“Yes, some. And some with polearms,” added Paks, hoping to forestall further questions.
“Excellent! I certainly hope you’ll come; you’ll be most welcome. Tonight’s a beginner’s class in marching drill—I hardly think it would interest you—but tomorrow?”
“Perhaps, sir. I thank you for your invitation.” Despite herself, Paks was curious to see the sort of drill a Marshal of Gird would conduct. And she needed to keep her own skills honed; it couldn’t hurt to come once or twice.
Outside the grange night had fallen; stars shone overhead to the east. She made her way quickly back to the inn, where the great open windows laid bars of yellow lamplight across the crossroad. As she entered, Jos Hebbinford caught her eye.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it back for the meal,” he said, half-laughing.
“Mmm. My errands took longer than I thought.” Paks looked around the common room, now crowded with men-at-arms and other guests of the inn. “Where—?”
“I’ve no single tables left. How about over here?” He led her to a round table where two men were already halfway through a substantial meal. “Master Feddith is a stonemason, a local here, and that’s his senior journeyman.” Feddith, a burly man in a velvet tunic, looked up and nodded briefly as the innkeeper introduced Paks, then went back to his conversation with the journeyman. Paks ordered roast and steamed barley and looked around the room while waiting for her meal. Nothing Feddith was saying made much sense—it had to do, she assumed, with stonework—she had never heard of coigns or coddy granite or buckstone.
Few other women were in the common room besides serving wenches. One, the same white-haired woman Paks had seen in the afternoon, sat knitting by the fire with a glass of wine beside her. At another table, two women in rough woollen dresses sat with men dressed like farm laborers. And a group of youths, drinking a bit too much ale together, included a sulky-faced girl whose dress was tight across the shoulders and loose everywhere else. Paks watched Hebbinford go to their table in response to another shout for ale, shaking his head. One of the youths started to argue, and a hefty man with a short billet appeared beside the innkeeper. They all subsided, and after a moment threw coins on the table and left. The girl looked quickly at Paks before she went out the door.
“Here, miss,” said a serving wench at Paks’s shoulder. She turned to find a platter piled high with roast mutton and a mound of barley swimming in savory gravy. With it came a loaf of crusty bread and a bowl of honey. “And will you take ale, miss, or wine?”
“Ale,” said Paks. She drew her dagger to slice the bread and found the master mason watching her.
“You’re not from around here,” he challenged.
“No, sir.”
“Are you a Girdsman?”
“No, sir.”
“Ummph. A free blade, then: that’s not any livery I know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph. Were I you, young woman, I’d keep my blade sheathed here. We’re not partial to troublemakers.”
Paks flushed. “I’ve no wish to make trouble, sir, wherever I am.”
“Maybe not, but free blades are trouble as often as not. What gods do you serve?”
Paks put both hands on her thighs and looked him steadily in the eyes. “The High Lord, sir, and the gods my father served, back where I came from.”
His gaze flickered. “Well enough. But if you’re planning to stay here long, you’d best find a master can vouch for you.” Before Paks could think of anything to say, he had pushed back his stool and gone, his cloak swirling. Her stomach clenched with anger. Why did they all think she was a brigand, trying to cause trouble? Then she thought of the wandering fighters in Aarenis—perhaps they had had trouble here, though she had not heard of such in the north. She took a deep breath to calm herself and settled to her meal.
Hebbinford, as he came back past her table, had a smile for her. “Did I hear Master Feddith growling at you? Don’t take offense; he’s on the Council here, and we’ve had some trouble. I hear you visited our Master Oakhallow and Marshal Cedfer this afternoon—no wonder you were late. They say Marshal Cedfer alone can take up half a day, with his drills and lectures.”
“Does everyone here think fighters are bad?” asked Paks.
“Well—no. Not all fighters. But we’ve had those come through that were: got drunk, broke things, started fights with local boys, even robbed. You’ve known some like that, surely.”
Paks nodded.
“So, you see, we’ve got careful. As long as nothing happens, you’re welcome, but we don’t want the street full of idle blades looking for mischief.”
“I can see that.”
“Now, Sevri tells me you’re quiet-spoken even to servants, and Master Oakhallow had nothing against you, so—” He broke off as someone yelled across the room, smiled again, and left. Paks finished eating. It had been too long since she’d eaten well-cooked food. She finished with a slice of bread drenched in honey. Most of the men-at-arms were gone, and the rest were leaving, throwing down coppers and silvers as their boots scraped on the stone. Paks decided to check on Star before going up to bed; she found the pony dozing, wisps of hay dangling from her mouth. She went up the stairs to her room, tired, full, and determined to put off tomorrow’s worries until tomorrow.
The bed was so soft that at first she could not sleep. Her room was far enough from the common loft that she heard nothing from it, but boots rang on the stone outside the inn from time to time. Even with the window open to the cold night air, it seemed strange to be sleeping inside again.
8
She woke at first light, to the clatter of small hooves in the road below. Looking out, she saw a herd of goats skittering along the north road. She looked east, at a clear dawn lightening over the hills, and shivered in the cold. Minutes later she was downstairs. The innkeeper was poking in the fireplace, and she could smell fresh bread from the kitchen.
“You’re an early one,” he said, surprised. “Did you want breakfast now?”
Paks grinned. “Not yet. I want to check on Star.”
“Sevri’ll feed her—”
“Yes, but she’s used to me. And I’m used to being up early.” Paks went out the side door of the common room into the stable yard. The green tailed rooster was racing after a hen, and a clutter of cats crouched near the cowbyre. Paks watched as a stream of milk shot out the door, neatly fielded by one of the cats. She went into the stable, and found Star looking over the top of the stall door. The pony looked well-rested, and Paks rubbed her behind the ears and under the jaw. When she checked her tack, the packbags were intact.
“Is it all right?” asked Sevri, who had come into the passage.
“Yes, fine. I didn’t realize I’d gotten up too early for you.”
“It’s not. Most of the travelers sleep late, that’s all. Some of them sleep through breakfast. Star doesn’t get much grain, does she?”
“Not when she’s not working. Let’s see your measure—oh, half of that, and tell me where your hay is—I’ll bring it.”
“Over there—” Sevri nodded toward a ladder that rose to the loft. “You can just throw it down, if you want.”
Paks was already up the ladder. “Why don’t I throw down what you need for all of them?”
“You don’t have to—but if you wish—” Sevri looked up as Paks tossed down an armload for Star.
“It’s no trouble; I’m already up here.”
Sevri peered up at her. “I didn’t think soldiers knew how to care for animals.”
“I grew up on a farm,” said Paks shortly. “How much more hay?”
“Just pitch it down, and I’ll tell you.” Sevri disappeared from the hold, and Paks threw down several armloads. “That should do it. We have just the two big horses in.” Paks climbed down, brushing off the hay.