Then he was there, not three yards away, smiling at her. Paks started to stand, but he motioned her back down.
“So,” he said. “You carry a bow now. You are well?”
“Yes.” Paks felt she could say that much honestly. Not as she had been, but well.
“Good. You look better. Where are you bound?”
“To Duke Phelan’s. I felt it was time.”
He nodded soberly. “It is, and more than time. Did you fight, Paksenarrion?”
“Yes. I didn’t—I couldn’t feel the same. But I can fight. Well enough, though I can’t tell if it’s as well. The rangers have different training.”
“True. But you are a warrior again? In your mind as well?”
She hesitated. In her own mind a warrior longed for war—but she knew what he meant. “Yes—yes, I think so.”
“Did you want to stay here a night or so?”
“I thought to stay at the inn, but it’s full. If I could, sir—”
“Certainly. I told you when you left you were welcome to return. Besides—” he stopped suddenly and turned to something else. “Have you eaten?”
“No, sir. Not since morning.”
“That’s not what I taught you.” His voice was severe, but she caught the undertone of laughter. “What did I say about food?”
Paks grinned, suddenly unafraid. “Well, sir, the rangers fed me well enough—as you can see—and I just didn’t stop at noon. I wanted to get here well before dark—”
“We’ll eat at the inn, if that’s agreeable.” He stood, and she clambered up. “You might want to leave your bow here; the local militia have become nervous of weapons—”
“I noticed. What about the Girdsmen?”
“They don’t bother the Marshal, of course. The others—well, they don’t carry weapons much, anyway. It’s the rumors, mostly—that Lyonya is in trouble, that the king is dying—” He led the way to his house. “There’s a fear of invasion, from Lyonya—stupid, really, since if they’ve got trouble, they’ll be fighting at home. But our count worries.” Paks followed him indoors, and stood her bow in the corner of the front room, laying her quiver of arrows carefully beside it. “Did you want to wash?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Paks had bathed in a creek that morning, but morning was many dusty hours back. When she came from the bathing room, she felt almost rested. The Kuakgan was looking at her bow.
“Blackwood,” he commented. “I’m surprised they sold you one of these.”
“They didn’t,” said Paks. “It was a gift.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. You did well, then, in Lyonya.”
“I tried to.” Paks finished tying up the end of her braid. “Now that you’ve mentioned food—”
He smiled, and they left the house for the inn.
Hebbinford knew her at once. “Paks! I never thought—I mean, I’m glad to see you again.” His eyes were shrewd. “You’ve heard about not wearing weapons or armor, I see—”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’m sorry we’re full—I haven’t a room, not even a loft—”
“No matter. I have a place.”
Hebbinford looked at the Kuakgan, and back at Paks. “I’m glad indeed to see you. You will eat here?”
“If you have enough room for that,” said the Kuakgan. “And enough food. Paks tells me she is truly hungry—”
“And you know my appetite,” said Paks, grinning. Hebbinford waved them in.
“Of course. Of course. Fried mushrooms—I don’t forget. I’ll call Sevri, too—she’s asked many times—” He moved away.
“You have many friends,” said the Kuakgan. “Only a village innkeeper, perhaps, but—”
“Hebbinford?” Paks looked at him. “You know better than to call him only a village innkeeper.”
“Good. You might like to know that Sevri has defended you—to the extent of a black eye or so—when the subject of your—uhm—problems came up.”
“I’m sorry she got into fights for that.”
“Loyalty isn’t trivial, even if the insult was.”
“Paks!” It could only be Mal, whose delighted bellow would carry across any intervening noise. “Paks! You’re back! Where’s your big sword? Where’s that black horse of yours?”
The Kuakgan’s eyes were dancing with mischief. Paks sighed and braced herself for Mal’s hug.
“I can’t carry a sword here—remember?”
“Oh, that. Well, it shouldn’t apply to you, Paks. Talk to the Marshal, or Sir Felis, and—”
“I’ve been in Lyonya,” said Paks, heading him off. “I’ve been using a longbow.”
“You?” Mal looked at her critically. “My brother Con used a bow.”
“You said so before, so I thought I’d try it.”
“I still like an axe.” Mal had settled at their table, and the serving girls were already bringing a pot of ale. “I told you before, Paks, an axe is better than any of ’em. It’ll break a sword, and a mace, and—”
“Yes. I tried an axe myself.”
“You did? Where? Isn’t it better?”
“Not for me,” said Paks. “I nearly cut my own leg off.”
“Well, it’s not for some,” conceded Mal. “My brother Con, that uses the bow, he says that. But if I had to have a sword, and then I was out working in the forest, and I was chopping a tree, and something came along—then I’d have to drop the axe, and find the sword. I say, give me an axe.” He took a long pull at his mug of ale, and refilled it from the pot. “Listen, Paks, is it true what I heard?”
Paks felt her stomach lurch. “Is what true?”
“Some man came along and said you got in trouble in Fin Panir—stole something from the Hall—and the Girdsmen threw you out and that’s why you aren’t a paladin. That’s not so, is it?”
“No,” said Paks with relief. “That’s not so.”
“I didn’t think so.” Mal settled back in his seat, and glared around the room. “He came saying that, and I said it was a lie, and he laughed at me.” He looked sideways at her to catch her reaction, then looked at the Kuakgan. Paks said nothing. “So I broke his arms for him,” Mal went on, with relish. “Liar like that. Thinks we don’t know anything down here, being a little town. You wouldn’t steal nothing, I told him, and if you had you wouldn’t get caught. I remember you sneaking around in those tunnels, quiet as a vole.”
Paks shook her head. She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want to start any more questions, either.
“Is that the fellow that complained to Sir Felis?” asked the Kuakgan. “I remember some sort of trouble.”
“Oh, aye. Said I’d attacked him for no reason. Wanted me up to the Count’s court. Couldn’t have gone, anyway. I had all those trees to trim up for the new work on the town hall. Anyway, he told Sir Felis what I did—and I told Sir Felis what he’d said—and Sir Felis told me to go home, and sent him away.”
“I heard he told you to go home and stay there and not break any more arms.” The Kuakgan’s voice was quiet.
“Oh . . . he might have. Something like that. But you know, sir, I don’t go breaking arms for no good reason. Not like some. But a liar like that. And Paks. Well, even if it was true, he shouldn’t be saying it. Not around here, anywhere, where folks know her.” Mal stared at the tabletop. “No, the one who got mad was the Marshal. You’d think I was a yeoman, the way he gets after me. I said the man was a liar, and he said even so, and I said he needed more than his arms broke, and he said—”
“I said, Mal, that if anyone needed to defend Paksenarrion’s name, it would be the Fellowship of Gird.” The Marshal stood beside the table, his eyes challenging.
“And I said you hadn’t broke his arms yet, and I was glad to.” Mal sat back and grinned, the wide gap-toothed grin that Paks remembered so well, then pushed himself to his feet and wandered away.