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ought to be quicker nor an old man like me. Look now, I gave you an opening wide as a barn door for a thrust, and you used that same wide cut. Stop now — "
    Paks lowered her wooden blade, gasping for breath.
    "You're strong enough," Siger said. "But strong's not the whole game. You've got to be quick, and you've got to think as fast as you move. Now let's break the thrust stroke down into its parts again." He demonstrated, then had Paks go through the motions several times. "Let's try that again. Don't stand flat-footed: you need to move."
    This time practice seemed to go more smoothly, and at last Paks's blade slipped past his to touch his side. "Ah-h," he said. "That's it." Twice more that afternoon she got a touch on him, and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles. "But you still must be quicker!" was his parting comment.

Chapter Three
    It seemed to Paksenarrion that events had moved with blinding speed. Only that afternoon she had been a file leader, and Siger had praised her. Now she was shivering on the stone sleeping bench of an underground cell, out of sight and sound of everyone, cold, hungry, frightened, and in more trouble that she'd dreamed possible. Even with cold stone under her, and the painful drag of chains on her wrists and ankles, she could hardly believe it had really happened. How could she be in such trouble for something someone else had done? Her head throbbed, and her ears still rang from the fight. Every separate muscle and bone had a distinctive and private pain to add.
    It was so quiet that she could clearly hear the blood rushing through her head, and the clink of the chains when she shifted on the bench rang loudly. And the dark! She'd never been afraid of the dark, but this was a different dark: a shut-in, thick, breathless dark. How would she know when dawn came? Her breath quickened, rasping in the silence, as she tried to fight down panic. Surely they wouldn't leave her down here to die? She clamped her teeth against a cry that fought its way up from her chest. It came out as a soft groan. She could not — could
not
— stand this place any longer. Another wave of nausea over-came her, and she felt hastily for the bucket between her feet. She had nothing left to heave into it, but felt better knowing it was there. When the spasm passed, she wiped her mouth on her tattered sleeve.
    Her breathing had just begun to ease again, when she thought she heard a sound. She froze. What now? The sound grew louder, but still so muffled by stone walls and thick door that she could not define it. Rhythmic — was it steps? Was the long night already over? She saw a gleam of light above the heavy door; it brightened. Something clinked against the door; it grated open, letting in a flood of yellow torchlight. Paks blinked against it, as the torchbearer set his light in a holder just inside the cell door. Then he pulled the door closed, and turned to face her, leaning on the wall under the torch. It was Stammel: but a Stammel so forbidding that Paks dared not say a word, but stared at him in silence. After a long pause, during which he looked her up and down, he sighed and shook his head.
    "I thought you had more sense, Paks," he said heavily. "Whatever he said, you shouldn't have hit him. Surely you — "
    "It wasn't what he said, sir — it was what he
did
— "
    "The story is that he asked you to bed him, and teased you when you wouldn't. And then you jumped him, and — "
    "No, sir! That's not — "
    "Paksenarrion, this is serious. You'll be lucky if you aren't turned out
tinisi turin
— you know what
that
is, sheepfarmer's daughter — " Paks nodded, remembering the old term for a clean-shorn lamb, also used for running off undesirables shaved and naked. "Lies won't help."
    "But, sir — "
    "Let me finish. If what he says is true, the best you can hope for — the very best — is three months with the quarriers, and one more chance with a new recruit unit, since
I
haven't taught you what you should