and tied a belt around the lower part of her face.
She tried this new arrangement on and found that at least her eyesight had improved somewhat, although she still couldn’t move her right eye very far. The salve smelled faintly of mint; the taste was almost pleasant. As she left the healer’s room, the young soldier was waiting outside for her.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked anxiously, and Paks answered, “Yes. I think I can manage now.” They went along with the rest of the company together. At noon, in the courtyard, they ate their lunches; Paks was surprised to find herself among the youngest members of the company again.
After lunch Paks went to see what work was being done on her armor, as she had promised she would. Her helmet was nearly finished, as were two of her gauntlets, though none of her buckles or straps had been fitted into place yet.
The smithy had a few tools that she was allowed to use while she waited; the leather for her boots was also near completion. She worked steadily on the fittings, and by evening the smith assured her that everything was ready except for the fitting of the gauntlet plates.
Paks felt a little dizzy as she came back to the hall. She was tired and hungry and hoped that the meal would be soon, for she was sure it would have to be eaten standing up again. She was not mistaken, but by now she was used to it. It wasn’t long before she heard the clanging of metal on metal and a man’s voice saying, “That’s mine,” followed by several men laughing.
Paks looked around, puzzled. She noticed the steward coming toward her with the first course and smiled. He was carrying it himself, as he always did—not that it was heavy, but there were so many that it was difficult for servants to get through with them, particularly when people were eating from dishes and platters.
She picked up the spoon and tried some of the meatloaf, which was rather dry. After a minute or two she realized that the steward was holding it over his shoulder and shaking her plate at her; she looked up to find him smiling broadly and nodding.
She reached for the bowl and lifted it to her mouth, and found that if she held her head high enough, she could eat comfortably while standing. The steward moved on to another table, and Paks resumed her meal.
It didn’t take long after that before Paks was ready to go back to the smithy. By this time she was used to her injury, and even the headache had mostly gone away. As before, she was taken to a small room off the workroom where she changed into her armor.
This time the smith took great pains to make sure her helmet fit properly. Paks watched him as he worked, and soon understood how he knew exactly what needed doing, without asking anyone else.
She stood while he fitted the pieces in place; then he showed her how to remove each piece easily. The leather straps were fastened with hooks and eyes. When she has dressed again, she asked for another dose of the salve.
This time the pain had gone entirely, leaving only a faint soreness. As soon as the smith gave her the salve, she applied it with her fingers. Then she went to look at the other armor and weapons; the smith’s assistant was busy finishing her gauntlets, but Paks looked carefully at them all.
The sword and shield were both fine steel, and the buckler was made of good wood. She put one glove on and tested it for a moment, and found that it was quite light. She put both gloves on and found that she could use them well enough; they would protect better than her leather ones, but they were lighter.
The bow was fine too; Paks picked it up and tried a few arrows at a target nailed to the wall. The bow seemed well balanced, and the arrows were light; when she fired, they flew true.
When she was finished with these examinations, the smith came in. He said nothing about her appearance, but she noticed that he wore a smile. “Do you want my advice on anything?” she asked.
He looked thoughtful and shrugged. “I should like to know that myself,” he replied. “But I can tell you whether it’s going to work for you, and that’s something.” He nodded toward her bow. “What do you plan to hunt with that?”
“Well, dear, certainly.” Paks drew an arrow from the quiver strapped behind her, testing its weight and balance. It was a new-fashioned arrow—the old wooden ones were much more suited to hunting than these new shafts.
The smith grunted. “Then I wouldn’t bother with those. A deer will hardly notice a difference, but any bigger animal might think twice before it tries to jump your target.” He turned to a shelf and took down a long, slender spear, about the height of Paks’ arm.
“You’ll need something that can reach out a long way; a longer shaft is less likely to bend under hard pulling. These spears are good. You’ll find that their range goes well beyond the bow’s, though with less power.”
He handed her one. She looked at it and thought it seemed very light, for such a short weapon. She tried swinging it. She wasn’t sure whether she would be able to pull it out far enough for an enemy to have to run to get past the point—it seemed like a poor substitute for a real sword.
But there was something strange about the grip—the handle was not smooth and rounded, like most weapons, but had a knobby surface, like a boar’s tusk.
“This is called a boar’s tusk,” said the smith. “A man from Arcola has a business making weapons, and this is his own design.”
Paks looked closer. “And if it works well, we may find a market for these in Tsaia,” she suggested.
The smith raised an eyebrow and laughed aloud. “Perhaps so! They’re still rare here, even among nobles. But I’d advise you to try it first; if it doesn’t work for you, there isn’t enough demand for a change.”
After that, she tried some different weapons. Each time, the smith watched intently to see what worked best and why. Then he brought her one or two pieces of armor, explaining each step of the process as he did so. At last, he said, “I think you’ve got all you need now.
If you come back again, perhaps you’ll choose something different.” Paks nodded. Now that she knew more, she felt more confident about what she wanted. She was ready to leave when the smith told her to wait; he went into another room and returned carrying a box about half a yard wide, four inches deep, and three feet high.
“This is my best piece,” he said. Paks stared at him; it was certainly no lighter than any other piece. She lifted off the lid with difficulty; inside lay a breastplate made of metal—steel, she decided at once. It gleamed silver under the lamps, reflecting all the light.
And yet it seemed light in her hands; she could hardly believe that something so heavy could feel so light. “It’s made of thin strips of steel,” said the smith. “Each strip is folded over itself many times, then pressed into a mold and heated until it cools in place—and that gives it the proper shape.” He opened the chest and put a strip in her hands.
She held it up, admiring the way the light glittered along the edges of the fold as if caught in an eddy. She saw that every part of it showed the same pattern: a small circle at the top, bottom, and sides. The lines were sharp and straight, without interruption.
“Is that how all these parts go together?” she asked.
“No—this is just a simple plate. This is a chain mail shirt.” He took out a second piece. “There are many more joints and fastenings to this.” It was larger; she could hold it easily. She ran her fingers across its surface. It was as soft as silk and almost warm to the touch.
“Can you make me a sword?” she asked abruptly. “A sword like the one I killed the man with.”
The smith looked surprised. “That’s very special. But there would be a price—”
“Of course, of course,” said Paks hastily. “I’m willing to pay it. How much?”
The smith’s look grew shrewd. “I don’t know exactly. What do you think you ought to get for it?”
Paks hesitated; she had never thought of such a thing before. Then she remembered her father’s words. “I suppose a sword should be worth whatever a good knight paid for it…” she said reluctantly.
“Well,” said the smith, “that’s not quite right. There are swords in use that have been in the family for generations. But I don’t think you’d want to pay that much.”
“Not even if a good knight paid for it?”
“Probably not,” agreed the smith. “Now, if you could sell it to another man who would pay that much, perhaps…”
“But if a soldier bought it, and then gave it to a lord—then I might be able to ask—” Paks paused to consider, while the smith waited patiently. After a moment she went on, “…perhaps ten marks would seem fair.”
The smith looked pleased. “I see your plan now, girl. Yes, if a nobleman bought it, and presented it as having come from his ancestor, or his friend, you’d have a better chance.” His look became appraising. “You wouldn’t mind giving up the name of a lord? Or even telling people you’re related to one?”
Paks shook her head quickly. “My mother told me I mustn’t ever tell anyone where I’m from, not even my friends.” She was surprised by the strength of this feeling.
The smith’s smile broadened. “Then I’ll do it for you, my girl. Your blade will be called the ‘Knight’s Sword’ or just ‘Sword.'”
Paks stared at him. “But…you mean—”
“Yes, yes. I’ll make the sword—or rather I’ll make you another one like it—as soon as I can order the fittings. And then I’ll give you this for the ‘Knight’s Sword,’ and keep the first as my own. You understand?” Paks nodded quickly; she was sure she did understand.
With the help of the smith’s apprentice, she chose her sword belt and scabbard—another piece of work with a complex pattern of metal strips. The boy helped her buckle them onto her new sword as well.
Finally, the smith took a jeweler’s loupe out of his pocket and examined her eye-glass carefully. He touched the frame with his thumb and fingernail and then bent close, squinting at it. “It’s an excellent glass,” he said. “Very good quality. I’ll buy it if you wish.”
Paks shook her head. “I want you to have it, for making the spectacles for me,” she said.
The smith’s face brightened. “As you say, girl! Well done!” He smiled widely. “Come back again when you can spare a moment. If you bring someone else who wants a sword, I’ll give you half what I charge them.”
Paks nodded and went away, her arms full of parcels.
“Did you find everything you wanted?” asked Aric curiously.
“I found my sword,” Paks answered simply.
They walked side by side through the gatehouse courtyard, and down the ramp into the outer ward. Paks glanced around: there were other soldiers coming in and going out as they passed. Some looked at her curiously. “Do you think it’ll work?” she asked, looking back at Aric.
He shrugged. “If not, it’s still better than nothing.”
They walked onto the main square of the castle town. A group of young men—she guessed recruits from the barracks nearby, waiting for the evening meal in their common room—had gathered to stare at the newcomers. Aric nudged her sharply, and they hurried past.
As they turned toward home, a familiar figure emerged from one of the buildings across the street. It was Gird’s cousin, Rannagon, a short stocky man in leather breeches, boots, and surcoat, wearing a heavy furred cloak over his shoulder and swinging a spear in one hand.
He saw Aric and Paks and beckoned to them. Aric waved in response, then went on without comment. Paks followed after him silently.
Rannagon stood outside the door of the tavern, leaning against its wall as if he knew the way. When Aric joined him, the older man said, “How are you? Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes,” said Paks slowly. “Everything but a place to stay for the winter.”
“Oh, yes, that.” Rannagon grinned suddenly. “That’s easy enough! Come along!”
She was surprised and relieved when Rannagon led the way inside, where she found a comfortable fire blazing and several benches set around it. Rannagon sat beside it, nodding to her with a friendly look. “Sit here,” he said. “And let me introduce you.”
At his signal, one of the serving girls brought them each a tankard of ale and then settled among them in the warm firelight. The other two newcomers sat at a table nearby. Paks thought one had a crossbow strapped to his back, although she could see no other weapons.
They didn’t speak much at all until the girl came by again for more orders, and then Rannagon began talking about weapons, soldiers, and fighting. Paks listened intently, and then tried some of her own questions. “What kind of a sword do you use?” she asked. “You’re so tall I couldn’t really tell.”
Rannagon shrugged. “A long one.”
“Well, we’re short,” interjected the other youth. “So we use light ones.”
“Light? But we get killed with lighter swords—”
“But not as fast,” interrupted Rannagon smoothly. “We’re used to them. I’ve heard you say you need to learn how to fight without your shield.” He winked conspiratorially at her. “Perhaps these others can teach you.”
Paks nodded. She drank down most of her ale. Then she asked the question that she was afraid of asking. “Have you ever seen anyone die?”
One of the others snorted. “Everyone knows that!” The other laughed briefly, and then added softly, “Not often enough for my taste. What’s yours, Paksenarrion?”
After another moment’s hesitation, she said, “When I was younger, I’d sometimes go into the forest near our village and practice with a sword. That was years ago.”
“Ah.” The other one chuckled. “Then it’s a good thing you got to the Castle before those damned brigands did! You know they were caught last summer?”
Paks nodded vaguely.
“There’s a story about them,” said Rannagon quickly. “Supposedly they’re from somewhere out near the mountains north of us.”
“Where they’re supposed to be from,” agreed on the first young man. “Maybe they never went there at all!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rannagon said calmly. “You don’t want to hear stories of brigands while you’re trying to settle in at the Castle. There’s enough trouble there already.”
Paks felt herself growing tired of the conversation and ready to leave. “I think I should get home now.” She started to rise, but Rannagon took hold of her arm. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Don’t you remember any of the others?”
Paks stared at him blankly. After a few moments, she remembered Aric and realized why Rannagon wanted to talk with her alone. “No, sir,” she said quietly. “Not this time.”
He nodded and released her arm. “Very well. Come along then, and we’ll get you settled in.”
The innkeeper gave her a bedchamber upstairs with a window looking out onto the courtyard, where the morning sunlight glowed yellow between the roofs of neighboring houses. Her room overlooked a large yard where children played, and Paks heard their shouts and laughter from the windows.
She found a basket of bread on the table by her door and a jug of water. Paks wondered if the landlord was going to take payment for these things himself; she was not certain what she would pay in coin. As Rannagon had warned, the other newcomer paid for her meal and ale and left the room after bidding Paks good night.
Paks ate the food, then washed up and changed clothes. It was cold enough in her room to make her shiver, even through the quilt, but she lay down with her cloak over her and slept easily until a soft knock woke her just after dawn.
Paks sat up hastily. “Sir?”
“Breakfast,” called the voice from outside her chamber. She swung open the curtains and looked out. A servant girl stood with a tray balanced on a cushion, and a cup half-filled with steaming tea.
Paks hurried to the kitchen area below and helped herself to a wooden bowl of porridge and hot bread. “How soon is breakfast finished?” she asked the girl when she had eaten.
“Soon enough,” the girl promised. “Why are you up so early?”
“It’s cold in here—and I have to go down to the stables,” Paks told her.
“Oh. Well, perhaps I could warm your room up for you.” She pulled aside the curtain and disappeared from view.
Paks returned to her room and waited. At last, the girl reappeared with an extra blanket folded on top of her bundle. Paks thanked her and put the blankets around her shoulders as the sun rose higher and warmed the courtyard.
When she emerged, she was still shivering slightly. The servants’ hall was empty; she followed the sound of voices to find the kitchen crowded with workers setting tables for the midday meal. She helped herself to a mug of mulled ale and went downstairs again.
The main dining room was set for a big group. Several groups of men were already seated at several different tables, with plates full of roast fowl or pork or beef in front of them. Some of the women who served in the kitchens were serving in the dining room, too.
Paks found a seat at one table, among soldiers she recognized from the Castle’s company. Most of the rest were new faces, mostly young men.
The head cook came to take some orders. Paks ordered a small chicken. The others seemed to order similar things, so she hoped the food would not be lacking in variety. She was given a knife and fork, and a platter of vegetables, which she dipped into the gravy. After that, she picked at the potatoes baked in a dish nearby, although they were not particularly good.
At last, it seemed everyone had been fed, and the serving staff began clearing away plates. Paks helped them finish the job and watched as the last dishes were carried off to storage. One of the servants pointed out two doors.
“They’re for the laundry,” she explained. “Go back through there and you’ll come to the stable. You can get your horse from the tack room.” Then she left, leaving Paks wondering if this meant that all the soldiers would use the same route.
But one of the younger ones at her table told her that she was supposed to take one of the side passages; that led straight across to the stables. Paks hurried to obey, glad to be out of the drafty main hall.
The passage was narrow but wide enough for horses to pass. Paks stopped outside of it and glanced behind her; the servants’ passage ran parallel to it, leading out to another street. The stable was a large space, with a high roof and stone walls that looked strong enough to keep the wind out.
The End