His breathing changed, and she froze her thoughts. She listened as his breathing settled back into a rhythm.

It was not going to be simple with Po. Nothing with Po was going to be simple. But he was her friend, and so she would travel with him. She would help him uncover the kidnapper of his grandfather. And by all means, she would take care not to tumble him into any more ponds.

And now she must sleep. She turned her back to him and willed her mind to darkness.

The inn was a great, tall building made of solid lumber. The farther south one rode into Sunder, the heavier and thicker the wood of the trees, and the stronger and more imposing the houses and inns. Katsa had not spent much time in central Sunder; her uncle had sent her there two or three times, perhaps. But the wild forests and simple, sturdy little towns, too far from the borders to be involved in the nonsense of the kings, had always pleased Katsa. The walls of the inn felt like castle walls, but darker, and warmer.

They sat at a table, in a roomful of men sitting at tables – heavy, dark tables built from the same wood as the walls. It was the time of day when men of the town and travelers alike poured into the inn's great eating room and sat down, to talk and laugh over a cup of something strong to drink. The room had recovered from the hush that afflicted it when Po and Katsa first walked through the door. The men were noisy now, and jovial, and if they did peek at the royalty over their cups and around their chairs, well, at least they didn't stare outright.

Po sat back in his chair. His eyes flicked lazily around the room. He drank from his cup of cider, and his finger traced the wet ring it left on the table. He leaned his elbow on the table and propped his head in his hand. He yawned. He looked, Katsa thought, as if he only needed a lullaby and he would nod off to sleep. It was a good act.

His eyes flashed at her then, and with them a glimmer of a smile. "I don't think we'll stay long at this inn," he said, his voice low. "There are men in this room who've already taken an interest in us."

Po had informed the innkeeper that they would offer money for any information about the kidnapping of Grandfather Tealiff. Men – particularly Sunderan men, if men are like their king – would do a great deal for money. They would change allegiances. They would tell truths they had promised not to reveal. They would also make up stories, but it didn't matter, for Po could tell as much from a lie as he could from the truth.

Katsa sipped from her cup and looked out into the sea of men. The finery of the merchants stood out among the muted browns and oranges of the people of the town. Katsa was the only woman in the room, save a harried serving girl, the innkeeper's daughter, who ran among the tables with a tray full of cups and pitchers. She was small in stature, dark, and pretty, and a bit younger than Katsa. She caught no one's eye as she worked, and didn't smile, except to the occasional townsman old enough to be her father. She had brought Katsa and Po their drinks silently, with only a quick, shy glance at Po. Most of the men in the room showed her the proper respect; but Katsa didn't much like the smiles on the faces of the merchants whose table she served at the moment.

"How old is that girl, do you think?" Katsa asked. "Do you think she's married?"

Po watched the table of merchants and sipped from his drink. "Sixteen or seventeen, I'd guess. She's not married."

"How do you know?"

He paused. "I don't. It was a guess."

"It didn't sound like a guess."

He drank from his cup. His face was impassive. It hadn't been a guess, this she knew; and it occurred to her suddenly how he could know such a thing with such certainty. She took a moment to nurse her irritation on behalf of every girl who'd ever admired Po and thought her feelings private. "You're impossible," she said. "You're no better than those merchants. And besides, just because she has her eyes on you doesn't mean – "

"And that's not fair," Po protested. "I can't help what I know. My error was in revealing it to you. I'm not used to traveling with someone who knows my Grace; I spoke before thinking how unfair it would be, to the girl."

She rolled her eyes. "Spare me your confessions. If she's unmarried, I don't understand why her father sends her out to serve these men. I'm not certain she's safe among them."

"Her father stands at the bar, most of the time. No one would dare harm her."

"But he's not there always – he's not there now. And just because they don't assault her doesn't mean they respect her." Or that they would not seek her out later.

The girl circled the table of merchants, pouring cider into each cup. When one of the men reached for her arm, she recoiled. The merchants burst into laughter. The man reached out to her then and drew back, reached out and drew back, taunting her. His friends laughed harder. And then the man at the girl's other side grabbed her wrist and held on, and there was a great whoop from the men. She tried to pull away, but the laughing man wouldn't let go. Red with shame, she looked into none of their faces, only pulled at her arm. She was too much like a dumb, confused rabbit caught in a trap, and suddenly Katsa was standing. And Po was standing, too, and he had Katsa by the arm.

For an instant Katsa appreciated the strange symmetry; except that unlike the serving girl, she could break from Po's grip, and unlike the merchant, Po had good reason to hold her arm. And Katsa wouldn't break from the grip of his fingers, for she didn't need to. Her rise to her feet had been enough. The room froze into stillness. The man dropped the girl's arm. He stared at Katsa with a white face and an open mouth – fear, as familiar to Katsa as the feel of her own body. The girl stared, too, and caught her breath and pressed her hand to her chest.

"Sit down, Katsa." Po's voice was low. "It's over now. Sit down."

She did sit down. The room let out its breath. After a few moments, voices murmured, and then talked and laughed again. But Katsa wasn't sure that it was over. Perhaps it was over with this girl, and these merchants. But there would be a new group of merchants tomorrow. And these merchants would move on, and find themselves another girl.

Later that evening, as Katsa prepared for bed, two girls came to her room to cut her hair. "Is it too late, My Lady?" asked the elder, who carried scissors and a brush.

"No. The sooner I have it off, the better. Please, come in."

They were young, younger than the serving girl. The younger, a child of ten or eleven years, carried a broom and a dustpan. They sat Katsa down and moved around her shyly. They spoke little. Breathless around her, not quite frightened but near to it. The older girl untied Katsa's hair and began to work her fingers through the tangle. "Forgive me if I hurt you, My Lady."

"It won't hurt me," Katsa said. "And you needn't unravel the knots. I want you to cut it all off, as short as you can. As short as a man's."

The eyes of both girls widened. "I've cut the hair of many men," the older girl said.

"You may cut mine just as you've cut theirs," Katsa said. "The shorter you cut it, the happier I'll be."

The scissors snipped around Katsa's ears, and her head grew lighter and lighter. How odd to turn her neck and not feel the pull of hair, the heavy snarl swinging around behind her. The younger girl held the broom and swept the hair clippings away the instant they fell to the floor.

"Is it your sister I saw serving drinks in the eating room?" Katsa asked.

"Yes, My Lady."

"How old is she?"

"Sixteen, My Lady."

"And you?"

"I'm fourteen, and my sister eleven, My Lady."