The next day she found that no one in Shaleford had need for an extra hand over the winter. By the time she'd asked for work every place she could think of, it was too late to make the next town by nightfall. She could not stay another night at the inn without using some of her reserve. But Shaleford had a grange—she'd seen it, first thing in the morning. She decided to see if they would let her stay there.

The Marshal, said the stocky yeoman-marshal, was out. He'd been to Highfallow barton for their drill, and wouldn't be back until the next day. Yes, there'd been a recent message from Fin Panir, but that was the Marshal's business, and he couldn't say what it was. If she had something from the Marshal-General herself—Paks pulled out the safe-conduct, and the yeoman-marshal pored over the seal. She realized suddenly that he could not read.

"A message for our Marshal? Is it urgent?"

"It's to any Marshal—about me." Paks felt herself redden under his gaze. His glance flicked to her visible scars.

"You're a yeoman?"

"Yes—well—not precisely—"

"Well, then, what?"

"I was at Fin Panir—"

"The training company?"

"Yes."

"And they sent you on a mission?"

Paks was torn between honesty and the likelihood that he would not understand what she really was. "I don't think I can explain it to you," she said finally. "I need to speak to the Marshal, but since he's not here—"

"Even if I went, he couldn't get back before tomorrow."

"No, I understand that. Can I wait for him here?"

"In the grange?" The yeoman-marshal's frown deepened. "Well—I suppose. Come along." He led her through the main room to a tiny sleeping chamber off a narrow back passage. "You can leave your pack there, and come back in for the exchange."

Paks had forgotten that custom. In Fin Panir itself, the exchange of buffets whenever a visitor came to the grange had been abandoned because of the number of visitors. But in outlying granges, it was still usual, and the test of someone who claimed membership in the Fellowship of Gird. She froze.

"I can't." Her voice was thin.

"What!"

"I can't. I—it's in this—" She waved the Marshal-General's letter.

"Hmph." His snort was clearly one of disbelief and scorn. "I see you've been wounded recently—is that it?"

Paks nodded, taking the easy way out, as she thought.

"I'd think if you could travel at all you could exchange a few blows—but—" He shook his head. "You hear all sorts of things from Fin Panir. All right, then. I'll just go put more meal in the pot."

Paks sank down on the narrow bed, frightened and discouraged. Was this the sort of welcome the Marshal-General intended? But of course the Marshal was away. She could not take it to heart. She got up with an effort and looked around for the jacks and the washroom. At least she could be clean.