Kathryn Hollard blushed; her brother grinned at her with an elder sibling's lack of compassion. "Ah, ma'am, I'm, uh-" she began.

"No exceptions. Virginity isn't a reliable contraceptive." As opposed to mister-ectomy, but that was a minority taste.

She could see them deciding whether or not to smile. Good kids, most of the islanders were, not many attitude problems-but not very deferential either. They settled on shy grins; she nodded in reply.

"Meanwhile, back to work. Mark 'em down, 'dapa."

Swindapa made a note on her clipboard; she'd more or less fallen into the role of aide-de-camp and general factotum. Alston sighed and went over to the side of the big room for a dipper of water.

"Oh, 'lo, Jared," she said, looking up.

"Still trying to discourage volunteers?" he said, nodding greetings to Swindapa.

"Just making sure they know what they're getting into," she replied, drinking deep. Ahhhh. One of the best things about exercise is the way it makes water taste. She shook her head. "Seems to be a lot of enthusiasm."

He chuckled! "Farmers and fishermen used to be the best recruiting grounds," he said. "Now we know why. Even soldiering is easier."

"How's Leaton coming with the reapers?" she said. That would remove a crucial time constraint on the expedition, if they didn't absolutely have to get those hands back by harvest.

"Looks like they'll really work this time. Nobody is going to miss those sickles. Once was enough."

She nodded. "We should take a couple of reapers along." she said thoughtfully. "They'd be a big productivity boost over there."

Cofflin snorted. "Everyone's getting their oar in this thing. It's the clergy, next-they've scheduled a meeting with me for next week."

Alston sighed: "Almost as many as want something brought back from Britain. Still, there's-"

Her face took on the flat, blank calm of intense concentration. Suddenly she smiled and snapped her fingers. "That's it!"

"That's what?" he said.

"Old military saying. Amateurs talk tactics, dilettantes talk strategy, professionals talk logistics."

He frowned. "I've heard that, but just how does it apply-"

" 'Scuse me, Jared." She hefted her bokken and headed back toward one of the practice groups, quickening her stride. Someone had just tried something that Jackie Chan would have had trouble pulling off on his best day.

There was a clattering thump, and a trainee landed half off a mat. She lay gasping while her opponent leaned on his spear and panted.

"Don't tell me," Alston said. "You watched a lot of martial-arts movies, right?"

"No ma'am," the young woman said. "It was TV-Xena, Warrior Princess."

Alston closed her eyes for an instant. Lord, give me strength, she thought. "Well, let me show you why lifting your leg above your head is a bad idea. Especially when you don't have a scriptwriter on your side."

Tautanorrix swung a fist the size of a ham. Walker slashed the edge of his palm into the Iraiina's wrist. His heel flashed into the back of the bigger man's knee, and the warrior landed face forward in the dirty rushes. His face was thoughtful as he rose, shaking a numb arm.

That's the last thing we need, Walker knew.

"Looking for your mother down there?" he asked. "Or for your mare's heart?"

That brought another bellowing charge. He met it with a front stamping kick that flashed between Tautanorrix's outstretched arms and thudded into the big man's chest; the flat of it, not the deadly heel. The Iraiina stopped as if he'd run into a brick wall. Walker felt as if he'd kicked one, as the impact jarred into the small of his back.

Christ, but this fucker's built. Tautanorrix's hands came up to protect his torso; his face was a splotched pattern of purple and white. This time Walker's foot went out like a frog's tongue darting for a fly, aimed low. The heel slammed into the top of the Iraiina's kneecap with a sound like a maul striking wood.

Tautanorrix tried to grab for the foot and nearly fell. The warrior's quick downward glance showed the kneecap twisted offside, like a lumpy growth under the skin on the side of his leg. He bent down and twisted it back into place with a pop. Talk about your high pain tolerance, Walker thought. He circled, and Tautanorrix pivoted on his good leg to follow.

"I thought you were supposed to hit me, swineherd," the American said through a grin.

This time Tautanorrix ignored him, utterly intent. Well, overconfidence could last only so long… The granite fist flashed out toward his taunting grin. This time both his hands met it, slapping it aside and then locking around the bigger man's wrist. He pivoted on his rear foot, leaning far over and pulling Tautanorrix with him. His left foot slashed upward into the Iraiina's armpit. Tautanorrix came up on his toes, mouth gaping in a hoarse grunt. Walker released him and flipped away with a fancy handstand and twirl that ended with him back in fighting stance. Tautanorrix stood swaying, his right arm dangling useless and dislocated.

"Time, big fellah," Walker panted and came back in, fluid and fast. "Time to die."

The left hand struck at him. He blocked, grabbed the thick wrist, and locked the other man's arm tight with a twist, pivoting. His own right forearm slammed into the locked elbow, and it broke with a sound like green branches snapping. Walker screamed out the Ida, launching a flurry of fist-strikes, face, belly, throat, slashing with the tips of bladed fingers at the other man's forehead and eyes. Tautanorrix lurched and stumbled, swaying like a cut-through tree, his ruined features sheening with blood. Walker grabbed him by the belt of his kilt and the base of his braid, bending him over and smashing his own knee into the Iraiina's face over and over again. Bone splintered.

He looked down, panting, naked torso slick with sweat and the dead man's blood. First time, he realized. First time he'd been able to keep on with the hand-to-hand until the other fucker was dead. He turned, feet dancing, fists flung over his head in an instinctive gesture of triumph. The Iraiina were roaring out his name, Daurthunnicar among them.

His daughter Ekhnonpa stood watching the victor with shining eyes, her hands clenched at her breasts, chest heaving. Walker met her eyes and grinned.

Man, this is great, he thought, as his followers pushed forward with blankets to wipe him down and a horn of beer for his thirst. It doesn't get any better than this.

"Thank you," the Catholic priest said, accepting a cup of sassafras tea. "You understand, Chief Cofflin, that the division of the Visible Church of Christ has long been a scandal."

Father Gomez looked tanned and fit; he'd been shoveling salt along with the prisoners he was supposed to rehabilitate… had rehabilitated, Cofflin reminded himself. He trusted the little priest's judgment.

So did his colleagues, evidently. The Town Building office held the pastors of the Episcopal and Baptist churches as well, the Congregationalists, the Methodists… even the Unitarians. Only the Quakers and Jews were missing, and neither were very common on Nantucket, particularly the former-ironic, since the island had once been a stronghold of the Friends. Cofflin looked out the square-paned window for a second, as wet snow clung to it and more fell down onto the quiet dockside. The hulking shape of the big motor ferry sat there, dim and dark in the winter's afternoon, looking chewed on where half the superstructure had been disassembled. Symbolic, Cofflin thought. Old things broken up for material to make the new. He stirred uneasily. This sort of thing made him embarrassed.

"I know you gentlemen and ladies"-the Congregational minister was a woman-"have been holding a conference."