“The fair at Hoorlow?” Arcolin had never heard of Hoorlow.
“Annual celebration,” Donag said. “You’re Girdish; you must remember the Battle of Grahlin.”
“When the Sier took the water out of a river, forced it up a well, melted a fort, and Gird lost the battle.”
“Yes, that one. Well, after the war, that Sier was dead, like most of them, and people moved in. Found Grahlin itself full of dangerous things, especially the Sier’s old palace, so they tore most of it down and rebuilt it on the outskirts, nearer the river. That’s Hoorlow, lower and near the Hoor. It’s grown, of course, some of it back up the rise into what was Grahlin.”
“And they have a fair,” Arcolin prompted.
“Yes. Where they reenact the Battle of Greenfields every year. The one Gird won, the last big battle of the war.” Donag had a straight face, but his eyes twinkled.
Arcolin laughed. “I suppose that makes sense. Nobody’s going to reenact a battle they lost, and without mages, nobody could reproduce the spouting well anyway.”
“Exactly. I doubt they did that in Gird’s day, but sometime after that whoever was Marshal-General started coming to Hoorlow’s fair and presiding over the mock battle. It’s a great time … three times the population or more for the week of the fair. Inns and taverns make most of their year’s income. Competitions for everything you can imagine. Marshals and High Marshals in Fin Panir vie for the honor of escorting the Marshal-General. We get to command the enemy, you see. Stand around in plumed helmets and wear what’s left of the ancient robes found in magelord palaces. Of course, then we have to die ingloriously, but … I’ve always enjoyed it.”
“Die ingloriously? She didn’t tell me that when she invited me to this year’s,” Arvid said, putting on a look of horror.
“She never does, the first time,” Donag said. “That’s part of the fun for the rest of us. Anyway, you’re not going; you’ll be here trying to talk ‘it is that’ and ‘is it that it is’ with a lot of sober, industrious gnomes and learn the local peasant dialect, perfectly safe from inglorious fake death while exposed to the real thing. Life of a Marshal. Whatever Gird wants.”
“Why do you have a cow on your banner?” Arcolin asked. “Is it that rumor I heard about a cowhide on sticks someone was calling Gird’s Cow last spring?”
“That story made it to Tsaia? Yes, that happened. It stank.” Donag finished off his mug of sib. “They’re very earnest, the Gird’s Cow people. They sing songs about Gird’s Cow. Badly. But Marshal-General, she thought it was a good idea, says Gird did, too, and they’ve got a man whittles these little cows—” He pulled a cow-shaped piece of wood out of his shirt. “Arvid’s got one, too, and Marshal-General … most of us. Mage-hunters hate ‘em. So now Salis and his crew are trying to carve a cow-size cow. They were draggin’ that other all over, and people started cuttin’ bits off the hide to take home and tack up. And then some mage-hunters poured oil on it and set fire to it. This way it’ll be solid, Marshal-General says.”
“Do they sing about what color cow?” Arcolin asked, thinking of the dead man’s reaction to what he’d said.
“Yes, indeed: dun. Gird’s favorite cow color. Least important thing about Gird, if you ask me, is what color cow he liked. We’ve never taught that in the granges. A cow is a cow.” He poured himself another mug of sib. “‘Course, where I grew up we milked goats.”
“When do we meet the Gnarrinfulk gnomes?” Arvid asked, ignoring Donag.
“Soon,” Arcolin said. “Tomorrow I’ll take you—”
“Excuse me, my lord.” Kaim stuck his head in the tent. “There’s a gnome to see you.”
“Timing,” murmured Arvid, “is everything.”
Arcolin and his squire Kaim rode into Vérella before Autumn Court, having left his mixed cohort on Duke Elorran’s lands to bolster that duke’s almost nonexistent local militia and patrol the western border. He had sent word ahead that the Gnarrinfulk threat no longer existed and that the gnomes were acting in support of the Marshal-General, so felt free to visit Calla’s parents before going to the palace.
“Had a letter just yesterday,” her father said. “She’s in good health. Jamis, too, though he took a tumble off a horse. Wanted to ride a real horse, down in the village, apparently. No harm done.”
“You’re back early, aren’t you? It’s a full tenday to the Evener,” her mother said. “And who’s this with you?”