"What do you want out of this?" Raina asked finally, tired of thinking.

"Nothing." Anwyn held herself steady.

Raina inspected her. You could tell the truth, she decided, and still leave room for concealment. In this case she couldn't be sure. "I need to know where you stand, Anny."

The clan matron pushed her long graying braid behind her back. "I am with Blackhail, Raina. As long as you are the best hope for this clan I stand beside you."

Raina shivered. Here was the whole truth, and it was not comforting. Anwyn would stand by her as long as she approved of her actions. Suddenly weary, Raina turned her back on Anwyn and moved toward | the cast-iron half-door that led to the widows' hearth. Crouching low, she slipped inside. The room was hot and filled with people. Hatty Hare put her foot on the loom break and turned to look at the chiefs wife. Merritt Ganlow and one of the Shank boys were pushing a worktable against the wall. Two clan maids were kneeling on the floor, rolling up a carpet, a third girl was rubbing linseed oil into one of the stretching racks, and slender and lovely Moira Lull was crouching on the thick black hearthstone, feeding woodchips to the fire.

Raina moved aside to let Anwyn step into the room. Merritt nodded briskly at both of them. "Be ready day after tomorrow," she snapped.

It took Raina a moment to realize that Merritt was heading off questions about the preparations to accommodate the tied clansmen. The head widow had been dragging her heels for days, but Raina knew better than to mention it. The work was being done now; she would be grateful for that.

Anwyn put a hand on Rama's arm. "I best be heading back to the kitchen. I've a second bake to do today. The war party needs bread."

Raina followed her out of the room. When the carved wooden doors closed behind them and they were alone at the top of the stair, she said, "I will use Mace's absence to change things in thisthouse, but do not push me. I have respect for you, Anwyn, and we've been friends for many years, but don't assume that because you picked me for this I'm under your control. I will be my own master."

Seconds passed. Raina could hear the vast stone warren of the roundhouse grinding under its own weight. Anwyn's face was hard to read. In the time it took her to slip through the balcony's half-door she had tucked away her fox lore. Finally she pushed her lips together and nodded. "You need help, I'm here."

Raina hid her relief. Strangely, she didn't feel tired anymore. Mace would be leaving the roundhouse. Tomorrow. While he was gone she would take command of the clanhold. It was her duty as chiefs wife. Once the hole in the east wall was sealed she would ask Longhead to build a great big fortified barn, and when it was done she'd quarter the Scarpes there. Get them out of her house. "Thank you, Anwyn," she said.

Anwyn bustled. It was something she did with her shoulders and bosom, and it restored the matronly mask. "Can't stand around here gossiping all day. Busy times. Bad and busy."

She left Raina at the top of the stair. Raina felt giddy, light enough to float away. That's another thing about power: it goes to your head.

Suddenly the day seemed like something to enjoy, not endure. She would go and speak with Longhead about the remains of the stone hint that something would be done soon. Then she had to supervise the housing of Scarpes in her old quarters. Ventilation was bad there and she needed to be sure that no one brought in cook stoves. After that the day was her own. Maybe she'd saddle Mercy and take a ride out to the Wedge. Pay her respects to the dead horses that were being | buried there. Later she would be needed by the sworn clansmen.

A thousand warriors rode out tomorrow. Her attendance was their due.

"Lady."

Raina jumped. Turning around, she saw Bev Shank emerge from the widows' hearth. He'd been helping Merritt move the heavy machinery into storage. Bev couldn't be over twenty, yet like all the Shank boys he was losing his hair. He was a yearman, trained to the hammer, and his lore was the white-tailed deer.

"May I speak with you?"

He was deferential, as was proper for a yearman when faced with his chiefs wife. Raina replied soberly. "Of course."

Bev looked at his boots. The back of his neck was burned and peeling. Shank skin never did well in the sun. "It's about Drey… " He struggled for a moment and then spit it out. "Me and Grim ride to Ganmiddich tomorrow and we don't know what to tell him about Bitty."

The word had arrived from Black Hole five days back: Raif Sevrance had killed a sworn clansman in the mine. Drey's brother was a Maimed Man. Raina's stomach contracted softly. So much loss. When would it end?

"You must tell Drey the truth. Speak it plainly. You lost your brother that day. So did he."

This was a new thought for the young yearman, she could tell. Raif Sevrance was gone from this clan more surely than Bitty Shank. Bitty could be remembered, spoken of with respect and affection by friends and kin. Drey would never be allowed to speak his brother's name again. Raif Sevrance was a traitor to his clan.

Bev frowned, thought for a while, then slowly began to nod. "Aye, lady. Aye."

Raina laid a hand on his arm. "Bitty taught me how to tie lures, one morning when he came down to Sand Creek with me and Effie. We didn't catch a single fish, but it didn't matter. Bitty had us laughing. You know Effie: had to be dragged out of the roundhouse screaming. But she loved Bitty, and I swear that by the time Bitty waded knee-deep in the creek, ringing that special fish-catching song of his, she'd com-pletely forgotten she was outside."

Bcv smiled with a closed mouth, swallowing. "The song didn't rhyme," he said after a moment. "Didn't really have a tune either." "No. And it didn't help catch any fish."

Both of them laughed. There were tears in Bev's eyes. He was too young for this. So was she.

"Ride proud tomorrow, Bevin Shank," she said, lifting her hand away. "We are Blackball, and the Stone Gods made us first. When we die they welcome us back."

Bev's hazel eyes looked into hers. He surprised her by bowing at the waist. "You are good for us, lady. Good for this clan."

She wished with all her heart that he was right. Her doubts must be kept to herself, though. This boy had already lost three brothers. Tomorrow he would leave to reinforce Drey Sevrance and Crab Ganmiddich at the Crab Gate. She could not send hint to war without hope. "Clan will hold steady until you return."

It was a binding promise, she realized as soon as she spoke it. A thousand men rode tomorrow: they had to have something solid to return to. She, Raina Blackball, would make sure of that.

Bev accepted her words with a solemn nod. Taking his leave, he headed down the drafty stairs, doubtless making his way toward the greathearth and the sworn clansmen who were gathering there.

Raina held herself steady until he was long out of sight She breathed and did not think, refilling. Time passed. Sounds of men calling out, children laughing, dogs barking, axes splitting wood, doors opening and closing, and footsteps, thousands of footsteps, filtered up to the top of the house. Someone exited the widows' wall, passing her right by. A gust of wind spiraling up the stair brought the scent of fried onions and grilled lamb chops.

That made her move. Hungry, she descended the stairs. As always when she reached the lower levels of the roundhouse she had to cover her distaste. Once clean, echoing corridors had been turned into filthy camps. Scarpemcn and their women continued to burn their foul oil lamps, let their mangy house dogs run wild, and squat and shit in open view. A group of Scarpewives were feasting on lamb chops, sopping up the gravy with Anwyn's fresh bread. Raina averted her gaze as she passed them but not before she saw what they were drinking: Gat Murdock's Dhooneshine. She would know that old goat's bottles anywhere: he'd filched them from her ten years ago. Four brown-and-tan glazed toppers that had once been filled with womanly unctions. Dagro had bought them for her during a clanmeet in Ille Glaive. She'd long been reconciled to the fact that Gat Murdock had claimed them. Gat was Gat, and every clan had someone like him. This was different. This was theft. Never in a million years would Gat let strangers drink his brew. Generosity was a concept the aging swordsman had never grasped. No. Someone had found, fancied and stolen it.