Chapter Nineteen

Argalt, when she finally located him again, after losing herself in a maze of passages on the ground floor, looked her up and down. "Training Master, eh? So you're going to become a Knight of Holy Gird, are you? Or a Marshal? Or is it paladin you're thinking of?"

Paks felt her ears burning again. "I—don't know, sir."

Argalt snorted. "I'm no sir, not even to the newest member of the training company. Argalt: that's my name, and that's what you'll call me, young woman."

"Yes, si—Argalt."

"That's better. You're no hothouse flower of a noble house—where are you from?" Paks told him. He looked at her with surprising respect. "Sheepfarmer's daughter? That's like Gird's daughter herself—barring he raised cattle and grain, so the story goes. But still it means you know what work is, I'll say, and a few blisters on the hands. Where'd you learn to wear a sword like you could use it?" When she mentioned the Duke's name, he stared. "You were in the Fox's company? And came here? I'll believe anything after that!" He shook his head as he led her across the courtyard, past the Lord's Hall. "I was in the Guards at Vérella when I was young; what I don't know about that Duke—" But Paks asked nothing, and did not expect that he would have answered if she had. He gave her a long look outside the Training Master's office. "If you need someone to talk to, sometime, sheepfarmer's daughter—I'll share a tankard of ale with you."

"Thank you," said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned away.

The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man in dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird's crescent embroidered on the breast. He read the Marshal-General's note, and Cedfer's letter, in tight-lipped silence. When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.

"If you're to catch up with the others, you'll have to work—and work hard. You'd best not loll about."

Paks repressed a surge of anger. She'd never been lazy. "No, sir," she said stiffly.

"It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer's right about your weapons-skills. That would let us chop a glass or so off there, and give you more time in supply—though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for you, is beyond me." Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be still. He sighed, heavily. "Very well, then. How much gear do you have?"

"Only what was in my saddlebags, sir," said Paks. "I suppose it's—"