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substantial. For an instant she saw what looked like ghosts, a pair of them, bright but almost shapeless, drifting through the west wall as though that did not exist. They bobbed about, and for a second Marika thought them like curious pups. One began to drift her way as though aware of her awareness. Then the terrible touch ended with the suddenness of a dry stick breaking. The skewed vision departed with it. She saw no ghosts anymore, though for an instant she thought she sensed a feathery caress. She was not sure if it was upon her fur or her mind.
    “They’re in trouble out there, Kublin. Bad trouble.”
    “We’d better tell Pobuda.”
    “No. We can’t. She wouldn’t believe me. Or she would want to know how I knew. And then Pohsit...” She could not explain the exact nature of her fear. She was certain it was valid, that her secret talents could cause her a great deal of grief.
    But Kublin did not demand an explanation. He knew her talents, and he was intimate with fear. Its presence was explanation enough for him.
    “I’m scared, Kublin. Scared for Dam.”
     
    II
    The scouting party returned long after nightfall. Nine of them. Two of those were injured. With them came two injured strangers and a wild, bony skeleton of a male in tattered, grubby furs. The male stumbled and staggered, and was dragged partway by the huntresses. His paws were bound behind him, but he did not cringe like the cowardly males Marika knew.
    Because Skiljan had led the party, the Wise and adult females of all the loghouses crowded into her loghouse. Skiljan’s males cleared room and retreated to their chilly northern territory. The more timid withdrew to the storeroom or their cellar. But Horvat and the other old ones remained watching from behind the barricade of their firepit.
    The pups fled to the loft, then fought for places where they could look down and eavesdrop. Marika was big enough, ill-tempered enough, and had reputation enough to carve out a choice spot for herself and Kublin. She could not draw her attention away from the male prisoner, who lay in the territory of the Wise, watched over by the sagan and the eldest.
    Skiljan took her place near the huntress’s fire. She scanned her audience while it settled down with far more than customary snarling and jostling. Marika supposed the adults knew everything already, the huntresses having scattered to their respective loghouses before coming to Skiljan’s. She hoped for enlightenment anyway. Her dam was methodical about these things.
    Skiljan waited patiently. Three Degnan huntresses had not returned. Tempers were rough. She allowed the jostling to settle of its own inertia. Then she said, “We found eight nomads denned in a lean-to set on the leeward side of Stapen Rock. On the way there we found tracks indicating that they have been watching the packstead. They have not been there long, though, or we would have noticed their tracks while hunting. The cry heard and reported by my pup Marika came when they ambushed four huntresses from the Greve packstead.”
    That caused a stir which was awhile settling out. Marika wondered what her dam would have to say about neighbors poaching, but Skiljan let it go by, satisfied that the fact had sunk in. She ignored a call from Dorlaque for a swift demonstration of protest. Such an action could cause more trouble than it was worth.
    “Four Greve huntresses ambushed,” Skiljan said. “They slew two. We rescued the other two.” The Greve in question were trying to appear small. Dorlaque had not finished her say, though no one but they were listening. Skiljan continued, “The nomads butchered one of the dead.”
    Growls and snarls. Ill-controlled anger. Disgust. A little self-loathing, for the grauken never lurked far beneath the surface of any meth. Someone threw something at the prisoner. He accepted the blow without flinching.
    “Our sisters from Greve packstead overheard some of their talk while they were captives. The speech of