Paks looked away. She did not want to say what she thought, that more of such help as she'd had would leave her bedbound as well as craven.

"My lady, I'd best go, to be in the market on time." Paks kept her eyes stubbornly on the ground. The Marshal-General's sigh was gusty.

"Very well, Paks. You are sworn to Gird's Fellowship, and Gird the protector will guard your way. All our prayers are with you." She turned back through the gate, and Paks walked on, determined not to glance back.

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

With that walk down to the market in Fin Panir, where she was to meet the shepherd who would hire her, a pattern was set that continued all that hard winter.

"Eh, you took your time," grumbled Selim Habensson, when she found him talking with several other sheepmen. "Hated to leave the Lord's Hall, I suppose. Let's see—" He looked her over as if she were a ewe up for sale. "The Marshal-General says you're fit, and you've handled sheep—is that so?"

"Yes, sir. My father raised sheep."

"Good enough. Get in there and find me th' three-tit ewe w' the scarred hock and a double down-nick offside ear." As Paks paused to look over the pen of sheep, trying to see a likely earmark, he barked, "Get on, there—get in—I want to see you in with 'em."

Paks swung over the low railing, among the crowded sheep. She had not feared sheep since she had been able to see over their backs, but the shoving of woolly backs and sides made her feel strange. She saw one offside earmark, but it was a single notch. Most of this pen was nearside marked. There—on the far side—was a double down-nick, offside. She pushed her way slowly through the sheep, careful not to startle or disturb them. A quick look told her this was a normal ewe, not hock-scarred; she looked again for the right earmark, and found it in a corner. A ewe, a three-tit, and scarred on the near hock. She looked up to see the shepherd just outside the rail.

"Very well—you do know somewhat about sheep. But you haven't worked 'em lately, I'll warrant."

"No, sir."

"I thought not. Those clothes belong in a shop, not on drive." He spat on the cobbles outside the pen. "I hope to Gird you don't mind getting dirty."

"No, sir."

"All right. When market's over—another glass, say—we'll be moving this pen and those two—" he pointed, "—out to a meadow for tonight. Tomorrow we start for the south. Follow us out—make sure none of 'em stray in the city—and you'll be watching tonight."

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