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told her. “He did a good job cleaning up the mess yesterday. And he worked all night in the eating hall for no payment to make it up to you. His heart’s in the right place and there’s no malice in him.”
    She sighed, beginning to knead. “I know, Thorn. I just worry about him. Where is he this morning, do you know?”
    Thorn opened the oven firebox and fed a few pieces of wood into it. Karina was going to need a good hot oven for the bread, he knew.
    “I think he said he and Stig were going down to Bearclaw Creek to work on the boat.”
    Karina sighed heavily. “That boat. That blessed boat. It takes up all his spare time lately. Do you think that’s an idea that’ll work?”
    “I can’t see why it shouldn’t. I’ve seen that sort of sail rig before, in the Constant Sea.” He grinned. “It’ll be fine—as long as he gets the details right.”
    “The problem with getting the details right on a boat,” said Karina, “is that if you don’t, you tend to drown.”
    She attacked the dough with renewed vigor. Thorn watched her dexterous movements for a few seconds, then looked thoughtfully at his single hand.
    “Can I try that?” he asked.
    Karina looked up at him. She knew he was constantly looking for tasks he could accomplish one-handed. She nodded and stepped aside, wiping her hands on her apron. Then she noticed his hand and a frown darkened her face.
    “Wash your hands first,” she ordered, then realized she had used the plural form.
    Thorn didn’t seem to notice. He poured water into the basin, sloshing his hand around, working his fingers open and shut and rubbing them with the stump of his right arm until she nodded. Then he began to pound and turn the dough, hitting it and stretching it with the heel of his hand, then folding it in on itself again with his strong fingers. He was clumsy at first, but he rapidly developed a good rhythm.
    Karina prepared another mound of flour, water and yeast and began to work on a third loaf. They continued in silence for several minutes, then Thorn rolled his loaf into a large ball and placed it in a basin. He regarded the end result and nodded in satisfaction at having discovered something else he could do.
    “He’ll be fine, Karina. You don’t have to worry about him,” he said.
    She looked up at him. A tendril of hair had fallen in her eyes. She glanced at her dough-covered hands, then blew upward to get rid of it.
    “I’m a mother, Thorn. It’s my job to worry. Still, it’s good that Stig’s with him,” she added. “At least he has one friend.”

chapter four

    P eople in Hallasholm weren’t too surprised at the friendship that had developed between Hal and Stig. After all, the two boys seemed to have a lot in common. Each had lost his father at a relatively early age and entered his teenage years without the guidance of a male parent. So it seemed logical that they should seek each other out. But the beginning of their friendship had nothing to do with logic or common ground.
    There were major differences in the boys’ situations. Hal’s father had died an honorable death, facing enemies on the Iberian coast. Stig’s father, by contrast, was not dead. Olaf had simply disappeared some years back. He was an expert warrior, but an inveterate gambler, and he had got himself into serious debt. Faced with the disgrace of being unable to pay his debtors, he had skulked away from Hallasholm one dark night. The wolfship he crewed on had just returned from a raid and the spoils were yet to be divided. Olaf, assigned to be the night guard, absconded with the pick of the plunder—money and jewels for the most part—leaving behind him his furious former shipmates and his wife and son.
    And while Hal’s mother had been left well provided for after Mikkel died, and had been able to buy a small eating house—which had since become one of the most popular eating houses in Hallasholm thanks to Karina’s excellent cooking—Stig’s mother was forced to