Divided Allegiance

6

When she managed to lift her head, she was lying on the turf near the well. The building they had entered had collapsed in a heap of stones. It was broad daylight, with the sun’s warmth filtered through high clouds. Paks took a breath, and sneezed. She felt stiff and sore, and it was hard to think what had happened. Her head felt empty; her ears rang like a bucket. She looked at her hands—the one still cramped around the hilt of her sword, and the other empty, but with the feel of something filthy on it. She scrubbed it in the grass. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them clumsily, with her sword hand.

She knew she should get up, but she wished she could lie there and rest forever. After a moment, sighing, she forced herself up: elbows, knees—she rested there for a bit. Her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She looked at her sword; blood and dirt were caked on it. She shuffled on her knees to the well, and took a handful of water to clean it. After a mouthful or two of that clear water, she began to feel more alert. The sword slid back in its scabbard sweetly—it feared nothing near. She looked around for the horses. Macenion’s had disappeared; that seemed right. Star grazed unconcernedly across the well from her. There were the packs, lying open outside the ruins of the little building. Whatever had happened, there below, was over. She could do nothing for Macenion now. She must go on.

Even so she might have sat beside the well for the rest of the day if something had not moved her. The pressure she had felt before seeped back into her mind. This time it was more delicate: she was aware of it as a separate being. There were thanks, for her and Macenion. There were directions, specific and detailed. Slowly she rose to her feet, and slowly she gathered up her belongings. She wondered what to do with Macenion’s things, and the being told her. This to the well, and that under a stone, and those to lie open on the grass, for the wind and sun to play with. Star came to her quietly, and she tied her pack to the frame.

Before she left, the being demanded one thing more. She was tired and found it hard to think, but the pressure gave her no ease until she obeyed. In that mound, through that gap—and take those things. She packed, vaguely aware that much of it was treasure: weapons decorated with gold and jewels, coins, rings and baubles. But why the scrolls? She didn’t understand, but she obeyed, picking up what she was bid, and stowing it away in Star’s pack. As she worked, the clouds thickened overhead, and a chill wind rolled down from the mountains. She didn’t notice. She felt no triumph, only a great tiredness.

As she stumbled away on the narrow track she had been nudged to follow, the first dancing flakes of snow fell from the thickening clouds behind her. Soon a light dusting whitened the tops of the mounds in the valley, outlined the limbs of trees and clung to the cedars in little furry clumps. The clouds reached out, northwards, and gathered in the trail Paks had taken. Snow hung in the air around her, filling her lungs with its damp clean smell. She hardly noticed. It was harder and harder to walk. Every step seemed to take the last of her strength, as if she were pulling her legs out of the ground. Her left hand still felt dirty, and she rubbed it on her trousers as she walked, without realizing it. Uphill—it was all uphill, trying to clear the ridge on the far side of the valley. Paks caught at Star’s pack, clung to it, and the sturdy pony plowed on, through the deepening snow, ears flat and tail clamped down. Her left side caught the blast of wind off the mountains. Soon it was numb, and she stumbled, lurching into Star, and then back, to fall face-down in the snow. A wave of nausea swept over her, but she had nothing to heave. Her stomach cramped. She couldn’t push herself up; she felt the snow on the back of her neck, and then nothing.

In the darkness the first elf mistook her snow-covered body for a drift of snow, and stumbled over it. His muffled curse disturbed the pony, huddled in a thicket nearby, and she snorted.

Quickly the next elves found the pony and soothed her, whisking the snow from her back, and running deft hands over the pack straps. Meanwhile the first elf felt what was under the drift, and called for more light. Torches flared in the windy darkness.

“A human.” Contempt laced the silver voice.

“A robber by the look of it—her,” said another, holding out the patched cloak.

“Robber indeed,” said one of the elves near Star. “This little one is loaded with such treasure that she can hardly walk. And more than that, it comes from the banast taig.”

“Mother of Trees! I had not thought even the humans bold enough to rob there. Or skilled enough to escape.” The leader of the group looked at a dagger and sheath from the pack and shook his head. “With such to carry, it must not be escape, but something worse.”

“She is alive,” said the first elf, after finding a pulse.

“Not for long,” said the leader. “We may not be able to challenge that evil, but we can deal with its minions. We can leave—”

“Look at this,” said one of those going through the pack. He held out to the leader the sealed message from the Halveric. “Is this stolen as well?”

“We must know what we have here, before we decide what to do,” added the one at Paks’s side. “I feel no great evil in her.” He had brushed the snow off her, and now caught his breath as he saw the rings on her hand. He worked off the one with the Duke’s seal, and read the inscription inside. “This is no common robber, cousins. Here is a ring given for honor to a soldier of the Duke Phelan—Halveric’s friend, and—”

“And we all know of Kieri Phelan. Yes. If she did not steal that as well. We shall wake her, then, and see what she says. I doubt that any fair tale can be told resulting in such as this bringing treasure out of the banast taig. But we shall see.”

Paks was vaguely aware of voices talking over her head before she woke fully. They were strange-sounding voices, musical and light but carrying power nonetheless. Light glowed through her eyelids. She struggled toward it, and finally managed to raise her heavy lids.

“You waken at last,” said one of the strange beings before her. He turned to speak to another, and Paks saw torchlight play over the planes of his face. It was clearly unhuman, and in it she saw full strength the strangeness that Macenion had shared. These must be elves. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “You were very cold. Can you speak now?”

Paks worked her jaw around, and finally managed to say yes, weakly.

“Very well. We have many questions for you, human warrior. It would be well for you to answer truthfully. Do you understand?”

“Who—are you?” Paks had no idea of elven politics, if any.

“Do you not know elves, human, when you see them?”

“I thought—elves—but who?”

Arched eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Do humans now concern themselves with the genealogy of elves, having so little themselves? If you would know, then, I am of the family of Sialinn—do you know what that means?” Paks shook her head. “Then you need know no more of my family. Who are you, and what lineage gives you the right to question elves?”

Paks remembered now Macenion’s pride, and how Bosk had always said elves were haughty and difficult.

“I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” she began. “Of Three Firs, far to the north and west—”

“Far indeed,” said one of the other elves. “I have seen that place, though not for many years. Is there a birch wood, a day’s ride west of it, in the side of a hill?”

“I don’t know, sir; I never traveled so far before leaving to join the Duke’s Company. Since then, I have never been home, or near it.”

“Whose company was this you joined?”

“Duke Phelan’s. He has a stronghold in northern Tsaia, and fights in Aarenis.”

“A red-haired man?” Paks nodded, and the elf went on. “This packet sealed by the Halveric, in your baggage: how came you by that?”

“I was given it, by the Halveric, to take to his home.” Even as she spoke, Paks felt the cold darkness rolling over her again. One of the elves exclaimed, and she felt an arm under her shoulders. A cold rim touched her lips, and fiery liquid trickled into her mouth. She swallowed. Warmth edged its way along her bones.

“Not too much of that,” said the first elf who had spoken to her. “In case we must—” He broke off and looked at her again. “You have come to a strange place, soldier of Duke Phelan and messenger of the Halveric. You have come to a strange place, and you seem—forgive me—weaker than I would expect such a soldier to be. Give us now an account of how you came here, and what you were doing in the valley of the banast taig.”

Paks found it difficult to tell a coherent story. Events and places were tangled in her memory, so that she was hard put to distinguish the encounters of the last day or so from those in the Valley of Souls. Still she managed to convey the call she and Macenion had received, and the outline of their adventures underground. The elves listened attentively, interrupting only to ask for clarification. When she finished, they looked at each other in silence. Then a burst of elven; it sounded to her like an argument. The leader turned to her again.

“Well, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you have told an unlikely tale, to be sure. Yet on the chance that it is true, I am sending one of my party into the banast taig to find out. Should he not return, or return in jeopardy, it will go hard with you.”

In the snowy darkness, Paks could not tell how long the elf was gone. She lapsed into a doze, hardly aware of her surroundings. She was roused by a hand on her shoulder.

“Awake, warrior. You will need this—” and a hot mug pressed against her lips. She swallowed, still half asleep, and found the taste strange but pleasant. Slowly her drifting mind came back to her. She tried to sit up on her own, but was still too weak. The elves had pitched a shelter over her, and a tiny fire flickered in one corner, under a pot.

“You still need healing,” said the elf leader. “I admit surprise, Paksenarrion. I would not have believed such a thing without proof. The banast taig freed to be the elfane taig again, and the pollution gone from its heart! We rejoice to know that. But you have taken more damage from that combat than you know; humans cannot fight evil of that power unscathed. Without healing, you would die before daylight.”

Paks could not think what to say. She felt weak, and a little sick, but no worse than that. She had no idea what “banast taig” and “elfane taig” were; the being that had summoned them had never named itself to her. As the elf seemed waiting for something, she finally asked, “Was—did you find out about Macenion?”

“Macenion!” It was very nearly a snort. “That one! The elfane taig buried him cleanly with his orcish murderers; he is well enough.”

“But he was an elf—half-elf, I meant. I thought you would—”

“Macenion a half-elf? Did he tell you that?” Paks nodded, and the elf leader frowned. “No, little one, he was not half-elven—not a quarter elven, either. He had so much elven as might your pack pony have of racing blood.”

“But he said—” Paks broke off. It was hard to talk, and she realized that Macenion’s behavior made more sense the less elven he was.

“He lied. What did he tell you, Paksenarrion, to get you into that valley?”

“That—his elven cousins—denied him his rights to elven things. That he knew of—treasure there—that should be his.”

“Did he not warn you of evil at all?”

“Yes—but he said his magical talents could fight that; he needed a warrior for protection against—physical things. Like the orcs.”

“I see that you speak truly. I apologize, Paksenarrion, for the untruth of this distant cousin; it shames me that any elven blood could lie so.”

“That’s—all right.” Paks felt as if she were slipping down a long dark slope.

“No! By the gods of men and elves, we shall redeem the word of our cousin.” And the elf shook her again, lifting her up until she could drink from a cup one of the others held. The darkness crept back. The elven faces came back into focus. Then one of them laid his hand on her head, and began to sing. She had never heard anything like that, and in trying to follow the song she forgot what was happening. Suddenly she felt a wave of strength and health surge through her. The elf removed his hand, and smiled at her.

“Is that better now?”

“Yes—much better.” Paks sat up, and stretched. She felt well and rested, better than she’d felt in days.

“Good. It will be day, soon, and we must be going. We have much to say to you in the few hours left us.”

The snow had stopped before dawn. A light wind tore the last clouds to shreds and let the first sunlight glitter on the snow. In daylight the elves bade her farewell, and Paks saw their beauty clearly. She felt ashamed to have thought Macenion elvish-looking. One of them caught her thought, and laughed, the sound chiming down the long slope.

“No—don’t be sorry, fair warrior. Your eyes saw truly, to find what was there in so little. Remember what we have told you, and fare well.”

And as she turned to climb the slope upward to the ridge and the trail the elves had spoken of, she felt far distant from the self of yesterday. She felt a surge of the same spirit that had sent her away from home in the first place, a sense of adventure and excitement. Anything might happen—anything had happened. She still found it difficult to think clearly what it was—what nature of thing she and Macenion had fought against, and what had helped her at the end. The words elfane taig meant nothing to her. The elves’ explanation meant very little more.

But she was on a trail once more, alive and eager to be going. Star moved slowly, burdened heavily by the gifts of the elfane taig. Paks had transferred some of that to her own back. The pony snorted a little with each heave of her hindquarters. Paks grinned to herself. No more mountains, they had told her. These, that would have been mountains anywhere else, counted as foothills, and in another two days she would be in the gentler lowland slopes.

On the far side of the ridge, only a few patches of snow whitened the trail, and by noon these had melted. Now other trees mingled with the pointed evergreens—duller greens, more rounded shapes. Paks did not need her cloak for warmth. She was alert for danger, but the elves had told her that they sensed nothing dire moving in the area. She hoped they were right. As far as she could see, the forested slopes wove into each other endlessly, the trail angling down one and up another, always edging west and north.

Her solitary camp that night was almost too silent. She had resented Macenion’s lectures—yet to sit alone, in the middle of a vast wilderness, was worse than anything he had ever said to her. She doused her tiny fire early, and sat awake a long time, staring at the stars. The night was half gone when she realized that she was missing more than Macenion. She had never, in her life, spent an entire night alone like this. Not even once had she slept outside, out of hearing or sight of others. The thought itself made her shiver, and she got up to check on Star. The pony’s warm rough mane reassured her. She looked at the stars again, her hands still tangled in Star’s mane. The night sky seemed to go on forever, up and up without ending, as if the stars were sewn on veils that lay one behind another. She looked for Torre’s Necklace; it was still behind the mountains. Of the other stars she knew nothing.

A breeze slid lightly along the ground, chilling her. Star moved away from her hand, and lowered her head to graze. Paks went back to the blankets she’d laid out. A wild animal cried out in the distance; she stiffened, but no sound followed. Paks felt an urge to take out Canna’s medallion; her hand found her pouch before she thought. Her fingers touched it, smoothed the crescent shape. When she pulled it out, Saben’s little horse came along; the thongs were tangled. She woke stiff and cold in the morning, with Star nosing her face, and the horse and crescent still clutched in her hand.

That day warmed quickly. Paks looked over the whole treasure she had been given, and made her first estimate of its value. She had not realized what she’d taken—it was too much—it shouldn’t be hers. But she could not return to the elfane taig with it, that was certain. She thought the elves must have examined it as well, and if they said nothing about it. . . . Sunlight glittered on the items she’d laid in the grass—the ruby-decorated dagger and sheath, the gold and jewel inlaid battleaxe, gold and silver coins, both familiar in stamp and strange, a set of chainmail that felt oddly light when she lifted it, and looked as if it would fit. She thought about that, looked around, and tried it on. It did fit—perfectly—which made her scowl, thinking. Where had she heard of enchanted mail, evil stuff—? But when she reached for Canna’s medallion, nothing happened; it felt easy in her hand. Was it dress mail, then, good for nothing? She tried her own dagger on the sleeve, notching the dagger. Lightweight, the right size—she scowled again, but kept it on. Over it she put on the best clothes she had—not that any of them looked like much, she thought ruefully, remembering the money she’d spent in Sord to outfit herself.

It was late when she started moving again, and she traveled slowly, as much for her own benefit as the pony’s. She was beginning to wonder what she would find when she came out of the wilderness into settled lands again. The elves had been quite specific in their directions—go to Brewersbridge, they had said, by this trail, and tell the Master Oakhallow and Marshal Deordtya about the elfane taig. But they would say no more about either Master Oakhallow or the Marshal, or why these would want to know about events so far away.

As Paksenarrion came around the slope of the hill, she could see cleared fields and orchards some miles ahead, their straight edges easily visible against the broken forest and meadowland. The track’s gradient lessened as she descended; sheep grazed on the slopes to her right, a barelegged child with a crook watching them from a rock. Gradually the track changed from rock to dirt. Star stepped out more easily. Paks lengthened her own stride to keep up. She saw smoke rising from the center of the cleared area; perhaps it was the village the elves had spoken of. She wondered if the people were friendly. At least it was the north again: home.

Soon she was among the fields and orchards. She had passed two farmsteads set back from the road. The farms looked prosperous; she noted tight barns, well-made stone walls, sleek livestock. A boy picking early apples from a tree near the track told her the village ahead was Brewersbridge; when she’d passed she looked back and saw him running for the farmhouse. Now the track joined a lane, bordered on either side by a wall, wide enough for wagon traffic. She noted wheelruts grooving the surface. On the right, a wedge of forest met the road; she could not tell how large it was. Ahead were a cluster of buildings and another road coming in from the right.

Two cottages now on the left, one opening directly on the road. Beyond them was a large two-story building with a walled courtyard to one side. A bright green and yellow sign hung over the road, and a paved area fronted it. Paks squinted at the sign: The Jolly Potboy. It must be an inn; it was too big for a tavern. She looked around.

The inn sat at the crossroad, facing north. The road Paks had come on continued generally west, wandering among houses and shops. The north road was straighter, with buildings along its west side, and forest on the east. The ground floor of the inn had a row of tall windows facing the road; these were open, and Paks heard the murmur of many voices from inside. She wondered if she had enough money to stay there. The treasure—but she didn’t know what it was worth, or if they would accept the old coin.

As she hesitated, a stout man in a big apron came out and spoke to her.

“Just arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you be wanting a room?”

“I don’t know, sir. How much are they?”

“A silver in the common loft; that includes bread and beer for breakfast. A gold crown for a private room; two for the suite. A silver a day for stabling, including grain, hay, grooming, and safe storage for your tack.”

Paks thought a moment. It seemed high, but she had enough southern money for a night or two. She could always find a cheaper place the next day. Star could use a good bait of grain. “I’d like a private room,” she said. “And stabling for Star.”

“That’ll be in advance, please,” said the man. “I’m Jos Hebbinford, the landlord.”

Paks wrapped Star’s lead around her arm and dug into her belt pouch. “Here—” she handed over the money. “I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, from Three Firs.”

The landlord looked closely at the coins she had given him. “Hmm. From Aarenis—that your home?”

“No, sir. Three Firs is north and west of here. I was with Duke Phelan’s Company in the south, and I’m headed home.”

“I see. A fighter, are you?” Paks nodded. “Are you a Girdsman too?”

“No. I’ve known those who were.”

“Hmmm. We don’t think much of brawling, here.”

Paks flushed. “I’m not a brawler, sir.”

“Good. Just a moment—Sevri! Sevrienna!” At his call, a short stocky redheaded girl came out of the courtyard and ran up. “My daughter, Sevrienna,” said the landlord. “Sevri, this is Paksenarrion, who will be staying this night. This is her horse—” He glanced at Paks.

“Her name’s Star,” said Paks. “She’s gentle.”

“Sevri will take her to the stable,” said Hebbinford. “If you’d like to see your room—?”

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Paks, “I’ll just give Star a rubdown first, and check her hooves. She’s come a long way over rocks.”

“Very well. Sevri will help you. When you come in, I’ll take you to your room.”

“Come on—this way,” said Sevri. Paks followed. The walled courtyard was large, paved in flat slabs of gray stone. A flock of red and black hens scratched and pecked in the entrance of the stable that ran along one side; a black cock with gold on his throat and a green tail stood atop the dungheap. Along other sides of the courtyard were barns full of hay and an open shed with two wagons and a cart beneath it.

Sevri led Paks to a box stall big enough for a warhorse; all the stalls were big. “I can rub her down,” Sevri offered. “You’re paying for grooming.”

Paks smiled at the child. “I want to check her and make sure she hasn’t hurt her hooves on the rocks. If you want to rub her down—”

Sevri nodded. “Surely. She’ll be easier than the big horses, and I do them. Do you want her to have grain, or would a mash be better?”

“A mash would be good for her, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ll put one on, then come back and start on her. If you want water to work on her feet, here’s a bucket, and the well is out there.” Sevri jerked her head toward the courtyard.

When Sevri had gone, Paks untied the bundles from the saddle, and lifted them down. Star sighed. “Poor pony,” said Paks. “That was a load. Here now—” She uncinched the pack saddle and lifted it from Star’s back. Underneath, Star’s coat was matted and damp. Paks moved the bundles to one side of the stall, and bent to feel Star’s legs. Then she took the bucket Sevri had pointed out, and filled it at the well. Back in the stall, she lifted Star’s feet, one at a time. They were dry and hot. Paks found a rag in her pack that she’d used for a headcloth and dipped it in the water. She washed out each hoof and dampened the coronary band. The pony reached down and mumbled Paks’s hair. “No, Star; stop that.” Paks shoved the pony’s head away. She found a cut on the off hind pastern, and cleaned it carefully.

“You must like her a lot,” said Sevri. Paks jumped.

“I didn’t hear you come.”

“That’s because I’m barefooted,” said Sevri. “Are her feet all right?”

“Yes, but for one little cut. Just dry from the rocks.”

“She is wet. You want me to start rubbing her now?”

“Yes. Just let me get these things out of the stall.” Paks grunted as she hoisted the bundles. She dumped them in the aisle. Sevri was watching her.

“That must be awfully heavy.”

“It is,” said Paks shortly.

Sevri had brought two lengths of coarse woolen cloth and a brush. When she picked up one cloth and started work on Star’s sweaty back, Paks took the other and began the other side.

“You don’t have to help me,” said Sevri. “I can do it by myself.”

“Do you mind, though? I’m used to doing her.”

“No-o. But I am strong enough.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Paks, though she did. Star turned her head and nudged Sevri with her soft nose. Sevri stopped and stroked Star’s head.

“She’s gentle,” said Sevri. “Have you had her long?”

“Not very. She is a good pony, though—seems to like everyone. Only don’t come near her with apples unless you want to lose a few.”

Sevri laughed. “I’ll bring her one. Is she greedy about other things?”

Paks shrugged. “She’s a pony. I’ve never known a pony that wouldn’t eat anything it could find, have you?”

“That’s true.” Sevri looked across Star’s back at Paks. “Are you a fighter?”

Paks paused before answering. “It depends on what you mean by fighter. Your father seems to think a fighter is the same as a brawler, a troublemaker. That’s not what I am. I was a mercenary, a soldier in the Duke’s Company.”

“But you can use that sword?”

“Oh, yes. I can use a sword. That’s how I’ve earned my keep since I left home. But that doesn’t mean I go picking fights everywhere.”

“I see.” Paks thought by the tone of Sevri’s answer that she didn’t see. She decided to change the subject.

“Sevri, I have a message for two people here: can you tell me where to find them?”

“Surely.”

“One is a Master Oakhallow—” She stopped as Sevri gasped audibly.

“You—you know Master Oakhallow?”

“No, I don’t know him; I’ve never been here before. But someone I met a few days ago gave me a message for him. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. He’s the Kuakgan, that’s all.”

Paks felt a chill. “Kuakgan? I didn’t know that.”

Sevri nodded. “He’s a good man, it’s just—he’s very powerful, Master Oakhallow. My father’s told me about him; he helped in the troubles.”

Paks said, “Well, I must speak to him, at least. Where is he?”

“In his grove, of course. I’ll show you, when we’re through. Which way did you come in?”

“From the southeast.” Paks pointed.

“Well, then, you saw part of the grove on your right, as you came into town.”

“I remember. I was surprised to see uncleared forest so near the town.”

“Don’t go in except by the entrance,” said Sevri. “It’s dangerous. Now: who else was it you wanted to find?”

“There’s a grange of Gird here, isn’t there?” Sevri nodded. “I must speak to a—a Marshal, I think it was, by the name of Deordtya.”

Sevri stared. “She isn’t here any more. We have a new Marshal now, called Cedfer, and a yeoman-marshal called Ambros. But what kind of message can you have for the Kuakgan and the Marshal?”

“I’m sorry, Sevri, but I must speak with them first.”

“Oh. Of course, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“That’s all right. Now, where can I put the packsaddle, and where’s a safe place for these bundles?”

“Here—” Sevri ducked around Star and led Paks down the aisle. “Put your things here—and I’ll be around watching, if you’ll trust me. You can leave your bundles here too.”

Paks looked at the freckled face and wondered.

“They’ll be safer here than in your room,” said Sevri frankly. “The rooms have locks, but father’s fairly sure we have a thief staying with us. Nothing’s happened yet, but—I can watch your things, out here.”

Paks sighed. “All right, Sevri. I’ll be back when I’ve made my visits.”

“Don’t miss supper,” said Sevri, grinning. “We have good food.”

Paks smiled back at her. “I won’t miss dinner, not after my journey.” She left the stable and entered the inn. The landlord saw her at once and came forward.

“Sevri taking care of you?”

“Yes, sir. She’s most helpful.”

“Come this way—upstairs—to your room.” He turned and led the way across the main room to a broad stone stair. Paks followed, glancing about. The main room evidently served as both tavern and dining room; it was furnished with tables and benches. Half a dozen men were scattered about the tables drinking; two were men-at-arms in blue livery, one was dressed all in black, with a black cloak over trousers and tunic, two looked like merchants, in long gowns, and one was a huge burly fellow in a patched leather tunic over russet hose. Two women sat near the fireplace: the gray-haired one drew out yarn on a hand spindle, while the dark one marked something in a book. Paks went on up the stairs.

A landing at the top of the stairs opened onto a passage on one side and a fair-sized room with pallets in it on the other. The landlord led the way down the passage, past two doors on the left, and three on the right, to stop at the third on the left. He took a ring of keys from his belt and fitted one to the lock. The door swung open silently.

The room was compact but not cramped. A sturdy wooden bedstead with a thick straw pallet on it stood against the left-hand wall. Linen sheets were stretched over the pallet, and two thick wool blankets were folded at the foot. A three-legged stool stood at the foot of the bed, and a low chair of leather stretched on a wood frame stood under the window. A row of pegs ran down both walls of the room, and a narrow clothespress stood beside the door. The walls were whitewashed, the wooden floor scrubbed, and the room smelled as clean as it looked. Paks looked out and saw the the window overlooked the crossroads.

“Will this do?” asked the landlord.

“Oh, yes. It’s very nice,” said Paks.

“Good.” He worked the key to the room off his ring and handed it to her. “Return this, please, before you leave. Is there anything more?” Paks shook her head, and he turned away. Paks shut the door, then took down her hair and combed it. If she was to see a Kuakgan and a Gird’s Marshal, she would be neat, at least. She brushed her cloak as well as she could, rebraided her hair, and left the room, locking it carefully behind her.