Paks was still staring at her food; she shook herself and speared a slice of meat. Put that way, it almost seemed that she’d tried to show off. She finished that slice, and tore off a hunk of bread. She had no idea what was coming, or what to do.
“Marshal Cedfer says,” the Kuakgan went on, after pouring himself some water, “that you’re uncommonly good with that sword, and also good with the short-sword—which I’d expect, where you’ve been—and also good at instructing in weapons. We didn’t expect that of one so young, a mere private. Sevri tells me you’re good with all the animals, and helpful as well. Fighters aren’t, as a rule. In fact—” Paks looked up and was caught by his dark gaze. “In fact, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, you are very different from the usual ex-mercenary. Now Kuakkganni—” He gave a slow smile that changed his whole face. “Kuakkganni have their own ways of learning things. From what I know, I judge that you’re as honest as most youngsters are, and mean no harm—not that no harm comes of it. You have some secrets rankling in your heart which must come out—and soon, I judge—if they’re not to hurt you later. But unless you choose to confide in me, it’s not my business.” Paks thought of the snowcat with a mental wince, and looked down. “Marshal Cedfer thinks you need only join the grange to be a fine addition to our town: that’s a compliment; he’s hard to please. But you’ve come to the notice of our local Guard, and the Council, and it’s best you know the eyes you have on you.”
Paks stirred restlessly. “But, sir—Master Oakhallow—why should they be so interested? I won’t be here long—”
“No? Are you sure? The simple answer, child, is that they can’t fit you into a known pattern. You aren’t one of the Count’s Guard at the new Keep. You aren’t an ordinary soldier on leave. You aren’t a Girdsman, which would put you under command of Marshal Cedfer, or a kuakgannir, which would put you under mine. You have no skill but war, isn’t that so?” Paks nodded. “And you come from war, from Aarenis, where I hear the whole land is one great bubbling stew of fighting. Where an army might come over the pass, the short way, and be on us before we could send for aid. Can you imagine a southern army up here?” Paks thought of it and nodded. “And you come with treasure—how much, only you and Master Senneth know, but I can guess. Agents carry such treasure, Paksenarrion. Agents hiring troops, or buying loyalty ahead of invasion.”
Paks stared at him, shocked. She couldn’t speak. Finally she choked out: “Agent? But—but I never thought—”
“No,” said the Kuakgan grimly. “You didn’t think. That much is obvious. An agent would think, would have acted very differently. But the Council can’t know what I know. They are concerned. So they should be. Your tale of the elfane taig, and elves’ aid, and having to see me and Marshal Cedfer, and treasure—well, it would be stupider men than our Council that could see where that might come from.” He went back to his meal. Paks sat frozen, her appetite gone, the food she had already eaten a cold lump in her belly. She watched him eat. Finally he pushed his plate away. “And on top of all,” he said, “a green shirt. With gold embroidery. I suppose you don’t know what that means?” She shook her head. “Hmmph. You must have gone straight from your sheepfarm into the Company, and straight into Aarenis from there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, child, Brewersbridge is near the border of Tsaia and Lyonya. Our local Count, such as he is, is a vassal of Tsaia. His colors are blue and rose. Green and gold are the colors of the royal house of Lyonya.”
“Oh.” Paks thought suddenly of the Halveric colors: dark green and gold. She did not even consider asking.
“I told them you didn’t mean anything by it. I assume you just like the colors? Yes. They’ll be asking you anyway. There’s a Council meeting tonight, and you’re summoned. I’ll be there, and Marshal Cedfer. You met our Master Mason the other night. Captain Sir Felis Trevlyn, the Count’s military representative, and commander at the new Keep. Probably his mage, Master Zinthys. Jos Hebbinford you know, and Master Senneth. Our mayor is Master Ceddrin, the Brewmaster. You’ll be asked for a clear account of yourself, and for news of what’s happened this past year in Aarenis.” He stopped again. Paks nodded, and he went on.
“I thought you might give a clearer account, if you had the afternoon to think about it. If there’s anything you haven’t told the truth about, you’d better be prepared to, tonight. You’ll probably be asked to submit to an Examination of Truth—”
“What’s that?” asked Paks.
“A spell. Under its influence, you cannot lie. You can refuse to answer questions, however, should you wish. The Council consented to my telling you this, because of my judgment of you. I think you have nothing to fear from the Examination or the Council, but you must expect sharp questioning: don’t get angry. If you are unwilling to come before the Council, you must leave Brewersbridge at once. You can’t go north, deeper into the Count’s lands, without Sir Felis’s permission, which you won’t get. You could go west, if you went swiftly, and were beyond the bounds by sundown. East, as you know, has its own hazards, and south is back up the mountains. And if you go, they’ll assume you’ve lied. I advise you to stay.”
“I wouldn’t have run away,” said Paks.
“Good. Jos Hebbinford will tell you what time to come. After supper. You might want to dress for it, if you can.” He stood, and Paks scrambled to her feet. “You are, you know, as welcome at the grove as at the grange.” He turned away. Paks thought of the snowcat again. Should she tell him? She wondered what he would say; she was half-afraid she knew.
By midafternoon, Paks had bathed and washed her hair. Her good shirt, mended, dripped from a line in the stableyard; she wore the ragged one in her room. She had oiled her boots, and was working on her sword belt while her hair dried in the breeze from the window. She heard boots coming down the passage, stopping before her door. She froze, and reached for the sword, where she’d laid it on the bed. Someone knocked, and called her name softly.
Paks glanced around the room, then at the door, conscious of her loose hair, the mail shirt hanging on a peg. She shrugged, and answered.
“Yes?”
“I’m Arvid Semminson, lady, a traveler also staying here. You’ve see me in the common room, in black tunic and trousers. I heard you were staying in this afternoon, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you. May I come in, or could we meet downstairs shortly?”
Paks thought of the man in dark clothes. She had no idea what his profession was, which itself made thief most likely. She thought of the Council meeting that night, and decided that she didn’t want to meet anyone privately. “I’ll be downstairs a little later, if that will suit.”
“Very good,” came the voice through the door, a mellow and pleasant voice. “I shall be honored to buy you a tankard of Hebbinford’s best ale, or wine, whichever you prefer.” The footsteps went away, back toward the stairs. Paks ran her hands through her hair, which was almost dry, and began to comb it. Somehow she did not feel like a fighter with hair down her back and wisping into her face. She braided it tightly, then finished her work on the sword belt. Her sword was clean and sharp, as always. She took off her trousers and looked them over. The previous mending still held. She could do nothing more for the shirt she had on. She had patched the worst rents, but the other holes and scorches remained. She had brushed and aired her cloak, but it, too, was stained and worn. The leather tunic, though bloodmarked, looked better over her shirt than nothing. She slipped it over her head, decided against the mail, and felt her boots. Still damp and oily. It would be another hour or so before they were dry. She pulled out the thin leather liners she’d worn in the high mountains, and put them on. More respectable than socks or bare feet. She strapped her sword belt on over the tunic, made sure she could get her dagger easily, and went downstairs.