"It wasn't unjust," said Paks. "It—they think I have been unjust, to take their hospitality without giving in return."

Now they frowned. "You haven't?"

"No." Paks poured the stained water out on the cobbles and watched it drain away between them. "I thought—but I haven't."

"Hmph." The snort was eloquent. "But it is you that are the fighter interested in axes?"

"Less than I used to be," said Paks.

"Would you try again?" asked Balkis. His voice held a challenge.

"I might—if I have the chance."

"If it happens that your weaponsmaster refuses you, I will show something," he offered. "It is not every human that will be rude to Marshals of Gird, and be willing to work with axes past the first blood drawn."

"But I was wrong," said Paks, thinking ahead to what the Training Master would say. The dwarves both shrugged, an impressive act with shoulders like theirs.

"It is the boldness of the fighter," said Balkis. "We dwarves, we will not take lessons from Marshals, despite their skill, for they are always insulting us. Did you know any dwarves, where you came from?"

"No," said Paks. "You are the first I have ever met, though I saw dwarves in Tsaia and Valdaire."

"Ah. Then you know not our ways. It involves no clan-rights, but perhaps you would sit at our table some night?"

"If I'm here," said Paks.

They shrugged again, and passed out of the stableyard toward the training fields. Paks gathered up the damp scarf, pushed herself upright, and limped back toward her room. On the way, she saw the Training Master turn into the corridor ahead of her and called to him. He stopped, looking back, and came forward, looking concerned.

"Paksenarrion—what's happened? You're hurt?"

"Yes, sir. I—" Suddenly she felt close to tears. She pulled herself upright. "It's not that, sir, but I must speak with you."

"Something's happened?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, come along, then." He led the way to his study, and waved her to a seat. "What is it?"

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

Paks took a long breath, clutching the sodden scarf in her hands. "Sir, I—I lost my temper, and was rude to Marshal Cieri, and he doesn't want me in his class."

"I see." His face looked almost as cold as the first day. "And you come to me about it—why? "

"I thought I should." She swallowed painfully the lump that had been growing in her throat for the past half-hour. "Sir."

"You want me to plead for you? Without hearing his story?"

"No, sir." Why was everyone misunderstanding what she meant? Paks plunged on. "It isn't that—I thought I was supposed to tell you—"

"He told you to?" That was with raised brows.

"No, sir," said Paks miserably. "I mean—you're the Training Master—if this were the Company, I'd have to tell the sergeant—"