Realizing he was expecting some courtesy from them, Raif said, "We are grateful for the hospitality of your hearth."

It was sufficient. The Trenchlander nodded, placed the cups inside larger, leatheiwsups and handed them to Addie and Raif. As was custom in such encounters, the guests drank first. Whatever it was— broth, tea, ale-it was good and spicy. Addie drank his quickly and then studied the dregs.

"Trade," the Trenchlander said.

A moment passed where Raif realized he possessed nothing he would give in trade. The Orrl cloak. The Sull bow. The stormglass. Traggis Mole's longknife. A man would have to kill him to get their hands on any one of them. Addie however seemed prepared for this and slid out one of his spare hareskin socks from his gear belt. A single swinging motion was sufficient to produce the clink of coins.

The Trenchlander waited. He was dressed in cut deerhide that had been sewn together with crude black stitches and an overtunic of black curly-haired sheepskin that was so stiff it hung from his shoulders like a piece of steamed wood. He was not young, and he had several broken veins in his eyes, and his facial hair was showing gray. The Sull blood showed through in the deep cavities beneath his cheekbones and the faint metallic sheen to his red skin.

"Foxglove," Addie said, speaking very precisely. "Lily of the valley. Motherwort. Broom."

He was asking for heart medicines, Raif realized. Before tea herbs. The clanholds had lost a good man when they cast out Addie Gunn. The Trenchlander immediately nodded at the words foxglove and broom but the other two did not move him. He tapped his chest, indicating that he knew the herbs" uses, and said, "Flylessi." A nod toward the trees suggested that this might be the name of his trapping companion.

Addie nodded right back. The two were getting along like a house on fire. Raising his cup-within-a-cup, the cragsman said, "Did a fine job with the brewing."

For a wonder the Trenchlander smiled. He had big teeth that showed yellow around the roots. He spoke the name of some herbs in Sull and a few minutes of engaged conversation followed where the two men sorted out their Common equivalents. Raif picked out the words wintergreen and chicory as he looked around the camp. Something had been skinned recently in the butcher's circle and clumps of fat with the bristles still attached lay amidst the red snow. A piece of steel as thin as a cheesewire was resting atop a nearby stump. A flensing knife, and Raif thought it might have a design of quarter-moons burned into its haft.

Growing up at Blackhail he'd had no contact with Trench landers; Blackhail lay far to the west of the Sull Racklands and the two peoples rarely met or traded. Since then he'd learned little. He knew that many Trenchlanders made their livings from the woods—trapping, hunting, logging—but beyond that he had only vague ideas about who they were. They lived in Sull territories and possessed portions of Sull blood, but the pure Sull seemed to tolerate, more than welcome, them.

Feeling some pain in his shoulder, Raif stood. As long as he didn't walk toward the tree holding Traggis Moles longknife, the Trenchlander shouldn't object to him stretching his muscles around the camp. Best to avoid the flensing knife too. It didn't leave much ground, but he could take a look at the woodpile and inspect the big skins stretched on the racks. Behind him, he heard the conversation waiver as the Trenchlanders' concentration shifted toward the stranger walking between his possessions. Addies voice soon piped up with a question guaranteed to distract him. "What have your traps been yielding?"

talk resumed, Raif crossed to the stretching nicks. A large silver-backed grizzly pelt with the head still attached was pegged across the frame. Eyes and brain had been picked out of the skull cavity, but Raif saw that pink flesh still moldered in the nostrils. Swear to me you will fetch the sword that can stop them. Swear you will bring it back and protect my people. Swear it.

Raif shivered. At the last moment Traggis Mole's wooden nose had been gone. A hole in his face sucked in air.

Turning, he asked the Trenchlander, "Have you heard of the Red Ice?"

The two men were enjoying a second drink of broth and they both rested their cups and looked up at him. Addie frowned as if to say, So much for subtlety, lad. The Trenchlander was quiet, his eyes taking on the glazed look of a man who was thinking. Calculating.

A noise from the south of the camp distracted everyone, the crunch of tree bark being driven into snow. Raif glanced toward it, and saw an old man walking a white horse toward the camp. A beautiful, thickly maned Sull horse.

And then the world went black.

THIRTY-SEVEN A Gift Horse

Dalhousie Selco inspected Bram's sword, squinting at the watered steel blade as if it was a document he was deciphering. He switched the bide over like a man turning a page. "Took some damage here. See?" Dalhousie glanced up at Bram. "Nicely fixed though. Looks like Brog Widdie's work-must have been afore he fell head-over-heels for some Hailsgirl and left Dhoone." Bram had never heard of Brog Widdie, and Dalhousie saw this in his face. "Used to be a smith at Dhoone in your da's time. Youngest master in the clanholds, known for his work with watered steel. Course Blackhail doesn't have any such fancy stuff. Word is that Widdie spends his days-making pots."

Flicking the midway point in the blade with his index finger, Dalhousie made the steel ring. "Its a bonnie weapon, no doubt about it. Maybe in a year I'll let you use it." With that, the swordmaster at Castlemilk sheathed the blade in the empty wooden scabbard at his waist.

Bram stared at the scabbard, his mouth slightly open. Dalhousie raised his eyebrows, urging him to spit out any objections so they could both get on to other business. The swordmaster was dressed in a short cloak of glazed nut-brown leather and a pair of heavy-duty wool pants bloused into black boots. The hourglass hanging from its chain around his neck was still. Time had ended.

They were standing in the Churn Hall which was the primary second-floor chamber in the Milkhouse. The fifteen-foot ceilings were hung with ironwork: cranes, cages, hoists, meat hooks and trammels. Emergency supplies such as hay, sacks of grain, quartered logs, barrels of oil and ale and cured sides of ox were suspended high in the vaults for safekeeping. Wooden pickets, loosely held together with leather straps, were piled against two of the four walls. Enoch Odkin said they would be used as makeshift cattle pens if the Milkhouse was ever attacked and cattle had to be brought inside. Crates, rolls of felt a huge net crowded with caltraps that looked like iron starfish, shelves packed with boxes and scrolls, and an entire fully-assembled ballista lay against the chamber's other walls. The large central space was clear, and used for weapons practice, banquets, warrior parleys and other gatherings. The milkstone floor had been overlaid with packed river sand, and four giant fox-head windows set deep into the hall's external wall let in bleak northern light.

Dalhousie had trained Bram hard for an hour before ordering him to go fetch his personal sword. Up until now Bram had fought with a workmanlike iron chopper that the swordmaster had assigned to him on the first day. When Bram returned to the Churn Hall with Mabb's watered steel sword he had been expecting to use it. Not have it commandeered by Dalhousie Selco.

"What you waiting for, Cormac? We're done here. Tomorrow at dawn on the court."

It was a dismissal. Bram looked at the hare's head pommel of Mabb's sword, now sticking out from Dalhousie's hard-sided scabbard. It had cost him a lot to own that sword. And though he hadn't much wanted it when it had been given to him as a parting gift from his brother Robbie, he couldn't very well give it up without a fight. "That's mine."