“Making the women cry again, Volias?”

“I’m the only one she’ll talk to. She probably saw you coming. It’s enough to make me weep.”

She lifted her head. Volias lifted his bowl to his lips and slurped down the last of the broth. The marshal was standing behind him, holding the short staff carried by all reeves. He was a good-looking man; you just couldn’t help noticing that every time you set eyes on him. When he saw that Nallo had looked up, he smiled, a look calculated to melt people’s hard hearts.

She scowled. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Volias set down the bowl with a clunk. “My heart, have I told you recently that I love you?”

This was not worth replying to, nor did her harsh words have the effect she hoped for.

“You two are well matched,” said the marshal in such a genial way that she wanted to slap the good humor off his handsome face.

“She and I?” said Volias. “I’m flattered you think so.”

“No, I meant her and the eagle. A worse-tempered raptor I’ve never encountered in my life, which is why I need to talk to you right now, Nallo. You’ll come with me.” Under that charm lay an implacable temper, maybe worse than her own once roused, and she knew all at once that she dared not cross him. She shoved the bowl away and got up from behind the bench.

“That just goes over to the table, there,” said the marshal helpfully, pointing to a table where other bowls and utensils had been stacked. All of the other people in the hall—reeves and fawkners and hirelings—had turned to watch the encounter. Aware of their scrutiny, she stalked to the table and set down the things before walking to the door, where he waited for her. Volias came with him, the two men talking in low voices.

“—I think it’s a risk with that eagle,” Volias was saying, “and I’m surprised you—”

The marshal nudged him.

He broke off.

“I’m here,” said Nallo needlessly. Sometimes she didn’t even know why these griping phrases popped out of her mouth. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m not the right person to be a reeve? That I don’t want to be here?”

“Oh, you’ve convinced me you don’t want to be here,” said the marshal. “But as you’ll discover, how you feel about your situation doesn’t actually matter.”

“There’s no sign of that eagle.”

“That eagle’s just flown in, and she’s in no better temper than you are.”

“The hells,” swore Volias.

“That’s right,” said the marshal. “Quicker is better. Come on.”

Rather than walking across the courtyard through the rain, he skirted the edges of a quadrangle of wooden buildings: the eating hall, the fawkner’s warehouse and shop, the barracks, and the back wall of one of the high lofts, like a byre for beasts, where eagles quartered. Eaves sheltered them from the rain but the wind sprayed moisture over them. She welcomed the cool spatter. The Flower Rains at the beginning of the year were her favorite, a cleansing draft to cool what burned and tore at her insides. Angry, she followed the marshal through a narrow alley between two buildings and halted on the edge of the vast parade ground.