“Very well—you do know somewhat about sheep. But you haven’t worked ’em lately, I’ll warrant.”
“No, sir.”
“I thought not. Those clothes belong in a shop, not on drive.” He spat on the cobbles outside the pen. “I hope to Gird you don’t mind getting dirty.”
“No, sir.”
“All right. When market’s over—another glass, say—we’ll be moving this pen and those two—” he pointed, “—out to a meadow for tonight. Tomorrow we start for the south. Follow us out—make sure none of ’em stray in the city—and you’ll be watching tonight.”
Although bothered by the noise and bustle of the market, Paks had no trouble with the sheep on the way out—to her own and the shepherd’s surprise. The sheep settled well in their temporary grazing ground, and Paks took up her assigned post on the far side while the other shepherds made camp and cooked supper. She had not thought to bring anything for lunch, planning to buy it in the market, so by evening she was hungry. When the first group had eaten, Selim called in the others to eat. Paks was given a bowl of porridge and a hunk of bread. She ate quickly, hardly noticing the others until she finished. Then she looked up to find them watching her.
“You eat like you thought there was more coming,” commented Selim. She had, indeed, assumed there was more. He turned to the others. “Been living in a city for awhile, she has. Fine clothes. Eating well. Listen, now: we’re sheepfarmers, not rich merchants or fancy warriors. We work hard for what we get; you’ll get your fair share, but not a drop more. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Paks nodded, and cleaned her bowl. She was remembering that when she first joined the Duke’s Company, the food had seemed rich and plenty—she had forgotten, in the years since, how her family had lived, and how she had longed for bakers’ treats on market days.
“Good. You’ll take first watch. Jenits, you relieve her at change. We’ll start out at dawn.”
In the next few days Paks became acquainted with hunger again. She felt cold and hunger as a force that dragged on her legs, making her labor to keep up with the flock. When a sheep broke free, and ran, she struggled to chase it, fighting a stitch in her side and leaden legs that would not hurry. Selim scolded her about it.
“By Gird’s cudgel, this is the last time I’ll hire on the Marshal-General’s word! I’ve a half-grown lass that could do better!” Paks forebore to say that she herself, as a half-grown girl, had done better. She saw clearly that excuses would only make things worse. She ducked her head and promised to work harder. And she tried. But Selim and the others never came to trust her, always saw her as an outsider who had been forced on them by the Marshal-General. In addition, the wounds she’d received from the iynisin began to swell and redden again. They had never faded much, but now they looked and felt much as they had when she first came out in Kolobia. The shepherds looked at the marks they could see and muttered.
So it was that when the flocks were safe in the winter pastures of southern Fintha, Selim turned her away, and refused to hire her through the winter.
“I’m not saying as I think it, mind. The Marshal-General, I expect she’d know the truth of it, and she said as how you was not to blame for any. But they all think you’re cursed, somehow. Never saw the like of those marks on your face turning dark like that; it’s not natural. We’ve plenty of young ones in the village that need work can look after the sheep well enough. Here’s your pay—” It was not much; Paks did not count it. “And I’ll wish you well.”
It was a bitter morning, gray with a sharp wind. Paks shivered; she was, as always, hungry. “Is there an inn, here, where—”
“No, not here.” His voice was sharp. “We’re not some rich town. On that way—” he pointed to a side lane. “You could make Shaleford by tonight, if you get a foot on it, or back the way we came.” Paks looked from one to the other, irresolute. “You won’t make it shorter by thinking on it,” he said, and turned back into his own house, shutting the door.
Paks put the coins he’d given her into her belt pouch, biting her lip. The way they had come was north, into the wind, and the nearest town more than a day’s travel. She took the lane to Shaleford.
The lane dwindled to a track, and the track to a hardly visible trail that led up over a rise open to the wind. All that day Paks fought the wind, leaning on its shaking shoulder. She had nothing to eat, and nothing in the bare countryside offered shelter or sustenance. When she topped the rise, she looked into a country already softened by coming night; behind her the sun fell behind heavier cloud to a dull ending. She saw nothing that looked like a town, and wondered if the shepherd had lied. But the miserable trail wound on, and she saw sheep droppings nearby. Sheep meant people, she hoped, and kept on. At least it was downhill.
She was stumbling in the gathering darkness when she saw the first light ahead. Thinking of warmth, food, being out of the everlasting wind, she missed her footing again, and fell flat, jarring every bone. She lay sprawled, listening to the wind’s howl, and wondering how far the light was.
Shaleford had an inn, if a three-room hut with a lean-to kitchen could be called an inn. Paks handed over most of her earnings for a pile of straw at one end of the common loft and a bowl of soup. The other customers drank ale, heavily, and eyed her sideways. She paid another of her coppers for a second helping of soup and some bread. She was tempted to spend one of the Marshal-General’s coins for a decent meal, but was afraid to show the others that she had anything worth stealing.
The next day she found that no one in Shaleford had need for an extra hand over the winter. By the time she’d asked for work every place she could think of, it was too late to make the next town by nightfall. She could not stay another night at the inn without using some of her reserve. But Shaleford had a grange—she’d seen it, first thing in the morning. She decided to see if they would let her stay there.
The Marshal, said the stocky yeoman-marshal, was out. He’d been to Highfallow barton for their drill, and wouldn’t be back until the next day. Yes, there’d been a recent message from Fin Panir, but that was the Marshal’s business, and he couldn’t say what it was. If she had something from the Marshal-General herself—Paks pulled out the safe-conduct, and the yeoman-marshal pored over the seal. She realized suddenly that he could not read.
“A message for our Marshal? Is it urgent?”
“It’s to any Marshal—about me.” Paks felt herself redden under his gaze. His glance flicked to her visible scars.
“You’re a yeoman?”
“Yes—well—not precisely—”
“Well, then, what?”
“I was at Fin Panir—”
“The training company?”
“Yes.”
“And they sent you on a mission?”
Paks was torn between honesty and the likelihood that he would not understand what she really was. “I don’t think I can explain it to you,” she said finally. “I need to speak to the Marshal, but since he’s not here—”
“Even if I went, he couldn’t get back before tomorrow.”
“No, I understand that. Can I wait for him here?”
“In the grange?” The yeoman-marshal’s frown deepened. “Well—I suppose. Come along.” He led her through the main room to a tiny sleeping chamber off a narrow back passage. “You can leave your pack there, and come back in for the exchange.”
Paks had forgotten that custom. In Fin Panir itself, the exchange of buffets whenever a visitor came to the grange had been abandoned because of the number of visitors. But in outlying granges, it was still usual, and the test of someone who claimed membership in the Fellowship of Gird. She froze.