The yeomen were much more precise—and the drills more complicated—than those in Ifoss, more like the soldiers of Fox Company. Arvid’s arms trembled when they stopped; the next drill, he discovered, was a run in formation through the streets: down the hill to the River Road gate and back up, chanting as they went. Theirs was not the only such group, he saw as they went down the hill. He had no idea how many granges were in Fin Panir, but at least a half dozen groups were in the streets, running down, up, or around a market square.

By the time his group made it back up the hill, he was winded and drenched in sweat. He wondered if he’d be able to keep up with this every few days. Vallan called him over. “You did well for your first drill,” he said. “Marshal says you rode up from Aarenis, so making that run surprised me, to be sure. You’re working as a scribe—if you’ll take my advice, you’ll spend two glasses a day, at least, in exercise.”

“I … will…” Arvid said, still breathless. “We went today … up and down…”

“Very good. Geddes wanted to speak to you about your son … he’s over there.”

Geddes, his once-dark hair at least half gray, turned from the woman he’d been talking to and greeted Arvid. “That boy of yours is eager to learn and well mannered,” he said. “I wouldn’t waste paper on his scribbling now, but if you could manage a slate for him, he could practice.”

“I’ll do that,” Arvid said.

That set the pattern: mornings in the Marshal-General’s service as a scribe, afternoons with his son, evenings either at drill or studying the Code of Gird as Marshal Cedlin handed out one chapter after another. After he had copied out the Marshal-General’s notes from the meetings, she started him copying notes brought back from Luap’s Stronghold. Though he knew from the casual chat of other scribes that the conference on magery was still going on, he heard no more details. Whatever was written there did not come across his desk.