The others milled about, replacing weapons in racks on the grange walls, and taking their leave. Paks sheathed her sword, and turned to go. The Marshal was talking seriously to two men, low-voiced.

A hand touched her arm. It was Ambros. "If—if you'd come again, I'd like to drill with you—"

"Oh, I'll come again, while I'm here. It's good practice. But—don't you have any women drilling with you?"

Ambros shook his head. "No. Not at this level. We'd had some in the beginners' class—in fact, we have two there now. But those who want to go on, the Marshal sends elsewhere for more training."

"I see." She wondered why, but felt it would be impolite to ask.

"Were there many women in your company?"

"Maybe a quarter of us. One of the cohort captains."

"I've heard of Duke Phelan. Isn't his title from the court of Tsaia?"

"Yes. He has lands in the north of the kingdom, on the border." Paks sighed. "I might—I might be going back there."

"But you left his company, didn't you? We thought you were a free sword."

"Well—I was due leave, and—and the Duke thought perhaps I should try another company—another service—for a time. But I miss it; I've thought of going back."

"Oh." Paks could hear the unasked questions. Ambros stopped at the door, started to say something and stopped, and finally said, "Well—Gird go with you. We'll be glad to see you again."

* * *

It was late; few torches burned along the lanes. Paks made her way down the dark streets with care, following some distance behind several others from the grange. Cold night air, damp from the river, soothed her hot face. She caught a whiff from the tanner's crossing the bridge. As she neared the crossroad, she saw light spilling from the inn's windows. She slipped in the door, ignoring the few who sat late in the common-room, and went up the stairs to her own room. Her shoulder ached pleasantly. She pulled off her tunic and washed the sweat off, then remembered her unfinished dinner. She put on her other shirt and went back downstairs. Hebbinford rose from his place near the fire.

"Do you want the rest of your dinner?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble." Paks settled at an empty table. Hebbinford brought a candle; a serving wench came with a tray. They had heated the leftovers by the kitchen fire, and the gravy was bubbling hot. She cut a slice of bread and began eating.

Several of those who had been at the drill clustered at one table over mugs of ale, chatting. One caught her eye and grinned and waved. The man in black that Paks had seen the previous night sat across the room, a flagon of wine at his elbow. Two men in merchants' gowns diced idly nearby. One of them, looking around the room, saw her and nudged the other. They both rose and came to her table.