I woke up late, for the first time in a long time. The old woman was making too much noise in her shack, and it seemed intentional. I lay there listening to her drumming on the side of her pot, dragging her feet, huffing, sighing, and talking out loud to spiders, mice, and herself. She would often go out, leave her door swinging, and come back carrying water or wood, swearing and cursing shamelessly. I had understood the meaning of this long ago, but despite the bumps and rough burlap, the bed was warm and I enjoyed lounging in it. It also pleased me to annoy the landlady, because she had woken me up when I was paying her to sleep. I finally got out of the sheets when the smell of something roasted spread through the house. It was dark, but the little hearth was burning brightly, and a yellowed horn window let in a little light near the door. When I finally came to crouch beside the fire, the old woman didn't bother to greet me, but merely threw some bacon and eggs on the board that she used as a table. I began to eat, after deciding that her mood swings didn't concern me. The old lady obviously didn't feel the same way.

I hardly had time to start my meal when it was interrupted by a storm of discourteous and acid remarks, small irritated comments that I endured like the previous day's drizzle. The situation soon irritated me considerably, to the point where I lost my appetite. I did my best to remain polite while the old landlady beat about the bush, telling anecdotes in an increasingly accusatory tone about other vagrants she had taken in who had abused her generosity. Finally, when the old woman got angry enough to get to the point - that is, my debt and the payment of that debt - I lost my patience and spat into her fire, asking her to go and get the guard, if that was the only way I could finish eating in peace. She stammered for a while before frowning, then angrily returned to her cleaning. Once I had eaten my fill, I softened my tone and tried to reassure her as best I could, explaining that, if she wished, she could accompany me until I found a money changer, if she didn't know one herself. This put an end to her whining, and the old woman sat in a corner, small and wrinkled, waiting for me to be willing to come out. "It's the lord we'll have to see to change some denarii," she grumbled, and as I had suggested, she came with me.

The morning mist was finishing to disintegrate between the buildings of the village, while the bleating flocks were led to the milking or to the pastures. People earned their living from sheep here, the old woman explained to me as we walked, from wool and milk, and sometimes from meat too. The local breed was short-legged and puny, with a black muzzle, thin hoof and a reputation for dying easily. The carts of the peddlers didn't come to Calbor very often, and they never had much to sell, even though the trade tax was one of the lowest in the whole canton. This wasn't so much due to the Ceras or the bandits, but more to the state of the roads and the general poverty of the foothills. The locals didn't have much money to spend after taxes were paid. I nodded as I walked. There would be pros and cons to this. Although I thought she was a pain in the ass and prone to gossip, the old woman seemed well versed in local issues, and if she hadn't been so annoying when I first woke up, I would certainly have considered asking her for some more advice.

Onlookers were gathered on the bare rock esplanade in front of the stronghold, a dozen figures clustered around a fire, some of the needy sitting on the ground and garbage, others further away, leaning under the awnings of the surrounding buildings. I saw the bulky profile of Petir the Bit, who stood up quickly when we reached the square. The man trotted up to me, looking haggard but pleased with himself. After we had greeted each other, he explained to me that he had found a money changer willing to help me for less money than the lord. I negotiated for a while with the old woman, who would have preferred to go on to the stronghold and the liegeman for a variety of reasons, but as we were two against her she finally gave in. The guy in question was a wool merchant from the south, whom we found near a cattle pen on the other side of the village. I thought he was a brusque and uncommunicative man, and if I hadn't had to insist so much on meeting him, I might have changed my mind, because I didn't like his manners. The merchant took four pennies to change my money into pocket change, which was stealing, but in such a remote place I was doing pretty well. In truth, I had been out of practice handling money for a few years, and I hoped that it wouldn't show too much.

I immediately gave the old woman eight nickels - which was quite generous of me - in order to get rid of her as quickly as possible. When she realized that I had funds and was in a spending mood, she wanted to offer me other deals. Eager to punish her for suspecting me of being dishonest (which was still an open question, if I really considered it), I turned a deaf ear while she left. As the landlady limped away, bent in half over the pewter she clutched in her arthritic fist, I pocketed the rest of my change and asked Petir to help me do some shopping. "You won't be bothered by the choice here," he chuckled, motioning for me to follow him. He then swore to me that he knew of a few reliable establishments in Ochreclod, and that once we got there he would show them to me, if I wished. Petir had not yet been drinking that day. He seemed in a very good mood and I found him more friendly than the previous evening. I had some doubts about traveling with a stranger, but I had resolved to keep my end of the bargain, since the drunkard had kept his.

We made a first detour to a local shepherd who sometimes salted pork. Petir and I teamed up to buy half a ham. We then went to the bakery, where I bought a large loaf of rye bread that I thought would last half a moon if I was careful, as well as a small bag of oats attacked by vermin, which I didn't really want but which the baker sold for almost nothing. Finally, Petir took me to visit a remote farmhouse outside the walls, where they sold - according to him - the best cheese in the area. The farmers agreed to let me have a quarter-pound tome at a reasonable price, and I also bought half a dozen pickled eggs from them, and then we went down a stone spiral staircase to the cellar. There were five large, oozing barrels, to which I was offered to fill my wineskin with the same beer I had drunk the day before. The cellar was as large as the barn, and it seemed to me that they were brewing more than making cheese.

The owner of the place, about whom I don't remember much apart from his small size and impressive sideburns, gave us a drink once the money had changed hands. I was seized with a doubt as to the true nature of our visit, which seemed to me to have less and less to do with the quality of their tomes, and more and more to do with Petir's desire not to be deprived of a drink on the road. I was tempted to make a comment about this, but finally decided to keep my mouth shut and enjoy the free drink. My companion had bought his supplies at the same time as I did, but they were both less abundant and less appetizing. I understood that Petir didn't have a lot of money, and if I didn't like his half-truths more than the vice that gave rise to them, neither did I feel any reluctance to offer him food or drink, as long as he guided me properly. However, I didn't trust him at all. Besides, that morning I didn't go anywhere in the village without my sturdy walking stick, and I wore my bronze dagger on the front of my belt, for all to see, like those of the clans. This drew insistent glances from the early risers, glances that I sometimes had the audacity to give back when I felt they belonged to a soldier who wasn't very confident or to an impressionable young recruit. I was renewing my warrior bravado. It was expected of me because of the role I was taking on, but it was also all I had to replace the fear and confusion of being in a foreign place where I knew no one.

My last purchase was from Petir himself. I had given up on local craftsmanship after discovering that there was almost none, and I hoped to find the other items I wanted in Ochreclod. The only weapon I carried was my crossbow, and that didn't suit me, because it wouldn't do me much good if I had to fight off brigands. I still had the stick, but that didn't suit me either, and I intended to remedy the situation on the road. For this purpose I bought myself a score of nice iron spikes, each two inches long, for which my companion gave me a friendly price. As it was about to be noon, Petir invited me to eat some soup in the village square before leaving to gather his things. I took advantage of his absence to put some order in mine. As it was impossible for me to load anything more in my pouch, I had to make a bundle with one of my two blankets and I wrapped all my food in it. Petir appeared again while I was counting the money I had spent - more than four pennies in the morning. When he arrived, my eyes widened.

The peddler had strapped a rickety, improbable structure to his back, to which his luggage, tools, and rare bundles of goods were attached. Petir was embedded in the middle, like a large bird in a too-small cage. The thing swayed impossibly with his every step, jingling and creaking with each lurch. Worn leather straps held everything together, and there was also some kind of big belt that carried most of the weight. I had never seen anything like this in my life. The drunkard explained that he once had a cart and a dog, but that the animal had run away years before and he had to cobble together a replacement from scratch. Over time, the thing had been tweaked and improved, and people were amused, which was good for business. I wouldn't go so far as to say I thought it was ingenious, but when Petir asked me to take a look at it, explaining how it could be used as a tent if covered with a waterproof canvas, I must admit to feeling something akin to respect.

We left Calbor shortly after the zenith. Petir had attached a bone chime to the astonishing frame he carried (which he affectionately called his "mess"), which gave a curious, jangling music to the road, which I couldn't tell if it was pleasant or not. The sky had cleared since the day before, however, and the prospect of not having to walk in the rain made me happy, especially since I hadn't been able to find a decent tarpaulin in the village. In case of a night rain, I would depend on Petir's hospitality, which we had agreed upon in advance. The good weather wasn't enough to make the walk pleasant. I had my pouch on one side and my bundle on the other, and it was all so uncomfortable that I spent most of my time readjusting the weight. The soreness that I felt all over was a sign of a painful journey.

According to Petir, we would need two days to reach the border with Hill, where we would have to pass through the Great-Bastide, the last fortified barracks on the mountain road. Then we would head for Ochreclod. I was amazed at how fast Petir could move, despite the winding road, which was treacherously slippery in places. I clenched my teeth not to be the one to slow us down, huffing and puffing in the folds of my cape. When Calbor disappeared behind us, I stopped briefly to string my crossbow, while Petir was watching me in awe. "Have you ever killed anyone with that thing?" he asked me when it was back in place on my back. I shook my head. "Not with that thing, no," I said darkly. "But I like to have it around in case of trouble." Petir smiled nervously, and I rubbed my cheek and my gash before setting off again. I was abusing it a little, this admiring fear I seemed to arouse in him, but I was doing it mainly to protect myself, and to discourage him from trying to do anything stupid.

The road went down as much as it went up, in a jagged landscape that disappeared partly under the cover of thick, darkly branched forests. A cold breeze blew intermittently from the east, ruffling the fir trees and caressing the moors. We were alone on the road, although from time to time we could make out the white bulges of the herds, and hear the whistles and calls of the shepherds in the valleys. The deciduous trees of the region bloomed on the black rocky escarpments, but the pale poetry of their scents did nothing to soften my initial impression. I thought Greyarm was well named. Everything here was sullen and foggy, steeped in the memory of the red king's massacres, and I kept this image of the canton for a long time.

Talking while walking was perilous, as we had to watch our step at all times because of the dung that covered the wet stone. Petir still managed to chat properly until the sun went down, flooding me with trivial stories about his life as a peddler. I evaded most of his questions, sometimes by being ambiguous, other times by telling him frankly that I didn't want to talk about it, like when he asked me about my triangular scar. I was exhausted from my package and had too much on my mind to be pleasant company, so by the end of the day the suspicion had shifted. In the dying light of the evening, as we approached the shepherd's hut where Petir had taken refuge when he was on this road, I heard him repeat a little too often that he had no money left in his pocket. We settled down in the narrow space between four rickety dry stone walls. There was no door, of course, and we had to bend over to avoid hitting our heads on the large slate roofs. I took advantage of the last glowing rays to go in search of firewood, leaving Petir to struggle with his straps and his fright.

When I returned, it was with a nice armful of dry wood for the fire, and a section of black thorn a little shorter than my arm, for which I had other plans. Petir was staring at me piteously from his side of the hut as I crouched down to make a fire, the first in a long time. We had divided the space on either side of the entrance, and as I tried lighting the fire, I could see the rolling white of his eyeballs, dull with apprehension, watching for my every move. I was amused for a while, sometimes making ambiguous remarks, before telling myself that I wouldn't like to have the same thing done to me and that, if the roles had been reversed, I would certainly have already made a pretty bouquet of steel blossom on his throat. The wood was finally caught in the flames, and I leaned over backwards.

The threshold of the shelter had turned into a chasm, a cut-out rectangle that seemed to swallow the light as well as the smoke. I drew my knife and took hold of the black thorn branch, peeling the bark meticulously. "I'm neither a cutpurse nor a crook, Petir the Bit," I said out loud, without taking my eyes off my work. "I'm young, younger than I look, but my life so far has been strange in many ways. You probably wouldn't believe half of it, and that's okay, because I don't intend to tell you anything about it. The only things you need to know about me is that I will accompany you to Ochreclod as I promised and if you don't give me any trouble, I will share my beer with you."

I heard the man stirring on the other side of the budding fire. "Just before we stopped, I realized I didn't know your name," he said in a shaky voice. "It made me feel funny." I nodded, and let the silence linger. I could have reassured him at that moment, let him know that I too was suspicious and then told him my name, and we would have laughed and drank together like two friends, but instead I chose to keep my distance. The training of the val-warriors came back to me in flashes. I saw the world as a battlefield again. This battle wasn't over, and I didn't want to get rusty by being too nice. So I kept my name to myself, on purpose, when it would have been easy for me to make one up to appease the drunkard. "I'd like us to resume our discussion from last night," I said, looking at Petir from the corner of my eye. "Take my wineskin and rinse your throat as you like. Then we'll eat and you can tell me about Spinel."