He met no one else on the lower floor and no one on the stairs, but heard voices in the upper passage as he climbed them. As he came onto the last flight, he saw brighter light above, a group around the Marshal-General’s door, all the gray legs and blue shirts. Voices rose as he climbed; he could hear them clearly.

“You can’t say that!”

“It’s wrong; it’s always been wrong. It can’t ever be right—”

And then he heard the rasp of a blade being drawn and drew his own sword. He leapt up the last three steps, letting his small blade drop once more into his heart-hand.

Heads turned; eyes widened. Good: the sight of blood and a naked blade often startled people into immobility.

“Excuse me,” Arvid said. “I have a message for the Marshal-General.”

“You’re—that’s blood on your cloak.”

Arvid smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “But not mine. Is the Marshal-General within?”

“She’s—you’re not a Marshal. We have business with her.”

“As have I, Marshals,” Arvid said. He had sorted his memory: Marshals, all but one of whom he had seen before, usually hurrying through a passage or across the court. He did not know their names. No High Marshals, none of the resident paladins, no knights. The one who had drawn steel now let it slide back into the scabbard, as if wishing to pretend he had not. “A message from Marshal Cedlin. Your pardon, but I was told it was urgent.”

“And did he tell you to draw your sword on Marshals?” asked the one who had done exactly the same.

Arvid smiled a little wider, showing teeth. With just that smile he had faced other blusterers in his past, and it had the same effect now. The man leaned back a little. “I heard angry voices and drawn steel near the Marshal-General’s office as I came up the stairs,” he said. “Is it not the duty of a Girdish yeoman to be alert and to defend the Fellowship?”

“And you think you are better qualified to do that than a group of Marshals?” said another, on the other side of the group.

Arvid transferred the smile to him. “I think, Marshal, that someone who draws steel on the Marshal-General is not likely to be defending the Fellowship, but some private ambition of his own.”

Faces reddened. Arvid stepped forward, well aware that if they rushed him, he needed room to maneuver lest he be dumped back down the stairs. Now he could see that the door to the Marshal-General’s office was closed. Was she all right in there? Arming herself? Or wounded? The group in front of him moved closer together … So … they were not as intimidated as he could have wished.

“I wonder,” he said, stepping sideways as if to go around them, “what you would do should I cry alarm. There are those downstairs who would come.”