Aware that something queer was going on around her, Liddie Lott looked up. The instant her ruddy well-fed face caught the light, the stranger's gaze swept away. Whatever it was he searched for, Liddie Lott did not possess.

"Welcome, stranger," Gull said, aiming for good cheer yet falling a little short. "Have you come to mark the Grass Watch with us?"

Again the stranger's gaze fell on Gull. Slowly, he grasped the center point of his hood and pulled it back. Ice-tanned and deeply lined, his face told of a lifetuff spent outside. Not for one moment did Gull make the mistake of imagining the stranger to be a farmer or eweman. No. The man had a way of standing and looking — a particular type of confidence that only those with martial skills possessed-that told Gull he had to be an adventurer or mercenary or grangelord.

Every patron in Drover Jack's was held rapt by his presence. Looking around, seeing Lottie standing, mouth agape by the beer kegs Burdale Ruff sitting in the comer with his meaty hand ready on his sword hilt, and the two Mundy boys shifting their position to align themselves more truly with the door, Gull suddenly wished for a little peace. His business was to serve food and ale, not tackle dangerous strangers. Trouble was, people expected him to take charge. Whatever drama happened in this tavern, be it a patron sick with the spurting vomits, a drunken brawl over a comely girl, or a lightning strike on the stove—Gull Moler was supposed to take care of it.

So that's what he did. To Liddie he said, "Fill everyone's cups with yellow wheat—on the house." To Clyve Wheat: "I see you have your stringboard with you. How about picking out a tune? It'd be a poor Grass Wateh if we didn't have a song." Then, without waiting for a reply, Gull moved forward to greet the stranger.

"On a night as cold as this a man needs two things A warm stove and a fine malt. I'd be honored if you'd share them both with me." Gull spoke quietly, and although he couldn't quite bring himself to touch the stranger, he did his best to usher the man toward the back of the room where it was quiet and dim.

The stranger let himself be led away. His cloak was steaming, giving off a sharp wild-animal scent.

Out of the comer of his eye, Gull noted that the free beer was going down well: Jon Mundy was laughing with Liddie Lott, holding out his tankard for more. As yet Clyve Wheat hadn't turned out a song, but Gull could hear him picking the strings as he tuned the board.

"Sit," Gull said to the stranger, indicating the chair and tables in the corner. "I'll be back in a blink with the malt."

As Gull slipped behind the tavern's small wooden counter, Burdale Ruff moved to speak with him. "Do you know who he is?" asked the big eweman, wagging his head toward the stranger.

Gull stepped on a crate to reach for his best malt, tucked high out of reach on the top shelf "No. Never see him before in my life."

"I have."

That made Gull spin around. "Where?"

Beardale raised his considerable eyebrows. "Here, in the Three Villages. Saw him talking to some men-at-arms at Spring Faire."

"Do you know anything about him?"

"You mean apart from what's sodden obvious-he's as dangerous as a half-skinned polecat?"

Unsure if that was actually a question, Gull rucked the malt under his arm and said, "I can't keep him waiting." Burdale didn't argue with this. "I'lll be keeping an eye on you." Strangely enough that didn't make Gull feel one bit better as he walked to the back of his one room tavern. The stranger had pulled off his cloak, and there was no mistaking the hardware of war. Three knives arranged by blade-length hung from a wide belt slung across his hips, and a five foot longsword, unsheathed, rested within arms reach, against the wall.

The stranger watched Gull assessing the sword. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said quietly.

Gull could think of no reply. The stranger's voice was deep and weary, and it had a familiar lilt. Bear was right: this man came from around here. Setting down two wooden thumb cups, Gull said, "My name is Gwillern Moler and I own this tavern. How can I help you this night?"

The man s face remained unchanged as Gull spoke, and Gull realized he had told the stranger nothing he did not already know. Silence followed. Gull made himself useful by pouring the malt. Behind him, the stove was still sending out black smoke that smelled faintly of damp. Liddie must have fed it more wood.

During Grass Watch it was custom to sprinkle rye seeds on the first meal and drink of the night. Padric the Proselyte had spent thirty days sitting in a rye field in late winter waiting for the first shoots of grass to poke through the thawing earth. Every morning when he awoke to find nothing but bare soil he denied God. Finally, on the thirtieth day, tiny, pale-green points emerged at sunset. That was the day Padric received God. Gull was generally disinterested in the stories of the First Followers, but Padric s tale always moved him. Something about the man's quiet dignity as he sat and waited struck a chord with Gull Not many men would ask for proof of God and then sit in the cold for a month to get it. It had always seemed to Gull that Padric had proved himself by waiting, and that God probably wouldn't have revealed himself to a man who had waited one day less.

In any event. Gull liked to honor the custom of the seeds. Just this evening he had stocked apron pouch with long, strpy seeds-the best they had in the market. Now he found himself hesitating to use them.

"Go ahead. You will not offend me»

Taken aback, Gull stared at the stranger's face. The copper eyes glinted for a moment, sharp as tacks, before he veiled them.

How could he know what I'm thinking? Gull wondered if perhaps the stranger had seen him reach briefly for his apron pouch. But no that couldn't be. No one watched anyone that closely.

Anyway, he had to do it now. As he scooped up a dozen seeds and sprinkled them over the two thumb cups, the first strains of Clyve Wheat's song filled the tavern. Clyve was not a great thinker and couldn't hold his drink, yet no one could deny he had a talent for music. Nothing fussy or complicated, mind, that wasn't his style. He knew the simple shepherd songs and played them well. This one, Gull recognized, was an old cradlesong.

Sleep and in the morning all will be well, my daughter.

Sleep and all will he well.

Abruptly, the stranger reached forward and grabbed his cup. Without waiting for the customary toast, he threw the malt down his throat. He did not breathe for a moment, Gull realized, simply tipped his head back and waited. When whatever relief he was waiting upon failed to arrive he returned the empty cup to the table.

"My name is Angus Lok. And I am looking for my daughter."

What was it Burdale Ruff had called him? Half-skinned, that was it. Gull had seen many men in many states during the thirty years he'd spent running Drover Jack's, but this man was different. He lived but he was also dead.

Gull took a mouthful of the malt. It was warm, peaty and golden, and it made him very sad. For a moment he thought of saying many things to this stranger before him, telling him that he too had lost a daughter; that not four weeks ago his Desmi had run off with some freebooter from the Glaive. Silly, headstrong girl. Barely seventeen. Also Gull thought of showing the stranger to the door and telling him, I have enough problems. Do not bring me any more.

Instead, he said, "How can I help?"

Angus Lok searched Gulls face with such force that Gull felt as if his skin were being pulled across the table. "What do you know of a man named Thurlo Pike?"

Gull was surprised at the question. "Thurlo? He used to roof around here last winter. Haven't seen him in a couple of months."

"What sort of man is he?"