Sheepfarmer's Dauther

Chapter Eleven

The next day Cracolnya’s cohort marched in. Pont, his junior captain, escorted the survivors back to the Company’s camp while the Duke, Cracolnya, and most of that cohort went on to Valdaire.

“I thought the Czardians were defeated,” said Callexon. “What happened?”

Erial, the junior sergeant in Cracolnya’s cohort, chuckled. “They were. But they’d hired a mercenary band to help them, only it was late. Then the Duke pulled us out—so when their hirelings finally arrived, they quit talking to Foss Council again and decided to fight for it.” She paused to wipe the sweat from her face. “Won’t do them any good. As long as Foss Council still has three cohorts in the field, and we have two—”

“Who’d they hire?” Varne’s face still looked patchy and pink, but she was otherwise healthy.

“Some southern company. We don’t have to worry; they won’t be any better than the Czardian militia.”

“Unless they’ve got the Free Pikes,” said Vanza.

Erial looked startled. “I never thought of that—they hardly ever hire out.”

“Who are the Free Pikes?” asked Paks.

“The only decent southern company,” said Erial. “They’re from the high mountains in the southwest—I think they call it Horngard.”

“That’s right,” said Vanza. “They don’t hire out much—they fight in defense, or if their land needs money. But when they fight—!” He shook his head.

But the Czardians did not have the Free Pikes; they had hired, Stammel explained, a renegade baron of the Sier of Westland and his so-called knights. They were best known for their woodswork—sneaking into enemy lines at night to kill sleeping men, or steal supplies, or start fires—but could put up a respectable fight on the field, as well.

Paks had hardly realized, in the excitement of her first battle, that the Duke’s Company was not fighting alone. Now she had a look at the Foss Council militia. They wore short gray tunics over trousers of bright red (from Foss) or green (from Ifoss); they carried short straight swords and light throwing javelins. Foss Council held the right wing of their position; their camp, like the Duke’s, was in the forest. Trees ended on a gentle slope, opening on a wide expanse of grass and sedge that faced another tree-shaded ridge some distance away. To the left, the trees made an arc connecting the two ridges; to the right, the grassy meadow grew wetter, finally producing a stream that trickled away to the north.

When the next battle came, two days later, Paks was more than ready for it. Someone had made it through the lines; Arñe was in the surgeon’s care with a knife wound, and Kir of Dorrin’s cohort was dead. Even so, her breath came short as the two lines closed. For an instant she was even more frightened than the first time—she could feel the sickening blow that had opened her leg. She thrust the thought away angrily as the remembered noise and confusion swept over her. This time she was able to keep her head, battering at the enemy stroke after stroke. She was aware of the man beside her, able to adjust her strokes to his so that they fought as a unit. It seemed to last forever: dust, noise, confusion, the rising and falling blades. Then the ground softened under her feet. She realized that they had advanced to the center of the field, where mud churned up instead of water.

Some time after midday, both sides withdrew a space. Paks drained her water flask and wiped sweat from her face. She had come through uninjured. Her stomach growled—a long time since breakfast. They stood quiet in formation: across the way the enemy lines shifted, milling.

“Pass your flask back,” said Donag, handing her his. “They’ll send water forward.” Soon the dripping flasks returned, and they drank. Slabs of bread came forward, then more water. Paks ate hungrily. When she looked again, the enemy seemed a little further away. She nudged Kiri beside her.

“They’re giving back,” he said. “Don’t look at ’em, and maybe they’ll go all the way.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Means they don’t want to fight the rest of the day. Fine with me—it’s too blazin’ hot anyway.”

And in fact the enemy were soon back in their own camp, and to Paks’s surprise they were not sent in pursuit. In the next week, before the Duke returned, they fought several such inconclusive engagements.

“Why don’t they want to fight and win?” she asked one night.

“Don’t complain,” said Donag. “If they wanted to win—I suppose you mean Foss Council?—it’d be our blood on the ground, and not their militia’s. Think about it. They want to win, but what they want to win is whatever it is they’re fighting about: where a border is, or a caravan tariff, or something like that. If they can convince Czardas to yield on that, without us having to cut our way through the entire Czardian army, so much the better.”

“But—” began Arñe, now back from the surgeons.

“No buts,” interrupted Donag. “Tir’s guts, you idiots! You’ll get all the fighting you’ve stomach for by the time you make corporal—if you live that long. Don’t look for trouble. It’s your profession—it’ll come to you.”

When the Duke returned, everything changed again. With Cracolnya’s archers, he decided to change ground. Under cover of darkness they slipped far to the left of their previous position. This left a gap between the Duke’s Company and Foss Council’s troops, and confused the novices almost as much as the enemy. Paks worried about the militia, and even more about what they might think.

“Don’t be silly,” said Canna. She had seen this before. “They’re moving too. It’s a trap, if it works, and a good move even if it doesn’t.”

They made it to the Duke’s chosen field without interference, and Stammel explained how it was better for their purposes than the other one.

“He wants to use our archers. So far the Czardians haven’t shown us any, so we don’t have to worry. But look—the mixed cohort will be up there—” he pointed. “They can’t get to ’em on foot or horse, but they’ll be in range to feel it when Cracolnya opens up. Just watch it come.”

As Stammel predicted, the Czardian forces gave way once the Duke’s archers opened on them. Paks, watching the enemy ranks melt away, was glad the Czardians could not counterattack in kind. The Duke ordered a pursuit, and they began several weeks of constant movement and fighting. Although they never fought the Czardians to a finish, each time they met it was on ground of the Duke’s choosing, and each time the Czardians slipped away, losing ground, back toward their city. When its walls came in sight, the Duke sent two cohorts around to the south, to stop traffic on the southern caravan route, while the other cohort and the Foss Council militia harried the Czardians. A few days after that, the campaign was over. Incoming caravans paid their tolls directly to the Foss Council commander, and he had a treaty to take back to their Table of Councilors.

“You had a good campaign for your first one,” Stammel told the new privates in his cohort. “Some set battles—good moving engagements—enough fighting, but nothing really hard. And we’ll be doing garrison work or caravan work the rest of the season, so you’ll have a chance to learn that.”

“What?” Arñe sounded as surprised as Paks felt.

“Yes. Any year a campaign doesn’t last the season—which is most years—we’re hired as caravan guards or garrison troops for the rest of it. Foss Council wants us to garrison the border forts between them and Czardas, for instance—”

“But—when do we get to go to a city—?”

“He means, when do we get paid?” Vik interrupted Malek.

Stammel laughed. “Ah—thinking like real mercenaries! I expect when Foss Council pays the Duke—which shouldn’t be long—it’ll trickle down to you. And if we’re close enough to a city or town, you might have a little time to waste your pay.”

The Duke’s scribe sat behind a table as the captains and sergeants set out stacks of coins. The Company lined up in order of seniority, which meant that the new privates, in the back, caught only glimpses of the glinting piles before veterans blocked their view. Paks wondered if any of them had dared ask how much they would be paid. She had no idea what to expect. For that matter, she wasn’t sure how many coppers made a silver, or what a silver would buy. She had agreed, with the others, to pay into the Company’s death fund. Stammel explained that this paid for having the personal effects and any salary owed sent to the heirs of those killed. But she did not know what that would leave.

The line snaked forward, slowly. When Paks could see the table again, the piles were much smaller. Suddenly she thought of her “expensive healing”—did that come out of her pay? The scribe called her name at last, and she stepped forward.

“Hmm.” Captain Arcolin picked up the roll and glanced at it, then looked at Paks. “You were promoted on the first day of the campaign. You’ve got a small bonus for your actions when the sick train was attacked. Less the contribution to the fund—did Stammel explain the currency?” Paks nodded. He’d explained, but she didn’t really understand. The Guild League cities coined under their own marks at agreed weights, with the gold nata, or father, being the coin of greatest value, followed by the gold nas, or son, silver niti (mother), silver nis (daughter), and two sizes of coppers, the page and serf. “Well, then,” said Arcolin, “it will be thirty-six nitis for you.” He pushed a pile forward.

“I’d advise you not to draw it all,” said Stammel. “As long as we’re in town, you can draw your pay once a day; you’re less likely to lose it to thieves and such.”

Paks had never seen so much money; it was hard not to take it all. “How much, then, sir?”

“Take ten, why don’t you? That should be enough to make you feel rich. Take two of it in mixed coppers.” Paks nodded to the scribe, and he marked the sum she drew beside her name. Stammel counted the coins into her hand. They were heavy; when she dropped them in her belt pouch, it dragged at her belt. She thought of all she could buy, and how soon she could save up the amount of her dowry to repay her father.

“I’ve never had so much money,” said Saben, coming up beside her.

“Nor I,” said Paks. “And to think we’ll get more next month, and the next—”

“What are you going to buy?”

Paks thought through her list. She didn’t know what they had, yet. “I was wondering if there was a place to buy spicebread—”

Saben laughed. “You and I are truly countryborn. I was thinking about clotted cream—that’s what they had at fairs near home. I never had but a bit of it, and I could eat it by the bucket. And something for my sisters—ribbons, or something like that. Stammel said it could go north with the Duke’s next courier, if it was small and light.”

Paks had not thought about presents; she felt guilty. “I’m—saving to send my dowry to my father,” she said.

“Dowry?” Saben looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t want—”

“To repay it,” she corrected. “He’d already given it, when I ran away.” She had never told anyone but Stammel the circumstances of her leaving home.

“Oh. I see. But you hadn’t agreed, had you?”

“No. I told him I wouldn’t wed Fersin, but he thought he could make me, so he gave dower.”

“But if you didn’t agree, it’s not your fault.” Barra pushed in beside her.

Paks wished she’d never mentioned it. “No—I suppose not. But I’d feel better if I paid it back. There’s my brothers and sisters to think of.”

Barra snorted, and Saben asked quickly, “Do you know how much it is?”

“Not exactly.” In fact she didn’t know anything but rumor: her oldest brother had said it was as much as Amboi dowered his eldest to the wool merchant’s son in Rocky Ford, and she thought she remembered what the baker’s wife in Three Firs had said about that. Saben looked impressed, and asked no more questions.

When they asked Stammel for permission to leave camp and go into the city, he told them to wait. Shortly before midday, he gathered some of his novices.

“All right,” he said. “You’ve got your pay—come along and let me show you how not to spend it.”

Vik shook his pouch, listening to the jingle of the coins. “But, sir—I already know how not to spend it. And I have plans—”

“Sure you do. And I can’t stop you from losing your last copper, if you’re taken that way. But I can show you the safer places to drink, and maybe keep you from being robbed and beaten in some alley.”

“Is Foss so dangerous?” asked Saben.

“And who’d attack us? We’re armed,” said Paks.

“It’s exactly that attitude,” said Stammel severely, “that loses good fighters every year. With the Company, you’re good. But alone, in an alley with thieves—no. If you’re lucky you wake up in the morning with a lump on your head and no money. Unlucky, you find yourself in a slaver’s wagon with a sack over your head and a brand—or maybe just dead. You youngsters don’t know the first thing about cities—well, maybe Vik and Jorti do—and that’s why you’ll come with me this time.”

A half hour later, Stammel led a dozen of them into the wide public room of The Dancing Cockerel. A tall, powerful-looking man in a green apron came forward to greet them.

“Hai! Matthis, old friend—I thought we’d see you this summer. Bringing the new ones in, eh?” The man looked at them keenly. “Duke Phelan’s soldiers are welcome here—what will you have?”

“Bring us your good ale, Bolner, and plenty of it. We’re in time for lunch, I trust.”

“Certainly. Be seated here—unless you wish a private room?”

Stammel laughed. “Not for lunch—are you thinking the Duke’s raised our pay?”

“I’d trust you for it, after these years. Besides, what I heard about the Duke’s contract, you’re getting paid in gold for copper.”

“So? You can hear anything, if you listen to all. Besides, what have contracts to do with us—poor soldiers that we are, and dying of thirst in the middle of your floor.” A roar of laughter from a table near the wall greeted this, and the tall landlord turned away. “Have a seat here,” said Stammel more quietly, and Paks and the others sat down to a long table near the center of the room.

“How much is the ale?” asked Saben, fingering his belt pouch.

“Last time I was here, it was three pages a mug, and a niti a jug. Local coinage. Dearer than some, cheaper than others, but Bolner doesn’t water his ale, and he won’t take a bribe to drug it, as some taverners will. This is a good tavern, as taverns go. Just remember that any landlord loves gossip, and can no more keep a secret than a pig can weave. Anyone who talks about the Company’s business will be explaining it to the captain.”

“Hey—Sergeant Stammel!” They turned to see a fat redhead at the table by the wall. “Still taking your recruits about in leading strings?” His companions laughed again.

Paks looked quickly at Stammel. He was smiling, but his eyes were grim. “My dear Lochlinn, if they were recruits I might, but these are all seasoned fighters—merely friends. And how is the Baroness these days?”

The fat man jogged one of his companions with an elbow. “Seasoned? Half seasoned, I should think, close as they cling to you like chicks to a hen. Haw! They’re big enough, especially that yellow-headed wench, but—”

Paks flushed and took a quick breath. Stammel’s hand beneath the table dug into her elbow. “Now, Lochlinn, we realize it’s been so long since you fought you can’t tell the fighters from the spectators. But come to our next, and let us show you. And mind you keep civil—this ’wench’ as you would say—” Stammel released Paks’s elbow and thumped her shoulder lightly with his fist, “—could part you from crown to cod with one stroke. I trained her.”

Paks gazed across the room at the fat man’s pink face, now a shade paler than it had been. He looked from Stammel to her and made a face, lifting his brows.

“Well, pardon me for plain speaking to an old comrade.” Stammel snorted. “What a fierce look she has, too. I had no wish, wolf-maiden, to anger you and risk a blow from that strong arm your sergeant boasts of.” He rose from his table and made an elaborate bow. “There—will that content you, or must I attempt some other satisfaction?”

Paks looked down at the table, scarred by many diners. She would gladly have leaped on the man, and killed him then and there. Saben, sitting on her other side, nudged her with his knee.

“We would be content,” said Stammel mildly, “to take our ale in peace—and silence.”

“You can’t order me off!” cried the fat man. Paks suddenly realized that he was both drunk and frightened. “You don’t have any right to order me around now, Sergeant—I’ve got soldiers of my own!”

“Tsst! Lochlinn!” said one of his companions. “Let it be, man. Don’t start—”

Paks jumped as a tall pitcher and several mugs were dumped in front of her. Two serving wenches, as well as Bolner, were at the table, distributing the ale. Stammel turned away from the fat man to grin at Bolner. “What’s the menu today, eh?”

“The usual. Common lunch is slices off the joint, bread, redroots, cheese—we’ve the kind you like from Sterry, no extra charge to this party. Or special—roast fowl, and we’ve three in the oven. Pastries. Cella’s tarts, plum, peach, and strawberry, but not enough of the last for everyone. Fish—but I don’t recommend it; it’s river trash this time of year. Leg of mutton—it won’t be done for several hours. Soup—there’s always soup; comes with the common lunch or the special, or a mug of soup with bread is five pages.”

“How much for the common lunch?”

“For this group—if you all take it—well, I’ll take off a bit. Say a niti each, ale included.”

Stammel looked around at them. “It’s good food here. What about it?”

They nodded, and Stammel gave a thumb’s up sign to the host, who left the table, calling orders to the kitchen. Paks looked for the fat man, but he had gone, and his friends with him.

“Who was that?” she asked Stammel.

“Who? Oh, him—the fat one?” She nodded. “His name’s Lochlinn. Used to be one of ours, years back; he left the Company. Now he’s in some local baron’s guard. And bed, they say, when the baron’s traveling.”

“I’d like to—” began Paks, but Stammel interrupted.

“No, you wouldn’t.” She looked at him, surprised. “Don’t get into fights. Remember that. The rule is the same as inside the Company—there’s no good reason short of being assaulted. You get us a reputation for brawling, and we’ll all lose by it.”

“But what he said about Paks!” Saben scowled. “Why should we let him get away with that?”

“Because we want to come here and eat—or shop in the market—and not be prey to every cutpurse and ruffian, and have the citizens cheering them on when you and you and you—” he pointed around the table, “—are bleeding in the street. Or being hauled off to the lockup by militia. We don’t want trouble. We aren’t paid to fight over nothing. Tir’s bones—we know any one of us could split that fat leech—what difference does it make what he says?”

Paks reached for the pitcher and poured several mugs full. She pushed one toward Stammel and took one herself. She sniffed at it; it smelled much like the ale sold at market in Three Firs.

“Paks, have you had ale before?”

She blushed. “No, sir, not really. Just a few swallows.” She took a cautious sip.

“Don’t drink much, then. It makes some people quick tempered; you don’t need that. Vik, I don’t have to ask you.” Vik had drained his mug at one swallow.

“No, sir—and how I’ve missed good ale these long months.”

Stammel grinned. “You can spend your pay quickly on ale, if that’s your choice. Just keep in mind—”

“Oh, aye—no fighting, no talking—but what about wenching and dicing?”

“Well, if you must, you must. I’d recommend Silverthorn Inn for the one, and here for the other. Whatever you do, stay away from River Lane, across the market, and don’t go to Aula’s. They’ll recommend it at Silverthorn, but don’t. All the dice are magicked, and the dwarf will slit your gizzard in a second if you show you notice.”

“Yes, sir—perhaps I’ll wait for another day.”

Arñe laughed. “Adding up the cost, Vik? Homebrew’s the cheapest, they say.”

“It’s not so much my silver I care for as my fair white skin—you know how I dread being ill-marked.” The rest laughed. Between sunburn, freckles, and healing battle scars, not much fair white skin was displayed.

“That’s all right, Vik,” called Coben from down the table. “You can teach me that dicing game—what is it?”

“Don’t play the innocent, Cob,” said the redhead. “I heard about you with that girl from Dorrin’s cohort—was it five silvers, or six, you won from her while she taught you dicing?”

“More than that, my lad, more than that,” said Coben, and drained his mug. “I’m a slow learner, I am. Especially when I’m winning.”

“Here you are,” said Bolner from behind them. He and each of the serving girls carried a platter of sliced roast meat to set out on the table. By the time they had finished stuffing themselves with meat, rounds of dark yellow cheese, redroots, bread and soup, the rest of the room was empty.

“Now,” said Stammel. “A last reminder. Don’t wander about alone—stay in pairs, at least. Keep alert; Foss has as many thieves and cutpurses as any city. The slavers won’t bother you if you stay together. Don’t brawl. Keep your mouths shut about the Company and its business, but be polite otherwise. If one of you gets drunk, the others bring ’em home. You’re all to be back before supper, so the others can go. Clear?” They all nodded.

In the main market square, they scattered into clumps of three or four. Arñe and Coben stayed with Paks and Saben, poking into every stall and shop along one side of the square. One sold lace, its white tracery displayed against dark velvet. Another sold strips of silk, patterned with exquisite embroidery. Paks found a spicebread stall, and managed to stuff down a square of it despite the lunch she’d eaten. They found a shoemaker’s shop, displaying pointed-toed shoes in scarlet and green and yellow, and a bootmaker’s with riding boots, laced boots, and one pair made of three different leathers. Paks stared, and the man came to the door.

“You like those, fair warrior? ’Tis mulloch’s hide, and goatskin, and the skin of a great snake from across the sea, south of Aare—only a nas, for you.”

“No, thank you,” said Paks, stunned more by the price than the boots. He smiled and turned away.

Coben stopped to look at a jeweler’s display; the jeweler’s guards dropped their hands to the hilts of their weapons. Paks looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. A tray of rings, gold, silver, some with bright stones set to them. Most were finger rings, but some were clearly earrings. Another tray held bracelets, and a single necklace of blue stones and pearls set in silver.

“Look at that,” breathed Coben, pointing to one of the rings. “It’s like a braided rope.” Paks saw another that looked like tiny leaves linked together. She wondered what else was in the shop—far too expensive, whatever it was.

One shop displayed clothing; they could see the tailors inside, sitting cross-legged on their platform. Bolts of cloth were piled up behind them. Another shop was hung with musical instruments: two lap-harps, a lute, something twice the size of a lute with more strings, and many more that none of them recognized. In a litter of woodshavings the maker was working on a part, and smiled at them as they peeked in the door. He reached a hand to pluck one of the harps and show its tone. Paks was entranced. She had heard a harp only twice, when musicians came to the fair.

“Can—can you play, as well as make, them?”

His bushy eyebrows rose. “Of course, girl—how else would I know if I’d made them well? Listen—” He unfolded himself from the workbench, lifted the harp, and ran his hands along the strings. Paks had never heard that music before, but shivers ran up her spine.

“Do you know ’Torre’s Ride’?” asked Arñe, nudging Paks forward.

“Certainly—three versions. Where are you from?”

“From the north—from Tsaia.”

“Hmm.” He paused to adjust a tuning peg. Then the thrilling sound rang out, one of the few songs Paks had learned before leaving home. She found herself humming along; Arñe was murmuring the words, as was Coben. The instrument maker finished a verse with a flourish. “There you are. But are any of you players?”

Paks could have listened all afternoon. She shook her head, and Arñe said “No, sir,” and he went back to his bench, shaping a little piece of wood with a small chisel. Paks wondered which instrument it was for, and where it would fit, but was too shy to ask. They left that shop and moved on.

She found the surprise for Saben several shops down. Here were trays of religious symbols, carved of the appropriate stone or metal. Most she did not know. The crescent and cudgel of Gird were familiar, and the Holy Circle, and the wheatsheaf of the Lady of Peace. The sword of Tir was there, both plain and cleverly set with a tiny jewel in the pommel. But whose was the leaping fish, or the tree, or the arch of tiny stars? She looked at tiny golden apples, at green leaves, at anvils, hammers, spears, fox or wolf heads, little human figures clothed in flowers (swirling hair made the loop for hanging). Here was the antlered figure of Guthlac, and the double-faced head of Simyits, a harp for Garin, the patron of harpers, and shears for Dort, the patron of sheepshearers and all in the wool trade. Then she saw the little red stone horse, and remembered Saben’s words that day in the stronghold. She looked up and found the shopkeeper watching her. She glanced around; Saben was in the next shop, pricing combs for his sisters.

“How much?” she asked. And, “Will it break easily?”

He shook his head. “Not these symbols, lady. And they have all been blessed, by the cleric for each one. They’ll bring luck and blessings to those who wear them.” Paks doubted this, but didn’t argue.

“How much?” she asked again.

“The little horse? The symbol of Senneth, the horse-lord, and Arvoni the patron of horsemen?” Paks nodded. “Five nitis.” She was startled and her face must have shown it. He said smoothly, “But for you, lady—you will need luck—for you, I will say four nitis, and two serfs.” Paks had never bargained herself, though she had heard her mother and father.

“I cannot spare so much,” she said, and looked away, shifting her feet. She sighed. She wanted that horse for Saben, but four nitis—that was four meals like lunch. And she wanted other things, too.

“Three nitis, two nis,” he said. “I can’t do more than that—” Abruptly Paks decided to buy it. She fumbled in her pouch for the silver.

When she came out, with the horse safely stowed in her pouch, Saben was still looking at combs; Arñe and Coben were rummaging through a pile of copper pots on the pavement. She ducked into the shop with Saben.

“I can’t decide,” he said, turning to her. “Suli likes flowers, so that’s easy—this one—” The comb had a wreath of flowers along the spine. “But for Rahel and Maia, do you think the birds, or the fish, or the fern?” Paks thought the fern was the prettiest, and liked the leaping fish better than an angry-looking bird. He paid for the combs and they walked out. They saw fruit stalls beyond the piles of pots. Early berries, early peaches—they squandered coppers on the fruit, and walked on with sticky fingers. Coben cocked an eye at the sky.

“We’d better be going,” he reminded them. They turned back across the square. Paks went to the spicebread stall again, and bought a stack it took both hands to carry. They munched spicebread most of the way back to camp.

As they were going to their posts for duty, Paks gave Saben the little horse. “I remembered you lost your bit of hoof,” she said. “I couldn’t find a hoof, but maybe the whole horse will do.”

He flushed. “It’s—it will do well, Paks. Thank you. Was it from the shop next to the comb place?”

“Yes.”

“I looked at it, but didn’t buy it—you shouldn’t have spent so much—”

“Well—” This time Paks blushed. “I didn’t—I mean I—umm—”

Saben laughed. “You, too? I bargained myself, but I couldn’t get him to go lower than three nitis.”

“Three!” Paks gasped and began to laugh helplessly.

“What? What did you get it for?” She shook her head, laughing even harder. A veteran walking by stared at her. Finally she stopped, sides aching. Saben was still watching her, puzzled.

“You should have—” she began, and started laughing again. “Oh, I can’t! It hurts—you should have got it yourself—you’re the better bargainer—”

“You mean you paid more than that?”

“Not much,” she said, still laughing. “As—as a fighter I may be good, but at market—”

“Well, the man tried to tell me it was bad luck to bargain over a holy symbol, so maybe it will be better luck this way.” Saben grinned. “Tell you what, Paks—the next time you want something, I’ll bargain for you.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“And by the way,” he went on, taking a comb from his pouch. “This one’s really for you—the ferny one.”