All the same, Hamnet shook his head. “We need him. And—” He broke off, one word too late.

“And what?” Marcovefa asked. Of course she noticed. She wasn’t just a shaman. She was an uncommonly observant woman.

Hamnet’s cheeks heated. When he answered, he spoke in a low voice, because he didn’t want Ulric to hear. But, however reluctantly, he spoke the truth: “And he’d be more likely to kill me, curse it.” He was a formidable warrior. He was sure he could beat Trasamund, even if the Bizogot was bigger and stronger than he was—Trasamund had more courage than he knew what to do with, but less technique than he needed. Ulric Skakki was no braver than he had to be, but he coupled a wildcat’s speed and grace with more skill in fighting with weapons or without them than anyone else Hamnet had ever known.

“If you quarrel, I could magic him.” Marcovefa paused. “I think I could. He’s a strange one, no doubt about it.”

Had she ever seemed doubtful about her own spells before? If she had, Hamnet Thyssen couldn’t remember when. She mocked the sorcery she found down here below the Glacier, both that of Bizogot shamans and that of Raumsdalian wizards. She even mocked the Rulers’ sorcery, which far outdid anything either Bizogots or Raumsdalians could manage. If she wasn’t sure her spells would bite Ulric . . .

“How is he different from the rest of us?” Hamnet asked.

Marcovefa shrugged. “He’s slipperier than anyone else I’ve ever seen. He might find a way to slide out from under any charm I set on him.”

“Ah.” Hamnet thought it over, then nodded. “I can see that. Sounds like Ulric, all right . . .”

TENTS MADE FROM the tanned hides of woolly mammoths straggled across the plain. Bizogot camps were disorderly affairs—this one, put together by survivors from several shattered clans, more so than most. Dogs not far removed from wolves ran at Hamnet and the other newcomers. They barked and snarled and growled, but didn’t quite attack.