The way they passed the plates to each other revealed a peculiar hierarchy. Among Shaftali, the hierarchy should be determined by age, but here the man most fussed over was not the oldest. While fetching salt cellars and mustard pots, Garland kept glancing at him surreptitiously, noting how everyone fell silent to listen to his trivial remarks.

Back in the kitchen, Garland cubed the leftover pork and mixed it with parboiled vegetables to make a filling for turnovers. He put together a sturdy dough–a tricky business to make a dough strong without making it tough–and seeded it with dried rosemary before breaking it into fist‑sized balls and rolling them out.

The girl came in, and before she opened her mouth Garland said, “Bring them slices of dried apple pie. There’s clotted cream in the pantry.” He crimped the edges of the first turnover, and sprinkled it with a bit of salt.

“Is that for their dinner tomorrow?” the girl asked as she got the pies out of the warming oven. “Will it taste good cold?”

“Well, I’m spicing it up a little more than I would if it were eaten hot, and if those people have got any sense they’ll keep their dinner inside their coats so it doesn’t freeze.”

Garland flinched as the girl lost control of the pie server and wrecked what would have been a lovely slice of pie. “Who cares what it looks like?” the girl said impatiently.

Garland said, “So what do you think about those people? Are they Paladins?”

“They must be.” The girl frowned with concentration as she served out the dollops of cream. Garland had tried to teach her how to make each spoonful a work of art, but the lesson didn’t seem to have taken hold.

“That looks nice,” he said, to encourage her.

“You’re an odd sort of man,” she replied irritably, and then added, “It’s peculiar to see Paladins traveling at this time of year, don’t you think? Usually they winter with their families, don’t they, like ordinary people?”

This comment may not have been intended as a criticism of Garland’s irregular status, but he didn’t reply, and pretended to be having difficulty with the turnover dough. The girl finally said apologetically, “I guess some people don’t have families.”

A person who lacked a family was assumed to be at fault, and so most vagabonds made some effort to counteract this social disapproval by concocting ornate tales of family tragedy or betrayal that made them look like victims or heroes. However, Garland did not know enough about Shaftali families to be able to conduct such an elaborate pretense, so he always declared that his past was too painful to talk about. For nearly five years, that approach had kept people from prying, but it also had kept them from even considering offering Garland a permanent home. He was lucky to have this temporary position, lucky that the innkeeping family had found themselves unexpectedly short‑handed when Garland happened to be wandering through last summer. But two young people would be marrying into the innkeeping family come spring, and both of them were reported to be competent cooks.

Garland sometimes wondered what would happen if he told someone he was a Sainnite. It seemed to him the truth should earn him sympathy, but he thought it much more likely the truth would get him killed. Those Paladins out there in the public room, for instance, who even now were gobbling up his delectable pie, they would nod with satisfaction, belching as they washed his blood from their hands. “One less monster in Shaftal,” they might say. “Too bad he was such a good cook.”

Later, with the pots washed, the leftovers in the cold cupboard, and the next morning’s bread dough rising in the lingering warmth of the oven, Garland finally got around to serving himself a little supper, and went out into the public room to eat it. Most of the guests had left for home or gone to bed, but the twelve ice travelers remained; some huddled by the good oak fire still trying to get warm, while others took turns sharpening their skate blades. Garland went to sit at an empty table, but someone called, “Hey, cook!”

It was the Paladin commander, beckoning him over. “No, bring your meal and join us. It’s warmer over here.”

Garland protested to no effect. One of the Paladins had already risen to make room for him, and he found himself seated beside the commander. His appetite evaporated. He knew his Shaftalese was as good as anyone’s; he knew his appearance was nothing extraordinary, both language and appearance having been given him by his Shaftali mother. But he did not particularly trust his ability to tell believable lies.

“You’re awfully thin for a cook,” the commander commented. “Are you just getting a chance to eat?”

“It’s been a busy night,” Garland said. He took a spoonful of the soup, and though he analyzed its construction–the onions were bitter, but that couldn’t be avoided at this time of year–he did not actually enjoy the taste. He glanced sideways at the commander. Older than Garland, probably in his forties, the commander had a rough look about him: a face burned to leather by wind and sun, an untrimmed, grizzled beard, and tangled hair. Garland noticed no piercings in the man’s earlobe. He looked again to make sure, and accidentally caught the man making a similar survey of him.

“I’m Willis,” said the commander, and introduced some of the others nearby.

“I hear you’re skating to the coast,” said Garland.

The others energetically recounted tales of their journey, and in the telling made their chilly, effortful trip seem more adventurous than miserable. Garland managed another sneaking glance at the commander. He did not even have scars on his earlobe from old piercings. Most Paladins were irregulars, recruited into the war after the Fall of the House of Lilterwess some twenty years before, but Garland had often heard that Mabin would promote to commander only those who had taken Paladin vows, as this man apparently had not. So these people were not Paladins after all. But what were they?

Willis turned to Garland, who hastily jammed a chunk of meat into his mouth. “We hear you’re not one of the innkeepers. You’re a wandering man, taken in for the winter.”

Garland nodded, chewing.

“You’ve put some fine food in front of us tonight–” He looked around, and his companions uttered enthusiastic confirmations– excessively enthusiastic, Garland thought.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, and stuffed in another bite.

“So what is it you’re seeking? What would it take to end your wandering?”

It was a shocking question, and not only because Garland realized he was being recruited. He swallowed, and said carefully, “Sir, fact is I’m a coward.”

Garland had surprised Willis in return, he saw, and this was not a man who liked to be surprised. “Cowardice? There’s no such thing! People who believe enough in what they’re doing, that belief overrides fear. That’s what bravery is. You just need something worth believing in.”

The serving girl had gone to bed and wasn’t around to come to Garland’s rescue. If he suddenly declared he had to check something in the kitchen, it would raise suspicions rather than fool anyone. Garland said, “I do believe in something: food. And I’m still a coward.”

Willis apparently decided Garland had to be joking, and uttered a hearty laugh that all his sycophants echoed just as heartily.

“Give me your hand, brother,” said Willis. Helpless to refuse, Garland reluctantly let his hand be clasped. Willis’s hand was warm, rough, his grip strong. “I’m going to tell you something that happened to me,” said Willis. “And when I’m done, you’ll have something to believe in.”

For a single, dreadful moment, Garland felt himself begin to slip. These people wanted him. And wasn’t that, after all, what Garland sought? He wanted it so badly he almost could believe it was possible he could belong with these–but what were they? Garland applied himself desperately to his plate, thinking that the sooner he finished, the sooner he could claim exhaustion and take himself off to bed.