"I thought you weren't going to make it back for the meal," he said, half-laughing.

"Mmm. My errands took longer than I thought." Paks looked around the common room, now crowded with men-at-arms and other guests of the inn. "Where—?"

"I've no single tables left. How about over here?" He led her to a round table where two men were already halfway through a substantial meal. "Master Feddith is a stonemason, a local here, and that's his senior journeyman." Feddith, a burly man in a velvet tunic, looked up and nodded briefly as the innkeeper introduced Paks, then went back to his conversation with the journeyman. Paks ordered roast and steamed barley and looked around the room while waiting for her meal. Nothing Feddith was saying made much sense—it had to do, she assumed, with stonework—she had never heard of coigns or coddy granite or buckstone.

Few other women were in the common room besides serving wenches. One, the same white-haired woman Paks had seen in the afternoon, sat knitting by the fire with a glass of wine beside her. At another table, two women in rough woollen dresses sat with men dressed like farm laborers. And a group of youths, drinking a bit too much ale together, included a sulky-faced girl whose dress was tight across the shoulders and loose everywhere else. Paks watched Hebbinford go to their table in response to another shout for ale, shaking his head. One of the youths started to argue, and a hefty man with a short billet appeared beside the innkeeper. They all subsided, and after a moment threw coins on the table and left. The girl looked quickly at Paks before she went out the door.

"Here, miss," said a serving wench at Paks's shoulder. She turned to find a platter piled high with roast mutton and a mound of barley swimming in savory gravy. With it came a loaf of crusty bread and a bowl of honey. "And will you take ale, miss, or wine?"

"Ale," said Paks. She drew her dagger to slice the bread and found the master mason watching her.

"You're not from around here," he challenged.

"No, sir."

"Are you a Girdsman?"

"No, sir."

"Ummph. A free blade, then: that's not any livery I know."

"Yes, sir."

"Humph. Were I you, young woman, I'd keep my blade sheathed here. We're not partial to troublemakers."

Paks flushed. "I've no wish to make trouble, sir, wherever I am."

"Maybe not, but free blades are trouble as often as not. What gods do you serve?"

Paks put both hands on her thighs and looked him steadily in the eyes. "The High Lord, sir, and the gods my father served, back where I came from."