Divided Allegiance

7

Paks left the inn, wishing she didn’t have to go. She felt eyes watching her from the inn’s wide windows; her shoulders twitched. Evening light glowed in the changing foliage of the trees on her right; a few shrubs were already brilliant crimson. She saw two men-at-arms in the local livery coming toward her. They stared, and she returned the stare coolly, hand near the hilt of her sword. One opened his mouth, but his companion nudged him in the ribs and they passed by in silence.

Ahead on the right she saw a break in the wall of trees and leaves. As she came closer, she saw that it was an arch of sorts: vines binding branches, with a narrow path winding away toward the wood. Paks paused before the opening. She could wait until morning, she thought, and started to turn away—but there on the road were more men-at-arms, and these moved toward her. She stepped under the arch and went in.

She had taken only a few steps when she became aware of the silence. Voices from the road did not penetrate the grove. Her own breathing seemed loud. She slowed, and looked around. Trees, irregularly spaced. More light than she would have expected under the trees, but—she looked up and saw leaves worn and frayed with autumn. Golden light spilled through. The path, though narrow, was easy to see, picked out in rounded white stones that looked like river cobbles. She moved on, alert and watchful. Sevrienna had not had to warn her about Kuakkganni and their groves. Everything she had ever heard about them told of their peril.

A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves around her. As that rustling faded away, she heard somewhere ahead the gentle laughter of falling water. The path twisted once, then again. The trees framed more light: a glade, open to the sky. Almost in its center, she saw a simple fountain, water welling up in a stone basin and trickling over the edge to fall into another, and then another. The last formed a small pool from which Paks could see no outlet. Beside the fountain stood a rough block of stone with a wide bronze basin on top. Paks moved toward it, alert and watchful. Now she could see a low gray house, close under the trees on the far side of the clearing; it looked rough as a fallen tree trunk. Paks made out a door and windows, shuttered, but nothing else. The clearing was otherwise empty.

Still nervous, Paks neared the fountain. Its water lay perfectly clear, a silken skin that rippled with every breath of air; the falling drops from one level to the next sparkled like jewels in the long, slanting rays of the sun. She tore her gaze from the water and approached the bronze basin on its pedestal of stone. An offering basin, she was sure: but what offerings were acceptable to Kuakkganni? Childhood memories of the dark tales her grandfather had told clouded her mind. Blood, he’d said. Kuakkganni follow the oldest gods, and blood they demand.

“It is customary to place one’s offering in the basin.” The voice rang deep and resonant, complex. Paks jerked her head up and found herself face to face with a tall, dark-faced man in a hooded robe of greens and browns. Her heart leaped against her ribs; she felt sweat spring out on her back. She had heard nothing.

“Sir, I—” she swallowed, as her voice failed, and tried again. “Sir, I know not what offerings would be acceptable—to a Kuakgan.”

The heavy brows arched. “Oh? And why would one with no knowledge of Kuakkganni come seeking one?”

Paks found it hard to meet those dark eyes. “Sir, I was told to.”

“By whom?”

“By the elves, sir.” Paks did not miss the sudden shift of shoulders, the movement of brows and eyelids.

“Go on, then. What elves, and why?”

“Sir, the elves of the Ladysforest. The one who sent me said that he was of the family of Sialinn.”

“And his message?”

“That the elfane taig was once more awake, and lost elf freed.”

“Ahh. That is news indeed. And did he chance on you, to be his messenger, or had he other reasons?”

“I had been there—” Paks began to shiver, remembering as if it were happening the final conflict in the round chamber.

“Hmmm. So there is more reason than chance. Well, then, I’ll have your name, wanderer, and you shall indeed offer something to the peace of the grove which you displace.”

“My name is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter—”

“From the northwest, by your patronymic. And for an offering, what have you?”

Paks pulled the little pouch out of her tunic. “Sir, as I said, I do not know what would please—but I have these—” She poured out on her palm the largest jewels from the treasure.

“Any would be acceptable,” said the Kuakgan. “Place your offering in the basin.” Paks wondered why he did not simply take one, but chose a green stone from them and set it carefully at the base of the bowl. The others she returned to the pouch.

“And I,” said the Kuakgan as if continuing a sentence, “am Master Oakhallow. As you knew, a Kuakgan. But I think you must have strange ideas, child, of what Kuakkganni are—what, then?”

To her surprise, Paks found herself telling her grandfather’s lore. “And he said, sir, that—that Kuakkganni ate babies—sir—at the dark of midwinter.”

“Babies!” The Kuakgan sounded more amused than angry. “That old tale still! No, child, we don’t eat babies. We don’t even kill babies. In fact, if you use that sword you’re wearing for anything but decoration, I daresay you’ve spilled more blood than I have.”

Paks stared at him. Despite the undertone of amusement in his voice, he still radiated power. She wondered if he could tell what she was thinking. Macenion had said that wizards could—were Kuakkganni the same?

“Are you a warrior?” he pursued, when she said nothing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. And involved somehow in the wakening of the elfane taig. Well, then, tell this tale: where are you from that you came to that dread valley, and what happened?”

Paks looked again at his face, trying to gauge his mood. She could have done as well with a stone, she thought, or a tree. His dark eyes seemed to compel her to go on. She began, haltingly enough, to explain that she had left a mercenary company in Aarenis to return to the north. When she came to tell of her companion, the Kuakgan stopped her abruptly.

“Who did you say? Macenion? He said he was an elf?”

“Yes, sir.” Paks wondered at his expression. “Later he said he was but half-elven—”

“Half-elf! Hmmph! No wonder the elves sent you here.” He motioned for her to continue. She went on to tell of the early part of their journey, at first slowly, but warming up to it when describing Macenion’s behavior among the wardstones. Her resentment flared again: he had lied to her, he had pretended to knowledge he didn’t have, he might have gone on and left her. . . . She stopped abruptly, at the look on the Kuakgan’s face. Suddenly that quarrel seemed silly, like the attempt of a half-drunken private to explain to Stammel that a drinking companion was really to blame. She rushed on, skimping the rest. This was no time to bring up the snowcat. Then she came to Macenion’s decision to enter the valley of the elfane taig.

“He said whatever was there wouldn’t hurt me, because I was human, and the power was elvish. He said that the elves had tried to keep him away out of jealousy, but he knew he could control whatever evil was there, and regain his inheritance.”

“And what did you think, human warrior?” Paks could not tell if his deep voice was scornful or merely interested. She felt the same confusion at his questions as at the elves’ persistent interrogation. Why would anyone expect her to have an opinion about something like the elfane taig? She explained about the dreams, and Macenion’s confidence in his own wizardry.

“Did you trust him?” asked the Kuakgan, in the same tone.

Paks remembered too well the sinking feeling she’d had as they entered the outer wards. But he had died well; if he had lived, she would have trusted him more. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He could be good with a sword. And he could make light, and windshift, and that.”

The Kuakgan looked at her closely. “Don’t lie to me, child. Did you truly trust him, as you would have trusted a member of your old company?”

“No, sir.” Paks stared down at the grass blades between her feet.

“And yet you went with him, knowing that powers a human should not face lay below?” Put that way, her decision sounded worse than foolish.

“Not knowing, sir.” She took another breath, and tried to explain. “I felt danger, and was worried, but I didn’t know what we faced. And we had traveled together for weeks. Besides, he knew more than I—”

The Kuakgan frowned. “You said that before. You seem to be convinced of it. And so you followed this so-called half-elf, whom you did not trust, into unknown dangers. Followed him, it seems, even to the depths of that ruin?”

“Yes, sir.” She went on with her story, not quite sure how much detail to put in. When she came to her first sight of the old elf-lord, she stopped short, trembling and sweating. She could scarcely get her breath, and her vision blurred.

“No,” came a firm voice, like a command, and a sharp scent tickled her nose. She took a long breath, and saw the Kuakgan’s brown hand beneath her face, tough fingers twisting some aromatic gray herb. “You must tell this tale,” he said, “but I will make it easier. Sit there, on the pool’s edge.” Paks sank down, her sword banging against her leg. The Kuakgan scattered more leaves on the pool, and their scent seemed to clear her head. “Now,” he said above her. “Now go on.”

She was able to continue by clenching her mind to the task, forcing out the words phrase by phrase. Since her wakening to the elves’ care, she had carefully avoided those memories, and they lay bright and sharp as shards of glass, still painful. She could see the elf-lord’s ravaged face, the strange blue flames, the very chips and notches on the orcs’ weapons. Their stench sickened her; their hoarse cries rasped her ears. Macenion’s body lay once more dead at her feet.

“We couldn’t stay together,” said Paks bleakly, unaware of the tears that ran from her closed eyes. “I tried to stay near him, but—”

“Enough.” A strong hand gripped her shoulder. “And what of the elfane taig?”

“The elfane taig?”

“That which you freed.”

She had never understood what happened at the end; describing it clearly was impossible. But again the disgusting touch of whatever she had had to take shriveled her mind. And then, with relief, she told of the escape, of the journey from the valley, and the falling snow.

“When did the elves find you?” asked the Kuakgan.

“That night, I think. I don’t remember. I woke, and it was cold, and snowing, and dark. I couldn’t move. The elves were there; at first they seemed angry, and then suddenly they were kind.”

“Hmmm.” The Kuakgan sat, suddenly, in front of her. “Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you give your name freely—look at me.” Paks looked, and could not look away. She could not say afterwards how long she met the Kuakgan’s gaze. He broke it at last, rose, and offered a hand up. “Well,” he said briskly, “you’re an honest warrior, at least. Kuakkganni rarely have to do with warriors, but I’ve been known to make exceptions.” Paks stood, once more aware of the glade’s silence. “Are you planning to be here long?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir. I might be, if someone hired me; otherwise I’ll be going on when Star has rested from the mountains.”

“You’re looking for work? As a fighter?”

“Yes, sir. At least—I want to send my father what he paid on my dowry before I left.”

The Kuakgan’s eyes shifted to look at the jewel winking in the offering basin. “Hmmm. If you’ve many of that quality, I’d think they would cover most dowries. Was your father a wealthy man?”

“No, sir. A sheepfarmer, near Three Firs. He had his own land and flocks, but he wasn’t rich. Not the way people are in cities.”

“I see. You should have those things valued, then. I think you have enough for repayment of any likely sum. But tell me, what sort of employment were you hoping for, after the mercenaries?”

Paks flushed at the tone of his question. “It was an honorable company, sir,” she said firmly. “I wasn’t sure—I thought a guard company perhaps. The Duke suggested that.”

“Duke? What Duke?”

“Duke Phelan, of Tsaia—”

“Ah,” he broke in. “The Halveric’s friend? A redhead?” When Paks nodded, the Kuakgan went on. “So that’s the company you’ve been in. Why did the Duke suggest you leave, young warrior?”

Paks did not want to get into that question, least of all to a Kuakgan. Her confusion and reluctance must have shown, because the Kuakgan shook his head. “Never mind, then. I have no right to ask that, unless the answer poses a danger for those under my care, and I judge it does not. But tell me, did the elves give you any other message here?”

“Not to you, sir. They did say I should speak to Marshal Deordtya, but the innkeeper’s daughter said that she was no longer here: she said a Marshal Cedfer had taken her place.”

“The elves sent you to Girdsmen?” The Kuakgan seemed surprised at this.

Paks didn’t want to answer any more questions. “Yes, sir, and I’d better be going now—”

“You just arrived this afternoon. Are you in such a hurry?”

Paks sensed more behind the simple question and took refuge in stubborn adherence to duty. “Yes, sir. They told me to come to you, and to the Marshal. I should do that as soon as I can.”

“Well, then, Paksenarrion, I expect I’ll see you again. You may come here, if you want to, and you need not bring such an offering each time. One of Jos Hebbinford’s oatcakes will do.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Paks was not sure why she was thanking the Kuakgan, but she felt much less afraid of him, though she didn’t doubt his power. When he nodded dismissal, Paks turned and went back along the path to the north road. As she stepped through the arch of vines and trees, the village noises returned. A boy and a small herd of goats were jogging toward the crossroads; the goats baaing loudly. Somewhere nearby a smith was at work; the cadenced ring of steel on anvil made Paks think of Star’s worn hooves. She wondered if it was a farrier or a weaponsmith. She looked about, but the sound came from behind the first row of buildings, and she decided not to look for it right away. At the crossroad, she turned right, as Sevri had told her, toward the Gird’s grange, and followed a curving lane past one small shop after another. Faces glanced out at her, curious; those she passed in the street looked sideways: she felt the looks.

The lane angled around a larger building, set back in a fenced yard, and dipped toward a small river. Over the river rose a stone bridge, unexpectedly large, with handsome carved endposts on the parapets. Upstream a millwheel turned slowly; downstream on the near bank was a large building and yard. At first Paks thought it was another inn, for a group of men sat on its wide veranda drinking ale, but the sign over the gate said “Ceddrin and Sons: Brewmasters” with a picture of a tapped barrel. Across the river from the brewery, and a little downstream, was a yard full of hides hung on frames, and stinking tubs: the tanner’s. Paks crossed the bridge, and saw a great barnlike building looming over the cottages between. According to Sevri, that was the grange.

As Paks came nearer, she noted the construction of the Girdsmen’s meeting place. It looked very much like the barns she’d seen in grain-growing regions, stone-walled to twice a man’s height, with closely fitted boards above that. Tall narrow windows began in the top course of stones and rose to the eaves of a steeply pitched roof. On the end nearest the road, wagon-wide doors of heavy dark wood were barred shut. Above them was a square hay-door with the hoist in place. Paks wondered what they could possibly use that for. Along one side of the grange a stone wall half again as tall as Paks enclosed a space as wide as the building. Through a narrow gate of iron palings she could see that it was nothing but a bare yard, beaten hard by heavy traffic. Across from the outer gate was another, of wood. She wondered what was behind it.

“It’s not the time for meeting,” said a voice close behind her. Paks whirled, her hand dropping to her sword hilt. The man who had spoken led a donkey, its back piled high with sticks. He wore no weapon, but his brawny shoulders and muscular arms were no stranger to fighting: he had training scars on both arms, and a long scar on his leg that had come from a spear.

“How would I find the Marshal?” asked Paks. She had noticed that he had not flinched when she reached for her sword; his eyes met hers easily.

“Oh. You’re a traveler, aren’t you? Well, the Marshal—” He cocked his head at the sky. “This time of day he’ll be just finishing his drill with the young’un, I don’t doubt. Go round the side there, past the barton, and ask at the door you’ll come to. Gird ward you, traveler.” He nodded and stepped away before Paks could answer.

The walled yard, or barton, was not quite as long as the grange itself. Despite what she knew of Girdsmen, Paks felt uneasy about losing sight of the lane and its traffic as she picked her way around the outside of the barton wall, and up to the door in its angle between the wall and the grange. That door too was shut, but she gathered her nerve and knocked.

Nothing happened for a few moments, then the door was swept open and she found herself facing a red-faced young man in a sweaty homespun tunic. The red lumps of fresh bruises marked his arms; he had a rapidly blackening eye. For an instant they stared at each other, silent, until a voice called from within.

“Well? Who is it, Ambros?”

“Who are you?” asked the young man quietly. “Did you want to see the Marshal?”

“I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” began Paks. “I have a message for the Marshal.”

“Wait.” The young man turned and called her name to the interior. In a moment an older man, a hand shorter than Paks, came into the room. He had brown hair, streaked with gray and matted with sweat, and a short brown beard. The younger man stepped back to let him come to the door.

“Paksenarrion, eh? A fighter, I see. Yeoman, are you, or yeoman-marshal?”

“Not either, sir,” said Paks. He grunted and looked her up and down.

“Should be, with your build. Well, let’s have your message. Come on in, don’t stand dithering in the door.” He turned abruptly and strode into the room, leaving Paks to follow. “You got those boots in Aarenis, I’ll warrant,” he said over his shoulder. “I hear it’s been lively over the mountains this year.” Paks did not answer, but followed him into a narrow passage, and then a small room fitted with desk and shelves on one side, and two heavy chairs on the other. The man dropped into the chair nearest the desk. “Have a seat. So—you’re not a Girdsman at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Who sent you?”

“The elves, sir, that I met—”

“Elves!” He looked at her sharply. “You run with elves? Dangerous company you keep, young warrior. So: what message did they have for the Marshal of Gird in this grange?”

“To tell you, sir, that in a high valley east and south of here the elfane taig had been wakened, and the lost elf-lord had been freed.”

The Marshal sat straight up. “Indeed! That old evil gone, eh? And they had done this, the elves? I thought they claimed they could not.”

“Sir, they hadn’t done it. They—we—it happened, sir, while I and another were there—”

“Happened! Such things do not happen, they are caused. Are you the cause? Did you fight in that valley and live to return?”

“I fought there, yes. But they did not say the evil was gone, only that the elf-lord was freed.”

“I understand. But the evil has lost its body; it will have some trouble to find a new one that will serve so well. And the elfane taig awake. Hmmph. That will please none but elves and Kuakkganni. But tell me more. You were there; you are a fighter. What was your part in this?”

For the second time that afternoon, Paks found herself telling over what had happened. It was not so hard, talking to the Marshal: almost like telling Stammel or Arcolin back in the Company. When she finished, the Marshal looked grave, his lips pursed.

“Well,” he said finally. “You have been blessed by the gods—and I would think by Gird himself as well—to come through that alive and free of soul. I’d not dare call it luck that a party of elves found you, and knew what to do. For all I’ve just finished drill, we’ll go into the grange and give you a chance to show your appreciation. Unless your allegiance forbids—?” Paks had no idea what he meant, but saw no harm in entering the grange. She had been curious about them since talking to the High Marshal near Sibili, curious and reluctant at once.

Marshal Cedfer led the way into the grange, first along a passage, past the door to the outer room, and through another door set at an angle. Inside, the vast room was already dim in the fading light. Paks could see the glint of weaponry here and there along the walls. The Marshal struck a spark and lit a candle, then lifted the candle toward a torch set in a bracket above him. Paks saw that most of the floor was stone paving blocks, worn smooth. But at the near end of the room a platform of wood rose knee-high, floored with broad planks. It was six or eight spans long and the same wide, easily large enough for many men to stand on. The Marshal, meanwhile, had lit several more torches. Paks wondered what the platform was for, and then noticed Ambros’s face in the doorway. So did the Marshal.

“Come on in, Ambros. Good news! Paksenarrion, here, brings word that the elf-lord possessed by the demon is freed. She’s a little travel-weary, but I just finished drill, so that will be fair.” He went over to a rack on the wall and took down a sword. “This should do. Now, Paksenarrion, since you are not a Girdsman, I suppose I should explain. You know that Gird is the patron of fighters?” Paks nodded. “Good. Well, for thanks and praise we honor him with our skill, such as it is, in fighting. You have escaped not only death, but great evil: you owe the High Lord and Gird great thanks. We shall cross blades, therefore, and by the joyous clash of them the gods will hear our thanks. Unless—” He paused suddenly. “Do you have a wound that would pain you? I should have asked before.”

“No,” said Paks. “I have none. But what is the purpose to which we fight? Am I to wound you, or—?”

“Oh no. It’s like weaponsdrill. We are not enemies that I know of, to draw blood. Gird is no blooddrinker, like some gods. This will not take long; just spar with me.”

Paks drew her sword and stepped up onto the platform with the Marshal, who had thrown off his robe to reveal a tunic as drab and worn as Ambros’s. He eyed her thoughtfully. “Are you sure you won’t take off your cloak? You might find it troublesome.” At that, Paks realized that she was still wearing her chainmail shirt; she hardly thought of it these days.

“Sir, it will not trouble me, but is it right that I wear mail? If I must change—” She wondered as she said it why she was so willing to please him by this exercise.

“Oh no. Oh no, that’s no problem. I’m a Marshal, after all; if I can’t face mail without it, I’m a poor follower of Gird, who fought in an old shirt and a leather apron, or less than that. Now, Ambros, turn the quarterglass, and we’ll begin.”

And with a quick tap of greeting, the Marshal began testing Paks’s control of her weapon. When she proved strong, he tried quickness. When she proved quick—and he smiled broadly when his lunges failed—he tried movement. Paks met his attacks firmly, but concentrated on defense: she did not want to know what would happen should she injure a Marshal of Gird in his own grange.

He was skilled indeed, perhaps as skilled as any human she had faced but for old Siger. Still, he did not penetrate her defenses, though she had to shift ground more than once. She sensed the sand passing through the quarterglass, and changed her tactics slightly, pressing the Marshal a bit. Was he just a little slower to the right? Were his returns to position sluggish there? She felt the impact of the blades through her wrist. It had been long since she had such good practice.

Suddenly the Marshal quickened his pace, surprising her; she’d thought he was slowing. She gave back, turning, her rhythm broken, fending him off as much by reach as stroke. She took a breath, and stepped back again to gain room for her own attack, but her foot found nothing to step on: she had come to the edge of the platform.

Instantly she threw herself sideways and tucked, hitting the stone floor on her left side, and rolling up to a fighting position. But the Marshal had not followed up her fall.

“Forgive me!” he cried when her saw her up. “I had forgotten, Paksenarrion, in the fighting, that you were not one of us, and did not know the platform well. It was ill-done of me to press you so close to the edge.” He racked his sword and came to her side. “Were you hurt in the fall?”

Paks took a breath. Her side hurt, but that was as much the old bruises as the new ones. “No, sir. It’s all right, truly it is. I’ve had harder falls.”

“Oh, aye, I’m sure you have. But you’re not a yeoman here for training. I should have warned you—glad you’re not hurt.” As Paks sheathed her blade, he picked up his robe. “It’s customary,” he said, “to make an offering toward the armory, too. Though as you’re not a Girdsman, it isn’t strictly required—” Paks found that Ambros had come to her side with a slot-lidded box. She fished out the pouch from her tunic again, thinking to herself that it seemed hard to be dumped on the floor and then asked for money. She took the first jewel at random and dropped it into the box. The Marshal did not appear to be watching.

“You’re very good with that longsword,” he commented. “Don’t most mercenary companies use a short one?”

“Yes, sir, we do, but we had the chance to learn other weapons. And out of formation a longsword has great advantage.”

“Yes, of course. With your height, too. I was surprised to see that you moved so freely with it, though. Most who come from formation fighting are used to depending on the formation, and are static. Though you’re not a Girdsman, you’re certainly welcome to drill with us here at the grange, as long as you’re in Brewersbridge. We have open drill three nights a week, in the barton usually. You’ll find most of the local yeomen fairly good at basic things, though few of them are up to your standard. And I’d be honored to partner you for advanced swordsmanship—or Ambros, here: he’s certainly up to a bout with you. Have you had any training at unarmed combat?”

“Yes, some. And some with polearms,” added Paks, hoping to forestall further questions.

“Excellent! I certainly hope you’ll come; you’ll be most welcome. Tonight’s a beginner’s class in marching drill—I hardly think it would interest you—but tomorrow?”

“Perhaps, sir. I thank you for your invitation.” Despite herself, Paks was curious to see the sort of drill a Marshal of Gird would conduct. And she needed to keep her own skills honed; it couldn’t hurt to come once or twice.

Outside the grange night had fallen; stars shone overhead to the east. She made her way quickly back to the inn, where the great open windows laid bars of yellow lamplight across the crossroad. As she entered, Jos Hebbinford caught her eye.

“I thought you weren’t going to make it back for the meal,” he said, half-laughing.

“Mmm. My errands took longer than I thought.” Paks looked around the common room, now crowded with men-at-arms and other guests of the inn. “Where—?”

“I’ve no single tables left. How about over here?” He led her to a round table where two men were already halfway through a substantial meal. “Master Feddith is a stonemason, a local here, and that’s his senior journeyman.” Feddith, a burly man in a velvet tunic, looked up and nodded briefly as the innkeeper introduced Paks, then went back to his conversation with the journeyman. Paks ordered roast and steamed barley and looked around the room while waiting for her meal. Nothing Feddith was saying made much sense—it had to do, she assumed, with stonework—she had never heard of coigns or coddy granite or buckstone.

Few other women were in the common room besides serving wenches. One, the same white-haired woman Paks had seen in the afternoon, sat knitting by the fire with a glass of wine beside her. At another table, two women in rough woollen dresses sat with men dressed like farm laborers. And a group of youths, drinking a bit too much ale together, included a sulky-faced girl whose dress was tight across the shoulders and loose everywhere else. Paks watched Hebbinford go to their table in response to another shout for ale, shaking his head. One of the youths started to argue, and a hefty man with a short billet appeared beside the innkeeper. They all subsided, and after a moment threw coins on the table and left. The girl looked quickly at Paks before she went out the door.

“Here, miss,” said a serving wench at Paks’s shoulder. She turned to find a platter piled high with roast mutton and a mound of barley swimming in savory gravy. With it came a loaf of crusty bread and a bowl of honey. “And will you take ale, miss, or wine?”

“Ale,” said Paks. She drew her dagger to slice the bread and found the master mason watching her.

“You’re not from around here,” he challenged.

“No, sir.”

“Are you a Girdsman?”

“No, sir.”

“Ummph. A free blade, then: that’s not any livery I know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Humph. Were I you, young woman, I’d keep my blade sheathed here. We’re not partial to troublemakers.”

Paks flushed. “I’ve no wish to make trouble, sir, wherever I am.”

“Maybe not, but free blades are trouble as often as not. What gods do you serve?”

Paks put both hands on her thighs and looked him steadily in the eyes. “The High Lord, sir, and the gods my father served, back where I came from.”

His gaze flickered. “Well enough. But if you’re planning to stay here long, you’d best find a master can vouch for you.” Before Paks could think of anything to say, he had pushed back his stool and gone, his cloak swirling. Her stomach clenched with anger. Why did they all think she was a brigand, trying to cause trouble? Then she thought of the wandering fighters in Aarenis—perhaps they had had trouble here, though she had not heard of such in the north. She took a deep breath to calm herself and settled to her meal.

Hebbinford, as he came back past her table, had a smile for her. “Did I hear Master Feddith growling at you? Don’t take offense; he’s on the Council here, and we’ve had some trouble. I hear you visited our Master Oakhallow and Marshal Cedfer this afternoon—no wonder you were late. They say Marshal Cedfer alone can take up half a day, with his drills and lectures.”

“Does everyone here think fighters are bad?” asked Paks.

“Well—no. Not all fighters. But we’ve had those come through that were: got drunk, broke things, started fights with local boys, even robbed. You’ve known some like that, surely.”

Paks nodded.

“So, you see, we’ve got careful. As long as nothing happens, you’re welcome, but we don’t want the street full of idle blades looking for mischief.”

“I can see that.”

“Now, Sevri tells me you’re quiet-spoken even to servants, and Master Oakhallow had nothing against you, so—” He broke off as someone yelled across the room, smiled again, and left. Paks finished eating. It had been too long since she’d eaten well-cooked food. She finished with a slice of bread drenched in honey. Most of the men-at-arms were gone, and the rest were leaving, throwing down coppers and silvers as their boots scraped on the stone. Paks decided to check on Star before going up to bed; she found the pony dozing, wisps of hay dangling from her mouth. She went up the stairs to her room, tired, full, and determined to put off tomorrow’s worries until tomorrow.

The bed was so soft that at first she could not sleep. Her room was far enough from the common loft that she heard nothing from it, but boots rang on the stone outside the inn from time to time. Even with the window open to the cold night air, it seemed strange to be sleeping inside again.