Paks unstrapped her saddlebags, and pulled out her green shirt. "Will this do?"

"Good—good material, too. From Lyonya, is it?"

"No, but near there. Brewersbridge."

The steward shook her head. "I don't know it. Trousers, too, if you've an extra pair." Paks pulled out the patched ones, which the steward took without comment, and handed over a pair of socks as well. The steward checked the number of blankets, and left the room.

"If you're ready," said the Training Master, "there is time to see the weapons instructors before supper. No need to change now; in the morning is soon enough."

Paks set her swords neatly on the shelf, and the saddlebags behind the curtain, before following him out of the room.

"You have fought mostly in a mercenary company, I understand."

"Yes, sir."

"Short-sword or polearm?"

"Short-sword."

"But you carry a longsword."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you used a bow?"

"In training, yes—it's not my best weapon."

"Polearms?"

"Only in training."

"Mace? Axe? Crossbow? Siege weaponry?" At each shake of her head, his lips seemed to tighten. Paks wondered if he really thought all of those important. She had trouble keeping up with his long sweeping strides, and noticed little of the building around them—only rows of doors, open and shut, and the stone flags of the hallway. They came out into a small court surrounded on three sides by stables; a pile of dung centered the court, and two youths were shoveling it into a cart. Past a row of box stalls, each holding a massive warhorse, the Training Master ducked through a narrow archway into another passage. This time they emerged on the edge of the walled field Paks had seen from her windows. On their right, the stone building sprouted a long finger; the Training Master turned toward this.

It was a single room, and resembled a small grange except that it had no platform and no doors at the far end, only the one on either side. It was empty at the moment, but Paks could hear grunts and the clash of weapons from the far side. The Training Master led her through it, and out the other door.

Here were perhaps a score of fighters, all in training gray, practicing with swords and—Paks was surprised to see—hauks. To one side a burly man in blue watched them closely. He glanced over at the Training Master, and waved. Paks followed as they walked around the training area to meet him.

"This is Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," said the Training Master abruptly. "The Marshal-General has assigned her to this class."

Sharp black eyes met hers. "Ha. She's no novice."

"So I understand. If you can spare her for more time in other studies, Cieri, do so."

"Am I to hood hawks so they may learn music?" Paks thought by the tone that this was an old argument begun again. The Training Master's face relaxed.

"There are other skills of war, Cieri—"