“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?”