Next morning, Arvid saw the boy dash across the street and into the grange—already greeting several other children also running in—and headed up the hill. Scribes had a long room with desks in rows. He was early, as he’d meant to be; a senior scribe greeted him, showed him his desk, and then went off to stand by the door. Arvid’s desk already had a stack of papers held down with a round stone, and another stack of fresh sheets, an inkstick, and a hollow stone with water already in it. He looked at the notes. They were arranged in order, the earliest on top.

By midday, his fingers were cramped, his neck hurt, and he had worked his way through the first stack and a second one the senior scribe brought him. He also knew a lot more about the workings of the Fellowship of Gird. The Marshal-General—who wrote a crabbed, squarish hand—had taken notes at every meeting she attended. Conferences, they were called, on the education of junior yeoman, the education of non-Girdish children in grange programs, the correct order of business at grange meetings, the allocation of grange relief, the standardization of burial guild practices … and more. Legal issues relating to the appearance of mage powers in those not known to be of magelord blood. Mage powers? Had blood magery come to Fintha?

He shook out his fingers, massaged his neck, and then approached the senior scribe. “To whom should I take the work I’ve finished?”

“You are working for the Marshal-General—I can take them to her office for you, but you could take them yourself.”

“I will, gladly,” Arvid said.

She was not in her office—at some other meeting, he supposed—and he left two stacks on her desk: the notes and the report.

Young Arvid was already in the inn and halfway through a hunk of cheese and bread when Arvid came in. Arvid paused in the door to look at him. Healthy, strong, lithe, and energetic. Happy, from the look on his face. When he caught sight of Arvid, he grinned around his mouthful of food. Arvid went to the table, and Pia immediately brought over another plate.

“I can write my name!” the boy said. “Look!” He moved his finger on the table.

“Very good,” Arvid said.

“I can already say the Ten Fingers—I learned that back in Valdaire—but now I can learn to write them. And some of what we do is drill things, with hauks. They’re heavy.”

“For a boy your size, yes.”