“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.
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.