“I—yes. I believe she can do it, but—I would like to see it.”

“Curiosity,” Berris said.

“If the Duke doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Dorrin said. “Come, Valthan: Let the Marshal attack us.”

She was used to making the shield, having practiced that most in Lyonya, and Berris—though a Marshal of Gird in Gird’s grange—could not touch either of them with a weapon.

“And so her powers are proved,” Berris said, putting a pike back in the rack. “And proved in Gird’s own grange—I hope you’re satisfied, Sir Valthan, because I can think of no more tests to perform here.”

“I am,” Valthan said. He bowed to Dorrin. “I’m sorry, my lord, for my doubts.”

Dorrin shook her head. “Sir, no apologies are due. You proved yourself a true Girdsman by your doubts, and honorable by your willingness to accept evidence. I do not consider your wish to protect your troops a discourtesy to me.”

“Good,” Berris said. “And since it was Valthan’s desire to come here, you, sir, owe me an exchange and the grange a gift. Dorrin, you go open the doors and tell Sarn he can come in.” Valthan looked startled, but complied, taking one of the wasters Berris handed him and stepping up on the platform.

By nightfall, all the mounts had blue cloth covers over Phelani saddlepads, and the troops, still in Phelan’s maroon, had blue armbands. Twists of blue yarn marked halters and headstalls. Dorrin’s own saddle now sported a quilted blue suede cover held on with star-shaped silver brads, a large blue saddlecloth trimmed in pale gray, and a drape of silver-gray brocade behind it. More of the silver brads adorned the cheekpieces and browband of her bridle. Dorrin felt her eyebrows going up.

“Leatherworker had some fancy brads,” Selfer said. “He said the former duke always had fancy saddlery, so I thought it’s what they’d expect.”

“I see you put new stirrup leathers—”

“Not taking any chances, Captain.”

“You’ve done well, Selfer. Now—from now on, I’m ‘my lord Duke’ to everyone, and you are Captain.”

“Yes, my lord Duke,” Selfer said promptly, without even a hint of a grin.

“Thank you, Captain,” Dorrin said. “Valthan has introduced me to his men, and swears they’ll be ready to ride on the morn.”

“So will ours, my lord,” Selfer said. “Did you have time to find clothes for yourself?”

“No success,” Dorrin said. “I did ask at one place, but someone had already bought all the blue cloth they had.” When Selfer looked abashed, she grinned. “Don’t apologize, Captain. I have my formal clothes, and Marshal Berris has lent me a blue cloak. It’s Girdish blue, not Verrakai blue, but it will do well enough.” It would also infuriate those of her relatives who still thought, and spoke, of Gird as “that peasant upstart.”

Next morning Dorrin woke more rested than she’d expected. She dressed: undershift, mail shirt, pale gray silk shirt, with her black velvet dress doublet over it, riding leathers, boots. She hesitated over the ducal chain—wear it? Carry it in its case? What would Kieri Phelan have done? She knew; she had been there. She lifted the chain over her head, started to tuck it inside her doublet and then, half-defiantly, left it exposed, gold against the black velvet.