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shield, and faced Jenits. He did not look as confident as the moment before. "Come on," said Paks. "Get that shield up where it'll do you some good. Now start at the beginning."
Jenits began the drill cautiously, as if he thought his sword would break on contact. She countered the strokes easily, without any flourishes, murmuring the numbers as a reminder. He put more bite in the strokes, and Paks responded by stepping up the pace, and strengthening her own. She did not deviate from the drill, but in a few minutes Jenits was sweating and puffing, and she had tapped his banda half a dozen times. She stopped him.
"Jenits, you have the chance to be very good. But right now you're about half as fast as you should be—and half as fit. Your speed will come with practice; the way we're going to drill will take care of the fitness, too. Now walk around and catch your breath while I try the others." Paks was pleased to see that Jenits no longer looked sulky, just thoughtful. She beckoned to Volya, handed back her shield, and took another. Volya was very quick, and her strokes were firm, but she could not keep her shield high enough.
"Is that arm just weak, or did something happen to it?"
"It was broken once, by a cow. I've tried to strengthen it."
"You'll have to do better. If you can't keep that shield up, you won't survive your first battle. What have you tried?"
"Siger suggested some exercises. I do those—when I remember them."
"You'll remember them," said Paks grimly, "unless you like the idea of dying very young. Right now, while you're resting, raise and lower your shield fifty times—and go this high—" She pushed the shield until it was as high as she wanted it. "Go on, now. Sim, come here."
Sim, a ruddy young boy with a husky build, moved flat-footed. Paks pointed this out, and he tried