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of moments earlier withdrawn.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 Withdrawn.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
weasels' 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. I 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 unpleasant task to be
William Manchester, Paul Reid