She gazed at him, unsmiling, her eyes hidden, as always, in shadow. “I am a collector of tales,” she said. “And I will tradestory for story.”

“No pay?” He glanced at Alrin. “Is this what you couldn’t tell me?”

Alrin sighed mightily. “Surely you see that I couldn’t let her work at the garrison for no pay–she would be no use to me, but I’d still be paying her expenses. Why would I do that for a complete stranger?”

“We’ll pay for her room and board. She can find a place in a boarding house, if you don’t want her here.”

“Oh, I’m willing for her to stay.”

“It’s settled, then.”

Alrin said worriedly, “But she says whatever she likes! She has neither manners nor fear!”

“That’s not your problem, is it?” He turned to the storyteller. “I will arrange for the soldiers to tell you their stories, as many stories as you tell them. Is it agreed?”

“It is,” she said indifferently.

“An escort will bring you to the garrison this evening. You can eat with us if you like, but I don’t recommend it.”

“I will eat with you.”

“Well, it is arranged.” Gilly lifted his cane, and thunked it to the floor again. “What was this punishment for?” he asked.

“Perhaps I murdered my wife.”

He looked at her, and she looked back at him, neither sad nor ashamed, nor even interested. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, and left.

By evening, the snow covered the world like a flour paste, ankle‑deep and ungodly slippery. Though men of unsteady gait should stay safely by the hearth on such nights, Gilly borrowed Cadmar’s aide, and leaned on him, and on his cane, and on whatever railings were convenient, and so managed to journey to the refectory without falling too disastrously. But it was the journey back to his rooms again that Gilly dreaded, for by then the snow would have hardened to slick ice. Too soon, the winter would lock him indoors, and the pain brought on by cold would cripple him truly, and in the darkness of winter he would wonder what his life was good for. It happened every year.

In the refectory, which, fortunately, had been rebuilt before the snow began to fall, they were just hauling in the cauldrons on wheeled tables, with one person pulling and one person pushing and a third person holding down the lid to keep the contents from spilling out. The soldiers stood drearily with their tin plates in their hands and held them out to the cooks in the hopeless manner of people who can no longer be disappointed. They were given as much stew as they wanted and fist‑sized lumps of bread that were sure to be as hard as stones. Gilly had lived since boyhood on such fare, and when the aide brought him a serving, he broke his bread into the stew and ate what he had been given. The table at which he sat was slowly, discreetly emptying as its occupants spotted friends and casually went to sit with them. The big room became intolerably noisy; conversations between neighbors were conducted in shouts.

But the incredible racket faltered abruptly. Gilly raised his gaze from the splintered tabletop. The storyteller had arrived. The soldier who had escorted her was hanging the woman’s fine wool cloak from a peg, and then, proprietarily, he showed her to Gilly’s table. The soldiers turned and stared at her so frankly Gilly feared she’d take offense. But she did not seem to notice.

“The soldiers avoid you,” she commented as she sat beside Gilly on the bench.

“Like fish fleeing into a net.”

“And does that fearfulness make you rich? Or get you a good husband?”

“It merely makes me feared.”

She said somberly, “Your life is all wrong, then.”

The soldiers had let the storyteller’s escort cut into the front of the line. To pay for his privilege, though, he apparently gave those nearby an explanation of her presence, and Gilly watched the news spread like a wave across the room, and out the door. Gilly’s table quickly began to fill again; the soldiers, trying hard to behave with civility, introduced themselves and their friends to the storyteller, and asked eager questions that the storyteller, with no apparent effort, replied to without answering. They resorted to volunteering information: that the stew she was now eating was better than they had eaten for some time, but still was pretty bad; that the big, meaty beans in it were fallow beans, so‑called because they were grown in fallow fields; that the kitchen had been rebuilt at last, which explained the improvement in the food. She looked up from her nearly empty bowl and said, “You know the difference, don’t you, between information and stories?” She glanced at Gilly, and it seemed she was curious and not intending to be mocking.

“You will be paid,” he gruffly said. “These soldiers here are just intrigued by you, and making idle conversation as best they can. We never see anything new here.”

She stood up, then, and stepped up onto the bench, and from there to the tabletop. She did not need to call for quiet; the only sound came from the soldiers, summoned by fleet‑footed rumor, who struggled to get in the crowded doorway. She said in a loud, clear voice, “I am a gatherer, a carrier, a teller of tales. I have come to trade with you, tale for tale. Once, when I was walking through the southland, along the edge of a lake, I found an old man, who sat on a stone by the water and wept with sorrow. ‘Old man,’ I said …”

Sitting directly below her, Gilly could clearly see the thin scars that crisscrossed her hands. She shaped the old man in the air, with words and gestures telling how he was haunted by the ghosts of three women, each of whom blamed him for her untimely death. She stood balanced, poised, with her weight on her toes like a dancer. The tassel at the end of her braid bounced lightly, softly, communicating the rise and fall of the story, and then signaling its ending.

The soldiers pounded the tabletops and roared appreciation. And then her hands smoothed the air like a magician soothing a troubled ocean, and the voices fell silent. “I am sure you have heard of Haprin,” she said. “But do you know that Haprin has a spring that bubbles out of the ground so hot, you can boil eggs in it? And yet no one goes near that spring, not even in dead of winter, because it is a place of bad luck. Long ago, when Shaftal was a young and wild land…”

The refectory became so jammed with soldiers that no one could reach the food line any more, and the listeners passed plates of hot stew hand to hand, across the room, and even out the door. In the rapt silence that followed her sixth story–a love story, this time, with a satisfying ending–the night bell could be heard to ring. She glanced down at Gilly, and Gilly got stiffly to his feet. “Will you return tomorrow, storyteller?”

“You owe me six stories,” she said, speaking to the crowded room.

One of the captains, whom Gilly had spoken with that afternoon, promptly said, “My company will pay.” He named a place and time for her to meet with them the next day. She bowed, and descended, and though Gilly had to hold his ears against the din of acclaim, she did not seem to hear it.

“I’ll accompany you to the gate!” he shouted.

Once outside, he regretted his offer, for the footing was worse than he had expected. She held out her arm, though, saying, “It’s hobnail season already.”

“Hobnail boots are too heavy for me,” said Gilly. When he leaned on her, she was steady as stone, despite her light build. And that strength spoke to him again of the past she claimed she could not remember. He said, “Your body betrays that you are a knife fighter.”

“I have a warrior’s scars,” she confirmed. “Sometimes, I feel how muscle and bone remembers a long training. But I have been weaponless a long time, I think.” She added, after a moment, “Do you suspect me, Lucky Man? Do you think I am trying to disguise myself? I can’t disguise a self I do not know.”