“I am not sure I can explain,” Paks said to Camwynya. “A long way from here, in mountains I never knew about.”

Camwynya laughed. “Don’t tell me—you found the valley of the paladins’ mounts?”

“Among other things,” Paks said. “Do you know Arvid?”

Camwynya nodded to Arvid. “Indeed—he is the new scribe, making a name for himself by arguing, I’ve heard.” She looked more closely at him. “And, I see, by fighting.”

Arvid winced dramatically. “Indeed … for I found the Marshal-General beset. If—if I may be excused, I must go now and find my son. He will be worried.”

“Your son?” Paks said. “I didn’t know—”

“No. Nor I, the last time we met. He—his mother is dead.”

At the gate, Arvid met Marshal Cedlin, who sent him back down to his lodgings. “You’ve fought well this night, Arvid, but enough: we will need you tomorrow, I’m sure, and beyond that.” He turned to the yeomen. “Jori … Tam … go with Arvid back to the Loaf, see him safe home. He’s had more than one fight tonight.”

The others asked no questions on the way to the Loaf, for which Arvid was grateful. Once there, they said farewell and trudged back up the street. Arvid went in; the common room was empty but for Pia, wiping down tables. She stared at his bloody cloak. “You’ll need to clean that before it’s all dry,” she said. “And before you show yourself to the lad. I’ve buckets of cold water in the kitchen. Come through.”

He had never been in the kitchen. Like the rest of the Loaf, it was clean and workmanlike, and smelled now of soap and metal polish, with a hint of rising dough … a row of lumps under a cloth was on the worktable.

“Take off that and anything else with blood,” Pia said, in the tone of a commander. Soon Arvid was sitting shirtless on a bench, the contents of his cloak pockets arrayed on the table. She had not seemed surprised or alarmed by any of them, but handed him cloths, a bowl of water, and a greasy lump of wool to clean them with. While he worked on the blades, she rinsed the blood out of his shirt and sponged his cloak. “I’ll dry this before the fire,” she said. “It’ll have stains, but nothing so obvious.”

Upstairs, he found young Arvid in bed, a candle burning in its stand on the table. The boy woke at the movement of the door, staring at Arvid’s bare chest. “My shirt is dirty,” Arvid said. “Pia’s washing it for me.”

“I heard yelling,” the boy said. “And marching, and more yelling—”

“A disturbance,” Arvid said. He put on another shirt, sat down, and pulled off his boots. He wanted his bed more than anything.

“Were you hurt?”