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Arvid Semminson had chosen a table with a good view of the stairs. He smiled as he saw her, and waved. Paks came to his table. Only one other person was in the common room, a great cheerful youth she had seen before, happily downing a tankard of ale at a swallow. He leaned on the wall behind his table, and looked half asleep.

Semminson’s clothes, Paks noticed as she came closer, were, if not new, at least unpatched and whole. By the drape of the shoulder and sleeve, the cloth was of fine quality. The belt at his waist was polished black leather, new enough that the edges had not curled; his dagger’s sheath was well-oiled and unscarred. He himself had neatly trimmed dark hair, a smooth-shaven face, and bright black eyes. His mouth quirked in amusement.

“Do I pass your inspection, lady?” he asked pleasantly.

Paks thought of her own ragged shirt and patched trousers, and reddened. “I’ve no right to inspect,” she muttered.

“No, but you were. Everyone does. I expect that. See here, lady, I’ll be straight with you—no secrets. I’m no merchant, nor mercenary fighter. Our esteemed innkeeper thinks I’m a thief, though I haven’t robbed him. That’s neither here nor there. But you, either you’re—how shall I say?—in a related business to mine, or you’re simply unaware of the situation. Either way, I can’t let such an attractive young woman wander into a trap without warning. Do you follow me?”

Paks shook her head. She felt a certain distaste for his attempt at flattery. After the tailor’s wife’s comments, she had no illusions about being “an attractive young woman” by local standards.

“Well—” he looked her up and down. “It might be that our interests would lie together. Or if not, a favor done might earn a favor later, who knows? But you know there’s a Council meeting set for tonight?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you’ve agreed to go.”

“Yes.” She wondered how he knew that. She could not imagine Master Oakhallow telling him.

He snorted. “Then either you’re a great deal more knowing that you act, or you know nothing at all.” He leaned closer to her. “You can’t hope to come out of that easily, you know. They’ll get you one way or the other.”

“What do you mean?”

He ticked off the points on his fingers. “A stranger in town, with plenty of money, and no liege to worry about angering, and under no protection that they know of? Don’t be silly. They’ll find some excuse, and then pfft! You’re in trouble.”

“But I haven’t—”

“—done anything,” he finished for her, and laughed again. “And just what do you think that has to do with it, eh? No, let me give you some advice. It’s too late to escape, if you would. But be very careful. After they back you in a corner, they’ll probably offer you some sort of deal, if they can’t find anything to imprison you for at once. Consider it very carefully, whatever it is. Very carefully. Make no promises you can avoid. Beware of that wizard, if he’s there: he’ll try to bind you with some sort of spell, if you aren’t careful.”

“But why are you telling me all this?” asked Paks, thinking hard.

“As I told you. A favor. I may need one from you someday. You can’t do me any good if you’re in a cell, or dead. And if they do offer you a deal, I’d like to know about it. Before I came here, I’d heard the Council had hired outsiders for some kind of interesting work. Since I arrived, no one will tell me anything. Maybe they’ll tell you, if they think they have a hold on you. And if you end up taking a job—well, you might want someone with you who wasn’t one of theirs, if you know what I mean.”

Paks was both fascinated and repelled. What he said almost made sense, almost fit with the Kuakgan’s words. She still could not understand what sort of hold anyone could have on her, or why they would want to find her guilty of something. In Aarenis, they might have wanted an excuse to seize her for the slave market, but not in Tsaia. She wondered if Semminson was the kind of agent that the Kuakgan had been talking about. Would anyone, ever, try to help a southern army invade the north? She was sure not, until she remembered that Sofi Ganarrion was planning to come north to fight for his throne. She said nothing, rubbing her toe against the top of the other foot. Semminson was watching her.

“Well,” she said finally. “Whatever comes, I’ll be meeting with the Council tonight.”

“Just keep what I said in mind,” he urged.

“Mmm. I will.” She noticed Hebbinford watching her from the kitchen door. She looked away and stood.

“Good luck to you,” said Semminson softly. “I fear you’ll need it.” Paks went on out to the stableyard to gather her clean clothes from the line.

All in all, she had little appetite for supper that night. Her clean shirt had only the one tear, which she had mended, and everything was as neat as she could make it, but she still felt shabby. She wondered whether to wear her mail. If Semminson was a thief, she hated to leave it behind, but she didn’t want them to think she was looking for trouble, either. She thought it over, and finally cornered Hebbinford to ask him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s valuable, and you’re a fighter—wear it if you wish. You can’t carry a sword into Council, but the guards will keep it for you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She wasn’t comfortable at all, but decided to go upstairs and put on the mail. Semminson was coming out of a room farther along the hall, and he gave her a knowing look. She put on the heavy jingling shirt, buffed her helmet on the blanket, and put that on as well. With a captain of soldiers coming, she might as well look like a soldier.

Hebbinford sent one of the girls to her room to call her; she came down the stairs with a sort of muddled determination to do the right thing and not be trapped. He was waiting at the door, dressed in a long blue gown under a fur-collared cloak, instead of his usual tunic and apron. He smiled and they set off for the Hall together. Paks heard horses behind them, and moved to the edge of the street automatically. Hebbinford turned to look, and waved to the lead rider.

“Ah, Sir Felis. You haven’t been in town these past few days.”

“No. There’s enough to do at the keep.” Paks looked up at the mounted figure, his face lit by his escorts’ torches. He wore chainmail and helmet, and she could tell nothing about him except that he sat his horse like a soldier. He looked down at her and spoke to Hebbinford. “Is this the person I’ve heard of?”

“Yes, Sir Felis. This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter.”

“Hmmph.” She saw the glitter of his eyes as they scanned her. “You look more like a soldier than a free blade, young woman. You were with Duke Phelan’s company?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What rank?”

“As a private, sir. File leader, my last year.”

“I see. What—? No, I’ll wait until we’re in session.” He gave a causal wave of the hand to Hebbinford, and rode on past them.

The Hall, when they reached it, was lighted by torches in brackets along the front, as well as inside. Two of the captain’s escort stood guard at the door. Paks felt sweat spring cold on her forehead; she wanted to yawn for no reason. Semminson’s veiled warnings seemed suddenly appropriate. She heard voices inside. Hebbinford nudged her, and she surrendered her sword to the guard on the right, and went on through the door.