Arianya ignored the peculiar object on the wagon at first and concentrated on the people. Beside the wagon stood a short, stocky man with weathered skin and callused hands. He whipped off a shapeless hat, revealing a freckled bald pate, and his gap-toothed grin expressed both a sunny good nature and absolute confidence in his mission. Behind the wagon a small group of dusty, trail-worn travelers clumped together, looking wide-eyed at the High Lord’s Hall on one side and then the old palace on the other. All looked like country folk, all wore blue shirts, and all wore little wooden cow shapes dangling from strings around their necks.
She looked back at first man. “I’m Marshal-General Arianya,” she said. “What’s this about?”
He bobbed his head, still grinning. “I’m Salis, Marshal-General, from Tillock-Uphill. And this is Gird’s Cow.”
“Go on,” Arianya said.
“It’s this, Marshal-General.” He took a long breath and started into what was clearly a memorized spiel. “Gird was a cowman. We know that; m’Marshal told us it says the same in the new things that’s been found. We call him Gird Strongarm, and I don’t doubt he was, but he was also a cowman, and it’s my thought that’s a better way to think of him. Now, a cowman cares for cows, be they spotted or solid, fawn or black, even if they got one crooked horn or wry tail or hoof-rot. Even if a cow has a two-headed calf, he don’t kill that calf for having two heads. And he don’t cut off one head.” He paused.
Arianya looked at the thing in the wagon. It was vaguely animal-shaped, four-legged at least, and the wrapping was clearly cowhide. The head had cow ears, and holes where the cow’s eyes had been, but below the recognizable part of a cow face was a bulbous lump, also covered with cowhide.
“I built it on a frame,” Salis explained. “It’s not that heavy, really—I stuffed it with straw to make it lighter and round—”
It was very round, like a giant pillow, and not at all cowlike except for the hide and the ridgepole that would have been a spine in a cow, but here was clearly—even through the hide—a not quite straight tree branch or possibly the trunk of a sapling with a couple of sticks—or maybe branches—poking out of the hide where a cow’s hip bones would be. Instead of hooves, the postlegs ended in wooden wheels. Each leg was lashed fore and aft and sideways to the cart.
Arianya knew she must not laugh. The man was completely serious, convinced in his own mind. Yet it was ridiculous. This—this thing—was not a cow, and though Gird had loved cows, she could not see any connection between Gird’s love of cows and Gird’s admonitions to his followers on the subject of magelords. And she had important problems to deal with—this was a distraction just when she didn’t need it.
“As Gird he loved his cows so much …” The little group began to sing in the wavering, nearly tuneless voices of those who aren’t sure what will happen.
As Gird he loved his cows so much,
so we should love our yeoman friends.
And this here cow she stands as such,
to show Gird’s care it never ends.
“Hideous!” muttered High Marshal Bradlin.
O Gird, O Gird, your cow we bring to you!
O Gird, O Gird, you wear a shirt of summer blue.
As they sang, the tune they were trying for became clearer. “‘Run Fox Run,’” High Marshal Celis said. “The northern version. ‘As fox runs through the summer grass, the farmer’s home he will not pass … ’”
“They’re singing it wrong.” High Marshal Bradlin sniffed as the yeomen continued with another verse. “And they all stink of cow.”
O Gird, O Gird, your cow we bring to you!
O Gird, O Gird, you wear a shirrrt—of summer blue!
The group finished with enthusiasm and stood staring at the Marshals so much like cows over a fence that Arianya had to grin at them. Their leader grinned back, clearly pleased at what he saw as approval.
“So now,” he said, “we want to put Gird’s Cow in the High Lord’s Hall.”
“Why there?” Arianya asked.
“So everyone will see it,” he said, as if that were obvious. “People come here, don’t they? And they come see the High Lord’s Hall—”
“Have you ever seen it?” Arianya asked.
“No, not until now, but I heard of it. Our Marshal, that’s Marshal Tam, he told us about it. Bigger than three granges end to end, he said, and colored windows, and was there before Gird. I can see it’s big—” He glanced toward the Hall.
“You all come with me,” Arianya said. “You and your followers. Leave the … leave Gird’s Cow here; High-Marshal Celis will take care of it.” She gestured and noticed that the group did not move until Salis nodded and took a step. Devout followers already.