"Thank you," said Paks, still not sure of his reasons. He nodded and turned away.

The Training Master was a hand taller than Paks herself, a hard muscular man in dark blue tunic and trousers, with Gird's crescent embroidered on the breast. He read the Marshal-General's note, and Cedfer's letter, in tight-lipped silence. When he looked up, his ice-blue eyes were hard.

"If you're to catch up with the others, you'll have to work—and work hard. You'd best not loll about."

Paks repressed a surge of anger. She'd never been lazy. "No, sir," she said stiffly.

"It means extra work for the instructors as well. I shall take you myself for tactics in the evenings after supper. I hope Cedfer's right about your weapons-skills. That would let us chop a glass or so off there, and give you more time in supply—though why the Marshal-General bothers with that, for you, is beyond me." Paks felt her shoulders tighten, and forced herself to be still. He sighed, heavily. "Very well, then. How much gear do you have?"

"Only what was in my saddlebags, sir," said Paks. "I suppose it's—"

"They'll have it brought to your quarters." He glanced for a moment at a chart on his wall. "Let me think. There's a room on the third floor, next to the end of the corridor. You can have that, for now. It's small, but it won't mean moving anyone else tonight. If it's too small, we can change things in a week or so." If you stay that long, his tone clearly said. "You'll need clothes; I'll have the steward send something up. Come along." He pushed past her to the corridor, and led the way upstairs.

The room he opened seemed amply large to Paks—larger than her room at The Jolly Potboy, with two windows looking out over a lower roof to a walled field. Besides a bed and chest, and a curtained alcove with hooks, it had a table, stool, and low chair. A narrow shelf ran along the wall over the table. Several blankets were folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Paks had hardly taken all this in when he began speaking again.

"Students do not wear weapons except at practice," he said, with a pointed glance at her sword. "We prefer that personal weapons be stored in the armory, but the Marshal-General has given permission for you to keep yours with you." Paks did not want to let the magic sword out of her control; she said nothing. Just then a servant came in with her saddlebags; behind him was the steward, with an armful of clothing, all dark gray but for the blue cloak. The steward eyed her.

"You said tall, Master Chanis; this should fit near enough for now. What name do you use—Paksenarrion, or Dorthansdotter?"

"Paks is all."

"Paksenarrion," said the steward cheerfully. "I need something long enough it can't be mistaken in anyone's handwriting. Come by for measurements, or if you have something that fits well—"