supper in his tent, along with his eldest son. Paks recalled them clearly from the previous season. The Halveric smiled as she handed over the scroll.
"Ah—I remember you. I was afraid you weren't going to give your parole, and then you made that remarkable journey—yes. Sit down; I may want to send a reply."
Paks sat where she was bidden, on a low stool, while the Halveric read the scroll and handed it to his son. While his son read, he finished the dish of stew before him. He cocked his head at the younger man when he finished.
"Well, Cal? I think I'd best go myself, don't you?"
"Certainly, sir. Have you any orders in the meantime?"
"No—I expect to be back in a few hours, or I'll send word. Get me a horse, please." The younger man nodded and withdrew. The Halveric looked at Paks. "Well—what was your name again? My memory has failed me—"
"Paksenarrion, sir, but I'm called Paks."
"That's right. Paks. Do you have a horse?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then I won't need another escort." Paks flushed at the implied compliment. The younger man returned, and the Halveric stood, reaching for his helmet. Paks rose and held the tent flap aside as he walked out. She mounted and took the torch a guard offered. All around the city was a circle of watchfires and torches; she scarcely needed the one in her hand. At the Duke's tent, one of his squires, Kessim, was waiting to take the t