“If you believe it is someone from here, I cannot send anyone,” the Marshal-General said. “If you’re well enough, let’s go.”

“Now? In these?” Arvid glanced down at his flower-embroidered front.

“They will not recognize you,” she pointed out, but she was laughing at him; he could see it in her eyes. “We will let your kteknik gnome know where you’ve gone, and then see if your horse was sold, while others look for the missing boys.”

In those clothes Arvid felt as conspicuous as a cow in a kitchen, despite seeing at least half the population dressed similarly. A disguise, yes, but he preferred concealment by shadow, in the night, not this.

The first of the horse-dealers specialized in teams; Arvid left the Marshal-General chatting with the man and strolled through the barn … no, his horse was not concealed in a back corner or in the yard where an old swaybacked roan dozed in one corner. The second, nearer the east gate, had more saddle horses, including a dark bay with three stockings and a thin stripe, drinking from a stone trough alongside two chestnuts and a gray. “There he is,” Arvid said.

“You said white only on the off hind.”

“So I did. That’s not natural white—it’s whitewash.” Arvid pursed his lips and whistled. The horse jerked up its head and looked around.

“Well, that looks—” The horse dipped its head again. “—like a horse that alerts to whistles,” the Marshal-General said. “So how do you propose to prove it’s yours?”

“Soap and water,” Arvid said. “It’s an amateurish job. I can tell that from here.”

The horse-dealer protested. “It can’t be stolen. That Marshal told me—a Marshal from up there.” The man pointed his thumb up the hill. “He said it was his, and he wanted something quieter, not so flashy.”

“Did he say why he bought it in the first place?”

“No … t’horse was jerking on the lead. I thought maybe he was heavy-handed.” The horse-dealer watched Arvid scrubbing at the white on the near fore. “I swear, Marshal-General, I didn’t know … he was a Marshal; I never even thought about it—”

“There we go.” Arvid spoke up. Patchy black showed through the white now. “See that?”

“Yes.” The horse-dealer grimaced. “And I paid …” His voice faltered as Arvid looked at him. “Two gold crescents.”

“I’ll wager he didn’t haggle,” Arvid said.

“No, but I thought … he’s a Marshal, see.”

“Did you record the purchase?” the Marshal-General said.

“Yes, Marshal-General, just like the Code says.”

A full glass later, Arvid’s horse was back in a stall at the Gird’s Hall stables and the gnome was back at his side; he had finally told Arvid his name, Datturatkvin. “But for humans, Dattur alone is enough,” he said.

Arvid nodded. “Thank you, Dattur, for the gift of your name.” He turned to the Marshal-General. “Are there other stables here, or just this one?”