Nectovelin had a way of sneaking up on you. Despite his bulk and his limp he could move stealthily, and he always stayed downwind. He still had a warrior's instincts, Cunovic thought, grooves like wheel ruts cut deep into his personality that told more about Nectovelin's past than all his boasts.

It always hurt Cunovic that this impressive man, his grandfather, seemed to think so little of him. 'You're wrong about me, you know,' he said. 'Maybe I didn't put my back into building the house, but the gifts I sent home helped pay for it, didn't they?'

Nectovelin hawked and spat. 'You talk like that bowel-creasing druidh. But words are as dust. Look at what you are! You wear a woollen tunic like your brother's, but your face is smooth, your hair brushed-even your nostrils and ears plucked, if I'm not mistaken. The house of your body shows what you aspire to be.'

Cunovic took a step closer to the old man, a deliberate challenge, and Nectovelin stiffened subtly. 'And you're a hypocrite,' Cunovic said softly. 'I don't recall you turning down my silver brooches and my amphorae of wine, with which only yesterday you bought five head of cattle from Macha, that other old curmudgeon from the valley. You may not like it, grandfather. It may not be like the old days. But this is the way the world works now.'

Nectovelin glared back, as still as a wolf, his face a mask pooled with shadows.

Ban came to their rescue. He stood between brother and grandfather. 'Not tonight, lads. I've got enough to deal with.'

Nectovelin kept up his unblinking stare a heartbeat more, and Cunovic was willing to be the one to look away first. The three of them moved apart, and the tension eased.

In awkward silence the three of them turned to face the house. One of a dozen surrounded by a straggling ditch, in the dark its conical profile was low, almost shapeless.