"No. Not really. A fight may not last long enough, or call out what you need to practice. I should drill every day—we did in the Duke's Company. But no one can practice well on a full belly." Paks leaned back and fished into her pouch for the correct silver piece. As she stood and turned to leave, she noticed several of the diners watching her.

* * *

Although it was full dark, she had no trouble making her way along the street. Uncurtained windows open to the cool evening air spilled light into the lane, and torches burned at either end of the bridge. Ahead, the grange was ablaze with light: torches flared atop the barton wall as well. As Paks came nearer, she could see that the gate to the barton and door to the grange both had sentries before them. She saw two dark shapes enter the barton ahead of her, pausing to exchange greetings with the sentries.

Up close, she realized that the sentries were very young. They carried long billets of wood, and struggled to maintain the dignity of their posts. Paks wondered which entrance to use. She heard the mutter of voices through both. Finally she decided on the barton gate. The youth there stared up at her, eyes wide.

"I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she said. "The Marshal invited me to come to weapons-practice."

"Oh—eh—you're the lady as has come over the mountains, eh?"

"Yes," said Paks. "May I pass?"

"Oh—well—if the Marshal said—yes, lady, go on in. Are—are you really a fighter, like they say?" This last, as she was nearly past.

Paks turned back to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. "Yes. Did you doubt it?"

"Oh, no, lady. I—I just wondered, like."

Paks turned back to the barton itself and looked about her. The bare little yard was ringed with torches set high on the wall. One man was stretching, arching his thick back with a grunt. Two more were looking over a pair of pikes, smoothing the shafts with pumice. Out of the side door of the grange came Ambros with an armful of short clubs that reminded Paks of hauks. She heard more men coming in the gate behind her, and a confused sort of clatter and mumble from the grange itself. She watched, uncertain, as Ambros dumped the clubs in a heap near the wall. When he straightened, he saw her.

"Ah, Paksenarrion. Welcome. Marshal Cedfer will be glad to see you. Will you come in? Or he'll be out here in a few moments."

"I'll wait," said Paks. "I can warm up out here." She unbuckled her sword and laid it by the wall, then began limbering exercises. Others were busy with the same. One man belched repeatedly; a cloud of onion followed him.

"Eh, Gan," said another. "If you've ate as much as I smell, you won't last the night."