Tuko is a compact, weather-cut old man whose body has narrowed with age without becoming frail. His long white beard is braided into three uneven cords, each bound with a different bit of colored thread. He moves with a deliberate, economical gait, placing each foot as though testing thin ice. His blue gambeson reaches almost to his knees and has been patched so many times that its quilting forms a map of old roads. Over it sits a plain steel cuirass, dull from years of oil and rain. A ring-mail coif covers his neck and cheeks, and his iron helmet has a narrow nasal guard that makes his face seem stern even when he is amused. The unexpected thing about him is his hands. They are broad, scarred, and soldier's strong, but he keeps the fingernails carefully polished and painted with tiny white dots, a habit learned from his late wife.