Up close, she realized that the sentries were very young. They carried long billets of wood, and struggled to maintain the dignity of their posts. Paks wondered which entrance to use. She heard the mutter of voices through both. Finally she decided on the barton gate. The youth there stared up at her, eyes wide.

"I'm Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter," she said. "The Marshal invited me to come to weapons-practice."

"Oh—eh—you're the lady as has come over the mountains, eh?"

"Yes," said Paks. "May I pass?"

"Oh—well—if the Marshal said—yes, lady, go on in. Are—are you really a fighter, like they say?" This last, as she was nearly past.

Paks turned back to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. "Yes. Did you doubt it?"

"Oh, no, lady. I—I just wondered, like."

Paks turned back to the barton itself and looked about her. The bare little yard was ringed with torches set high on the wall. One man was stretching, arching his thick back with a grunt. Two more were looking over a pair of pikes, smoothing the shafts with pumice. Out of the side door of the grange came Ambros with an armful of short clubs that reminded Paks of hauks. She heard more men coming in the gate behind her, and a confused sort of clatter and mumble from the grange itself. She watched, uncertain, as Ambros dumped the clubs in a heap near the wall. When he straightened, he saw her.

"Ah, Paksenarrion. Welcome. Marshal Cedfer will be glad to see you. Will you come in? Or he'll be out here in a few moments."

"I'll wait," said Paks. "I can warm up out here." She unbuckled her sword and laid it by the wall, then began limbering exercises. Others were busy with the same. One man belched repeatedly; a cloud of onion followed him.

"Eh, Gan," said another. "If you've ate as much as I smell, you won't last the night."

"Air and onion won't slow any man," retorted Gan, grinning. "Might just set off my opponent—"

Paks ignored them. It reminded her of drill in the Company—the familiar mixture of joking and criticism. She finished her exercises and went to buckle on her sword. The barton was half-full of men—she saw no other women—and they were all mature and well-muscled. Most had picked up one of the short clubs; four had pikes, and one had a sword of medium length.

A bell rang, a single mellow stroke. Everyone stilled, and Marshal Cedfer came into the barton, followed by five other men.

"Are you ready, yeomen of Gird?" he asked.

"We are ready, Sir Marshal," they answered in unison. Paks was silent.

"Then may Gird strengthen your arms and your hearts, and keep them strong for the safety of our land."

"In the name of St. Gird, protector of the innocent," came the response.