"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 p.r.i.c.ked 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, .

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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 i-"

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.

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"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 .

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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 136.

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 111 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, 111 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.

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"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."

"Then-you aren't angry with me for this?"

"For going to his aid? Of course not. You might wait, another time, to see whether your aid is needed, or someday youll be killed over some little thing, and nothing gained. I'll just have a word with Hebbinford," he said as they came to the inn door. "You take that horse around back."

Paks found herself leading the tall black warhorse to the stable before she quite realized the Marshal had taken Star's lead. She heard, behind her, the innkeeper's voice and the Marshal's, and the exclamations of the serving wenches.

Chapter Nine.

When she came in to supper that night, the.common room stilled. Someone dropped a dish, and it clattered on the floor. She could hear the rustle of cloth as someone bent to pick it up. Paks carefully did not meet any of the eyes in the room, but picked her way to an empty table. As she sat down, a muted hum resumed. She heard a phrase here and there, but tried to ignore the voices. They all knew, as she did, that the tall man lay unconscious in his room upstairs. She didn't know what stories were going around, but obviously she was in them. She ordered the special dinner: roast beef, mushrooms, hot bread, and pastry. She was halfway through it before she remembered that she'd thought of going to weapons-practice at the Girdmen's that evening. If she ate all that-she sighed and pushed the dishes away.

"Is something wrong with your meal?" asked Hebbinford, pausing by her table.

"No, not at all. I thought I'd go to the grange this evening, though, and drill-and not on a full stomach."

"I see. Well, we can put that by for you, for when you get back, if you like."

"Thank you." Paks had not thought of that. "I'd like that-this is too good to waste. If it's not too much trouble-?"

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"Not at all. Marshal Cedfer mentioned that you might be visiting this evening. I suppose, a warrior must always practice, eh?"

"Yes, if we want to stay good. And it's been too long since I had a proper drill.'

"Fights don't count?"

"No. Not really. A fight may not last long enough, or call out what you need to practice. I should drill every day-we did in the Duke's Company. But no one can practice well on a full belly." Paks leaned back and fished into her pouch for the correct silver piece. As she stood and turned to leave, she noticed several of the diners watching her.

Although it was full dark, she had no trouble making her way along the street. Uncurtained windows were open to the cool evening air, and torches burned at either end of the bridge. Ahead, the grange was ablaze with tight; torches flared atop the barton wall as well. As Paks came nearer, she could see that the gate to the barton and door to the Grange both had sentries before them. She saw two dark shapes enter the barton ahead of her, pausing to exchange greetings with the sentries.

Up close, she realized that the sentries were very young. They carried long billets of wood, and struggled to maintain the dignity of their posts. Paks wondered which entrance to use. She heard the mutter of voices through both. Finally she decided on the barton gate. The youth there stared up at her, eyes wide.

"I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she said. "The Marshal invited me to come to weapons-practice."

"Oh-eh-you're the lady as has come over the mountains, eh?"

"Yes," said Paks. "May I pa.s.s?"

"Oh-well-if the Marshal said-yes, lady, go on in. Are-are you really a fighter, like they say?" This last, as she was nearly past.

Paks turned back to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. "Yes. Did you doubt it?"

"Oh, no, lady. I-I just wondered, like."

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Paks turned back to the barton itself and looked about her. The bare little yard was ringed with torches set high on the wall. One man was stretching, arching his thick back with a grunt. Two more were looking over a pair of pikes, smoothing the shafts with pumice. Out of the side door of the grange came Ambros with an armful of short clubs that reminded Faks of hanks. She heard more men coming in the gate behind her, and a confused sort of clatter and mumble from the grange itself. She watched, uncertain, as Ambros dumped the clubs in a heap near the wall. When he straightened, he saw her.

"Ah, Paksenarrion. Welcome. Marshal Cedfer will be glad to see you. Will you come in? Or h.e.l.l be out here in a few moments."

"I'll wait," said Paks. "I can warm up out here." She unbuckled her sword and laid it by the wall, then began limbering exercises. Others were busy with the same. One man belched repeatedly; a cloud of onion followed him.

"Eh, Can," said another. "If you've ate as much as I smell, you won't last the night."

"Air and onion won't slow any man," retorted Can, grinning. "Might just set off my opponent-"

Paks ignored them. It was much like drill in the Company-the familiar mixture of joking and criticism. She finished her exercises and went to buckle on her sword. The barton was half-full of men-she saw no other women-and they were all mature and well-muscled. Most had picked up one of the short clubs; four had pikes, and one had a sword of medium length.

A bell rang, a single mellow stroke. Everyone stilled, and Marshal Cedfer came into the barton, followed by five other men.

"Are you ready, yeomen of Gird?" he asked.

"We are ready, Sir Marshal," they answered in unison. Paks was silent.

"Then may Gird strengthen your arms and your hearts, and keep them strong for the safety of our land."

"In the name of St. Gird, protector of the innocent," came the response.

"We have a guest here tonight," said the Marshal less .

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formally. "Paksenarrion, come forward. I want all our yeomen to know you." Paks edged past the others to stand near the Marshal under the torches. "Though she is not a Girdsman, Paksenarrion is an experienced warrior. She has accepted my invitation to drill with us. Those of you who drill with swords will have a chance to cross blades with her if you wish. Now, bring your weapons and let me see-" The Marshal began to look over the weapons, commenting on their condition. He was as thorough as any of the Duke's armsmasters. Ambros explained that some of the weapons belonged to the men, and the rest were stored in the grange. Then the Marshal began a.s.signing drills: some to one-on-one, others to two-on-one, and others to more basic exercises. When they were all occupied, he led Paks to a corner of the barton where Ambros waited with two short swords.

"If you don't mind," said the Marshal, "I'd like to work with these short swords. I suspect you are for more skilled with a short blade than I am. It would be best for the yeomen, I think, to learn the short. Of course, you'll want a chance to work with your own, but-"

"That's fine," said Paks. "But I haven't drilled with a short sword in several months. I may be clumsy with it."

"Not as clumsy as I am," said the Marshal. "I haven't been able to teach the men to fight in lines with it."

Paks unbuckled her long sword, racked it, and took one of the short ones from Ambros. "We used a small shield with these, in formation," she said. "Do you have shields?"

"Yes, but we rarely practice with them. As I said, most of our men are not at all skilled with swords. Once they learn that, then we'll try adding the shields." The Marshal, too, had taken a short blade; he gestured at another man to come over. He looked closely at Paks. "You aren't wearing your mail."

"No. 1 didn't think all of you would have mail." Paks wished she had a banda, but was not about to ask for one.

"Mmm. I always say, the stripes you take in training reinforce the lesson." The Marshal looked pleased, and the other two grinned. "Now-well warm up hi pairs, then go two-against-two. Is that all right?"

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"Surely." Paks moved the sword around, feeling its balance. It was subtly different from the one in the Duke's Company. Lighter, she finally decided.

As she had expected, the Marshal was not nearly as inexperienced as he'd claimed. They tested each other's ability and strokes, without either making a touch, for a few minutes. Then the Marshal gestured a pause.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "I see you have much to teach us. Now, Ambros, you stand with her, and Mattis, you take my right."