Even Rufen seemed to have no quick answer to this. Paks moved forward, passing Con and Jori without looking at them. "Pardon, sir," she said. "I did not know the usual signal for supper, and delayed them talking about your customs. You did say, did you not, that I need not change to the student uniform for tonight?"

"Yes—I did." The Training Master looked taken aback. "But—"

"Is it permitted to wear one's own dagger to the table?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Then," she said, with a glance back to the others, who were watching in some kind of shock, "I apologize again for making everyone late. Aris, will you show me the way?"

The boy in red seemed the least dazed of them all, and came quickly to her side, nodding respectfully to the Training Master, who looked down at him thoughtfully. "Someone downstairs reported a disturbance up here," he said at last.

"Oh, sir?" Aris managed to look doubtful.

"Yells," said the Training Master.

Paks intervened. "They were expecting a peasant girl," she said, carefully not looking at Con and Jori. "I think I surprised them."

"I see." The Training Master looked them all over carefully. "I will see you after supper, Paksenarrion; we must be sure you understand the rules of the house."

"Certainly, sir. Where shall I come?"

"Aris can show you." Aris colored at this, and Paks surmised that he had been called often to the Training Master's study. With a last nod, the Training Master turned away; they all descended the stairs behind him, silently. When he turned away, and they were alone in the passage between the kitchens and the Lower Hall, Rufen spoke.

"Paks, thank you for not going into all that with him—"

"I thought we were in for it," added Con. Paks looked at him with distaste.

"Soldiers don't complain to commanders about every trifle."

Con reddened. "That's not what I meant—"

"It's what I meant." She turned pointedly to Aris, who had not spoken to her yet. "Where are you from, Aris?"

"From Marrakai's House, in Tsaia—do you know it?"

Paks laughed. "No—but I've heard of Duke Marrakai."

"My father," said the boy proudly. "I'm the fourth son."

"And knows it, too," muttered Jori, from behind them. Aris whipped around.

"At least my father is a duke!" he said. "And I have three estates already to my name—"

"Oh Gird's grace," muttered Con to Jori, "did you have to start him off again?" Even Paks was tempted to smile at the boy's intensity. But they were at the doors of the Lower Hall, and looking for a place to sit at the crowded tables. Obviously more than students ate here: it seemed to Paks that a whole village was in the room, and the noise confirmed it. She followed the others between the tables, to a serving hatch. There her platter was stacked with sliced meat, a dipper of redroots in gravy, a small loaf of bread, and a slice of something that looked like nutbread dipped in honey. On a table beside the hatch were mugs; she had seen that each table had two pitchers.