Farther out were truck gardens, fairly substantial orchards, and a big neatly laid-out farm with fields of varied crops separated by board fences and rows of poplars; a few hundred acres of wheat and barley rippled, yellow streaks showing amid the light green. More recent construction surrounded by fenced paddocks was probably barns, storehouses and workshops; the tall arms of a timber-framed windmill were unmistakable, though the sails were feathered and bare right now. Several well-kept dirt roads led away, east and north and south; they were fairly busy, wheeled traffic and bicyclists and folk on foot.

All in all it looked like a prosperous town, or perhaps a great noble’s estate, except that there were no obvious defenses. Though the twin-towered church could easily be turned into a fort: the chronicle Astrid had written of the Bearkiller journey westward, The Red Book of Larsdalen, said that the bandit lord Iron Rod had done exactly that.

They all gathered at the back of the hillock to see her off, except for the lookouts, of course. Most of that was to take turns examining her from head to toe; you always did that when you could, before a clandestine insertion. Nobody caught everything, and a different pair of eyes was always welcome.

I’ll look less conspicuous without this sword, Ritva Signed, though she’d feel naked without it, too. Straight long swords aren’t much used here, from what we’ve heard.

Ian hadn’t learned the finger-tongue yet, but he understood when she undid her weapons belt, and silently held out his own with the stirrup-hilted curved saber and bowie. Sabers were the second-most-common long weapon in Idaho, after the wider-bladed cutting sword known as a shete. She slipped it out of the sheath and tried the balance; somewhat heavy for her wrist, but the weight wasn’t thrown as far forward as she expected. You could thrust with this, though not as well as with the double-edged blade the Dúnedain usually carried.

She buckled the belt, drawing it in to the last notch and working the leather there to make it look used before tucking the tongue in and out, and checked herself over.

Ian was helpful again: “That braid is sort of distinctive too.”

Eilir clucked her tongue in agreement, and Ritva sighed and turned, kneeling and letting her quick fingers undo their own work.

The Ranger fighting braid did what it was supposed to do—keep your hair out of your eyes when you were moving quickly—and it was ornamental, running from brow to nape in a series of intricate tucks and plaits. Unfortunately, nobody else but the Folk of the West used it, as far as she knew. Also it was impossible to keep up all by yourself.