He always marked her, even when his attention was pulled a dozen ways. His head whipped around and his strange yellow-brown eyes pinned her. "Corbie. Derric," he said to the two nearest men. "Go on without me. The war party will leave within five days."

Dent-headed Corbie Meese nodded. "Aye, Chief." He might have been a bit disappointed by Mace's schedule, but he was a better man than to show it. Bowing his head respectfully to Raina, he vaulted up the stairs.

Taking her cue from Longhead and Merritt—two people who never wasted an unnecessary word—Raina said to Mace, "Longhead awaits your decision on the guidestone. The remains must be laid to rest with proper ceremony."

"It is not your concern, wife. You are not guide or chief"

"Something must be done. Now. There's a scrap heap out there that used to be the Hailstone. How can we regain our dignity as a clan if we are forced to look at it every day?"

"Enough," Mace hissed. "I have made plans. Longhead will hear of them when I choose to tell him."

His words were like a slap to her face. He had made arrangements for the stone in secret, robbing her of the chance to have her say.

Detecting the heat in her cheeks Mace stretched his lips. "You forget your place."

She did, he was right. It was something she had to be careful of, that overreaching of her authority. A chiefs wife had no dealings with the gods. It had been a mistake to claim the guidestone as her responsibility: it revealed ambition. Yet how could she not care? This was her clan and she was one of the very few people within it who could see beyond Mace Blackhail and his self-promoting war. A quick glance at her husband's face helped sharpen her mind. She could not give him too long to think.

"Will you at least do me the favor of letting Longhead know you have the matter in hand? That way he might stop pestering me. I'm run ragged as it is." Raina waited.

Mace's expression slackened, the careful scrutiny of moments earlier withdrawn. Not forgotten. Withdrawn.

"I'll send a boy."

Raina nodded. Instinct told her she needed to put more distance between herself and the guidestone. "About the rehousing. There's close to two hundred families camping in the hallways, and more are arriving every day. It's becoming dangerous. Only last night a Scarpewife knocked over an unguarded lamp outside the great hearth. If Bev Shank hadn't acted as quickly as he did we would have had a fire on our hands."

He watches you, you know. Little mice with weasels7 tails. Bessie Flapp's words echoed in Raina's mind. How did Mace know what she had asked the widows in confidence? Unsettled, she pushed ahead. The widows have agreed to give up their hearth for ninety days."

"You have done well, Raina."

The words sounded like genuine praise, and she could not stop herself from glancing around to see if anyone else was within earshot.

Mace did not miss her reaction or its implications, and muscles in his lean face contracted. "And will Scarpe families be allowed to stay there?"

Here it was. And yet again he was already ahead of her. She would not think of that now, though. Would not wonder who amongst the widows had turned against her and was whispering secrets to the chief. J must learn from him, she told herself before speaking her first lie.

That was never an issue. We both know it wouldn't be wise to house Hails and Scarpes so closely. That's why I decided to let the tied Hailsmen use the widows' hearth. The Scarpes can have my quarters. There's a lot of unused space there—dressing rooms and sewing rooms and whatnots—it should be enough to keep them out of the halls.

Mace looked at her for a long time. She was certain that he knew she was lying, but equally certain he would do nothing about it. What she had not imagined was that he would reach out and touch her.

"You'd make a fine chief," he whispered softly in her ear before he left to plan the war.

THREE South of the Dhoonehouse

Rain trickled down the Dog Lord s collar, found a groove in his wrinkled old back and rode it all the way down to his smallclothes. Damn! He hated the rain. If there was anything worse than wet wool next to your vitals then Vaylo Bludd had not encountered it. Itched, it did. Felt as if an army of fleas were holding a tourney down there—and an underwater one at that. Not to mention the smell. Vaylo had never harbored much love for cragsmen—every clan chief he knew had trouble collecting the lamb tolls—yet he had to give them this much: Wet wool was surely one of the foulest-smelling concoctions ever cooked up by the Stone Gods, and every cragsman in the clanholds had to live with it.

Hunching his shoulders against the rain, the Dog Lord picked up his pace. The field they were crossing had a slight cant to it that Vaylo felt keenly in his knees. It was growing dark now, and the bit of wind that had been ragging them all day had finally shown its teeth. Sharp gusts sent rain sheeting into their faces. Nan had her hood pulled all the way down to her eyebrows. The color had drained from her lips. and her eyelashes were spiky with raindrops. The bairns were miserable. Pasha was hugging herself, teeth chattering uncontrollably as she rubbed her arms for warmth. Aaron hadn't said a word in over an hour. Vaylo didn't like the way he was shaking. Hammie didn't like it either, and had tried several times to pick up the bairn and carry him. Little Aaron was having none of it, and squirmed free from his grip every time.

Hammie himself seemed the least ill-affected by the storm, and without gloves, oiled top cloak or hood there was no doubt he was bearing the worst of it He was a Faa man of course, that had to have something to do with it. Faa men were stoics. If there was an unplea ant task to be done they'd simply tuck their heads low and get on with it. Slop buckets hauled up from the pit cells, elk fat rendered for soap boils lanced, drains unblocked, holes dug: Faa men did it all. And none of them were complainers.

Vaylo sighed heavily. He'd been chief to so many good men. And where had he led them? Men were dead. Children were dead. Clan Bludd lay broken and in pieces. Gods knew they had deserved a better chief.

Stop it, Vaylo warned himself. What was done was done. Dwelling in the past was an indulgence best left to widows and old men. A chief could not afford to live there: the price exacted by self-reproach was too high. Oh, he knew he had done many things wrong—doubtless somewhere some god was keeping a list—but he could not let that stop him. This small band of four was his clan now. Nan, Hammie, the bairns. They were a short distance southwest of the Dhoonehouse, traveling through territory of an enemy clan, without horses, food or adequate clothing, and with only one good knife between them. The Dog Lord had no time to waste on regrets.

What had Ockish Bull said that spring when they lost ten hammermen in the mother of all fuckups that became known as Bull's Brawl? Mistakes have been made. Gods willing I'll make no more.

Vaylo grinned. Thinking about Ockish Bull always did that to him. Who else would have dared to insult the memory of Ewan Blackhail in a Hailish stovehouse filled with Hailsman? Who else would have had the jaw?

"Pasha. Aaron." Opening up his greatcloak, Vaylo beckoned his grandchildren to him. They wouldn't come at first so he had to bully them. The sight of their granda baring his teeth usually made them roll their eyes and groan, but tonight the bairns were subdued. They came to him, but more out of habit than anything else. Tucking a child under each arm, he hiked up the slope. Water squeezed out from the bairns' woolens as he hugged them.

Vaylo cursed their father, silently and with feeling. Pengos treachery had led them to this. Pengo Bludd had been so eager for any kind of fight that he'd deserted the Dhoonehouse, taking everyone he cou bribe, sweet-talk, or bully along with him. Only forty had remained behind, and a holding the size of Dhoone could not be defended by such numbers. When the attack came they'd had no warning. There'd been no one to spare for long watches. Robbie Dun Dhoone and his army of blue cloaks must have been laughing as they broke down the door.