They nodded and walked along; Jori and Ambros returned to some grange matter; Paks did not know what grange-set was, or what it had to do with a farm's sale. She hardly listened, intent instead on figuring out just what Mal Argonist really was—not a simple forester, that was clear. She was beginning to wonder if anyone was actually a simple anything. Until Brewersbridge, she had not considered that an innkeeper might be a council member as well—that many people had more than one role, and considered them all important.

The common room was moderately busy, but quiet. News of the attack made solemn faces. Paks stabled the black horse, and went back in to find that the others expected her at their table. She shook her head at Mal's offer of ale, and asked Hebbinford for supper instead.

"I eat before I drink," she said in answer to Mal's question. "I don't have your—" She paused and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as the others laughed. "—capacity," she said finally. Mal shook the table with his laughter.

"You didn't start young enough," he said. "When I was scarce knee high, my old dad had me down tankards at a time."

"Of ale?" asked Ambros.

"No—ale costs too much. Water. But it's the habit, Ambros, of an open throat. The feel of it sliding down—"

"Then why didn't you stick with water?"

"Oh, that was my brother." His face grew solemn, but Paks thought she could sense the laughter underneath. "He said a yeoman of Gird must learn to drink like a man. So I did."

"If that's your reason," said Ambros, "you should be a kuakgannir—you don't drink like a man, you drink like a tree."

They all laughed. Hebbinford brought Paks her platter of sliced meat and gravy. Mal grabbed a slice and stuffed it in his mouth. She looked at him.

"It's luck," he said. "It's your good luck if someone else eats the first bite."

Paks shook her head, and began eating. By the time she was through, the room had almost emptied. Ambros and Mal had gone out together. Sir Felis, Paks knew, would be coming in later for her report. She asked Hebbinford for another of the apple tarts, and settled back comfortably. The black-clad man was still in the room, and met her eyes. She had not talked to him since the afternoon before the Council's summons; now he came to her table.

"May I sit?"

Paks nodded, her mouth full of apple tart. She reached for her mug to wash it down.

"I don't mean to pry," he said. "You seem in good favor now; I hope for your sake that is true. But if anything is going to be done about that attack on the caravan—and if you are going to be part of it—I wish you'd consider my offer to come along. You might well want someone who was not—let's say—from here."