Paks floundered, unable to define what she meant. "I don't—I mean, you all say Gird is a saint, and I won't argue. But I don't know Gird—I have known good Girdsmen, but also good warriors following other gods and saints. How do I know Gird is the one I should follow?"

The Marshal-General's eyebrows went up. "You would not believe the evidence of the medallion?"

Paks set her jaw stubbornly. "I'm not sure. And I won't swear to something I'm not sure of."

To her surprise, the Marshal-General laughed. "Gird be praised, you are at least willing to be honest against the Marshal-General. Child, such stubbornness as yours is nearly proof that Gird claims your destiny—but it may take Gird's cudgel to break a hole in your head to let his light in. The gods grant you are this stubborn about other things that matter." She sat forward, leaning her forearms on the table between them. "Now, what sort of training did you look for?"

Paks could hardly believe her ears. "You mean—you'll let me stay?"

"Let you! By Gird, I'm not likely to let someone like you wander the world unconvinced without giving my best chance to convert you. Of course you'll stay."

"But if I don't—"

"Paksenarrion, you will stay until either you wish to leave, or you give me cause to send you away. When—notice that I do not say if, being granted almost as much stubbornness as you, by Gird's grace—when you find that you can swear your honor to Gird's fellowship, it will be my pleasure to give and receive your strokes. Is that satisfactory, or have you more conditions for a Marshal-General of Gird, and Captain-Temporal of the High Lord?"

Paks blushed. "No, my lady. I'm sorry, I—"

"Enough. Tell me what you thought to learn."

"Well—everything about war—"

The Marshal-General whooped. "Everything? About war? Gird's grace, Paksenarrion, no one knows that but the High Lord, who sees all beginnings and endings at once."

"I meant," muttered Paks, ears flaming, "weapons-skills, and things about forts—things the Duke's captains knew about, like tunnels—"

"All right," said the Marshal-General, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I see what you mean. Things about forts. Honestly! No, sorry, I see you're serious. Well, then. I'll assign you to the training company. Many of them are younger than you—nobles' youngsters, from Fintha and Tsaia, mostly. They've been someone's squires, and now they're preparing for knighthood. Some have come up through the granges, and have been yeoman-marshal somewhere for three years. You may not know, but all our marshals are trained here, along with the knights. You'll be assigned space in the courts—we don't have open barracks, for you'll need to study alone. You do read, don't you?" At Paks's nod, she went on, now writing swiftly on a loose sheet of paper. "Weapons practice daily—the senior instructor will assign the drills once he's examined you. Riding—do you ride? Yes, because Argalt mentioned putting up your horse. You're a few weeks behind one group; they arrived just after harvest. That's when we start the new cycles. But we'll see if you can catch up to them." She looked up from her writing. Although she was smiling, it seemed to Paks that she was even more formidable. "What weapons do you have?" she asked.