Elizabeth Moon: Divided Allegiance

“You’re a yeoman?”

“Yes—well—not precisely—”

“Well, then, what?”

“I was at Fin Panir—”

“The training company?”

“Yes.”

“And they sent you on a mission?”

Paks was torn between honesty and the likelihood that he would not understand what she really was. “I don’t think I can explain it to you,” she said finally. “I need to speak to the Marshal, but since he’s not here—”

“Even if I went, he couldn’t get back before tomorrow.”

“No, I understand that. Can I wait for him here?”

“In the grange?” The yeoman-marshal’s frown deepened. “Well—I suppose. Come along.” He led her through the main room to a tiny sleeping chamber off a narrow back passage. “You can leave your pack there, and come back in for the exchange.”

Paks had forgotten that custom. In Fin Panir itself, the exchange of buffets whenever a visitor came to the grange had been abandoned because of the number of visitors. But in outlying granges, it was still usual, and the test of someone who claimed membership in the Fellowship of Gird. She froze.

“I can’t.” Her voice was thin.

“What!”

“I can’t. I—it’s in this—” She waved the Marshal-General’s letter.

“Hmph.” His snort was clearly one of disbelief and scorn. “I see you’ve been wounded recently—is that it?”

Paks nodded, taking the easy way out, as she thought.

“I’d think if you could travel at all you could exchange a few blows—but—” He shook his head. “You hear all sorts of things from Fin Panir. All right, then. I’ll just go put more meal in the pot.”

Paks sank down on the narrow bed, frightened and discouraged. Was this the sort of welcome the Marshal-General intended? But of course the Marshal was away. She could not take it to heart. She got up with an effort and looked around for the jacks and the washroom. At least she could be clean.

Her spare shirt smelled of sheep and smoke, but was, she thought, somewhat cleaner. The yeoman-marshal gave her a pail of water and soap for the dirty clothes, and she came to supper feeling more respectable than before. She had oiled her boots and belt, and the sheathe of her dagger. The yeoman-marshal was obviously making an effort to be friendly.

“So tell me—what’s new in Fin Panir? Is the quest back from the far west yet? Did they really try to find Luap’s lost stronghold, as we heard?”

“Yes. And found it, too.” Paks told a little of the quest, hoping to stave off questions. Luckily, the yeoman-marshal was tired, and when she had told what she thought would interest him, he was yawning.

The next day, when the Marshal returned, he nodded when he heard her name. “Yes—Paksenarrion. I’ve heard of you; the Marshal-General mentioned that you might come this way in her last letter. Where are you bound next?”

“I—I’m not sure, sir.”

“You could take a letter to Highgate, if you would. And I know there’s traffic there—you might find work on the roads.”

“I’d be glad to.” Paks found herself almost eager to go. This Marshal, at least, had no scorn for her.

“If you stay a day, you’ll be here for drill—oh, I know you can’t bear arms, not at this time, but surely you can tell the yeomen about Kolobia, can’t you? They like to hear a good tale, and finding Luap’s stronghold would interest any of them.”

Paks didn’t want to face a crowd of strange yeomen, but she felt she couldn’t refuse. She nodded slowly. The rest of that day passed easily: she was warm and well-fed for the first time in days, and she dozed most of the afternoon. The Marshal offered a mug of herb tea which he said might ease the ache of her wounds, and it helped. But the next night, facing the assembled yeomen, was difficult. She had told them about the trip west, the fight with the nomads, the brigand attacks in the canyons they crossed, but the closer she came to describing the iynisin attack, the worse it got. The Marshal had said she ought not to mention her own capture—not that she wanted to—but she could hardly talk of any of it. Finally she raced through it, skimping most of the action, and went on to Luap’s stronghold. When she finished, they stamped their feet appreciatively. Then one of them, a big man she’d seen in the inn, spoke up.

“If you’re one of that kind, what are you doing here?”

“Any Girdsman is welcome in our grange,” said the Marshal sharply.

“Aye, I know that. But I saw her come in two days ago, cold as dead fish and smelling of sheep. Hadn’t eaten in days, the way she started on her food over there—” He jerked his head toward the inn. “You know’s well as I do, Marshal, that knights and paladins and such don’t travel like that. The way she talks, she wasn’t walking the wagons out to Kolobia—she talks like she fought alongside that Amberion and that elf. So I just wonder why she’s—” His voice trailed away, but his look was eloquent. Paks saw others glance at him and nod.

“Yeomen of Gird,” said the Marshal with emphasis. “It is not my tale to tell. I can tell you that the Marshal-General has commended her to every grange—every grange, do you hear?—and to all the Fellowship of Gird. I daresay she travels where she does, and as she does, by the will of the High Lord and Gird his servant. I will not ask more—and you would be wise to heed me.”

“Well,” said the big man, undeflated, “if you ask me, she looks more like a runaway apprentice than a warrior of Gird. No offense meant—” he said with a glance at Paks. “If so be I’m wrong, then—well—you know how to take satisfaction.” With that he flexed his massive arms, and grinned.

“You’re wrong indeed, Arbad,” said the Marshal. “And I’ll take the satisfaction for your discourtesy to a guest of the grange, on next drill night, or hear your apology now.”

Evidently the Marshal’s right arm was well respected, for Arbad rose and muttered an apology to Paks. The meeting broke up shortly after that. A few had come to speak to Paks, but most huddled together in the corners, looking at her and speaking quietly to each other. The Marshal stayed near her, stern and quiet.

At Highgate Paks delivered the Marshal’s letter to the Highgate Marshal, and shared a hot meal at the grange. He introduced her to a trader, in town on his way south and east, and Paks hired on as common labor. The rest of that day she unloaded and loaded wagons, and harnessed the stolid draft-oxen. With the other laborers, she slept under one of the wagons, and the next day they started on the road.

Keris Sabensson, the trader, rode a round-bellied horse at the head of the wagons; he had a drover for each wagon, five guards, and two common laborers. Paks was expected to do most of the camp-work, load and unload the wagons at each stop, and help care for the animals. She found the work within her strength, but was terrified of the guards, who tried to joke with her.

“Come on, Paks,” said one of them one night when she jumped back from a playful thrust of his sword. “With those scars you’ve got, you’ve been closer than this to a sword. You know I’m not serious. Here—let’s see what you can do.” He tossed the sword to her. Paks threw out her hand, and knocked it away; it fell to the ground. “Hey! Stupid, don’t do that! You’ll nick it!” He glared at her.

“You can’t tell me you haven’t fought—what happened, lose your nerve?” Another one had her by the arm.

“Let her alone, Cam—suppose you ended up—”

“Like her? Never. I’ll be a captain someday, with my own troop. Who’d you fight with, Paks—tell us.”

“Phelan,” she muttered. She could not break free, and was afraid to try.