“Of course,” Arvid said. “But the men got away—the man with the pipe and the man helping him. I do not know if trouble might come to the grange because of that.”

“Have you warned Regar?” the yeoman-marshal said.

“No, I came straight here,” Arvid said. “I suppose I should have gone to him first—”

“Not necessarily.” The yeoman-marshal opened the door wider. “Come on in; Marshal’s in the barton, but I’ll let you in the side entrance.”

Marshal Porfur had a double arc of children sitting on the ground around him. As they entered the barton, one of the children stood up and recited the seventh of the Ten Fingers in a squeaky voice.

“Excuse me, Marshal,” the yeoman-marshal said. “There’s a problem.”

Marshal Porfur looked at the sandglass beside him on the ground; most of the sand had run out.

“Short or long?” he asked. Then, with another look at Arvid’s face, he nodded and stood. “Long, I suspect. All right, juniors—that’s all for the morning.”

The children scrambled up and headed for the street gate.

“Just a moment,” Porfur said. “You have forgotten order, I believe.”

They halted, turned, looked at one another and then at him, shuffled into two lines, then recited what was obviously a rote ending to the school day. “Thank you, Marshal, for your instruction. Gird’s blessing be on you, and Gird’s guidance on us.”

“That’s better,” the Marshal said. “Go with Gird.”

When they had left, slamming the barton gate behind them, Porfur turned to Arvid and the yeoman-marshal and raised his brows.

Arvid told his tale again.

“I don’t see that it would cause trouble here,” the Marshal said, “but I agree that Regar must be warned. We will visit him together. Do you know, Arvid, whether he will be at the stoneyard or at the building site?”

Arvid shook his head. “It varied from day to day, the time I worked there,” he said. “He always started the day in the yard but sometimes left for the site by midmorning and sometimes only after lunch.”

“We’ll start with the yard,” the Marshal said.

Arvid saw nothing to alarm him as they walked back through the city. It was near noon; the smells of cooking food made his stomach growl, but he ignored that, paying attention only to the flow of traffic, the interest or indifference of those they passed. When they turned into the lane that led toward Regar’s stoneyard, he felt something—as if he were being looked at with intent—but could not see anything.

Outside the stoneyard gate, they saw a wagon and team of mules. Nothing moved in the noon stillness. “They’re eating lunch,” the Marshal said.