Rikke frowned. That did sound a little troubling. “Maybe she’s found a man to keep her warm in the winter.” She blew into her cupped hands, thinking of the Nail, and what they’d got up to that morning, and had to grin. “They can be worth the effort.”

“A lover would be nothing to hide.”

Rikke shrugged. “A really ugly lover?”

“Shush.” Isern swept Rikke into a doorway with the back of her arm. What with the clammy cold it reminded her of their times out in the woods, hiding from Stour Nightfall’s men, and that brought back a stab of the fear she’d felt then, followed by a warm wash of satisfaction that she currently had the bastard hobbled in a cage.

The door opened. Corleth grinned, which seemed strange, as she wasn’t much of a grinner. She went in and the door shut.

“Right,” growled Isern, striding towards the house. “Now we’ll plumb the bottom of her schemes.”

“Who’s cocky now?” hissed Rikke, hurrying after. “What if she is hiding something?” She pictured a room crammed with Black Calder’s cut-throats, all turning as Isern kicked the door open. “We should get Shivers and a few of his lads…”

But Isern was already thumping at the rickety door hard enough to rattle it in the frame. It whipped open and Corleth frowned out, somewhat suspicious to see the two of them crowded onto the doorstep. “What are you two doing here?”

“What’re you doing here?” roared Isern, triumphant, and she caught Corleth around the neck and shoved her into the house, pulling a dagger with the other hand.

“By the dead,” squeaked Rikke, scrambling after, “don’t knife her!”

It was a pretty ordinary sort of house, far as she could tell once she was into the gloomy inside. One room lit by one little window, a fine cook-smell wafting from a pot on the fire. The canvas sack lay open beside it, but instead of secrets it held carrots and a couple of bones. There was no gang of cut-throats. Just a bent old woman with weak eyes and a generous wart on her cheek, highly surprised by the blade-wielding hillwoman just burst into her house.

“What the fuck?” croaked Corleth, flattened against the wall with Isern’s hand clamping off her windpipe.

The old woman snatched up a broom. “Let go o’ my granddaughter!”

Rikke sighed, feeling more’n a little guilty over her part in this farce. “Reckon you can stow the dagger, Isern. Less you plan to chop carrots with it.”

“My grandma lives here,” muttered Corleth, rubbing at her pink neck as Isern let her go. “I come see her when I can. Make sure she’s got wood for her fire. Bring her scraps for soup.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Rikke.

“Got enough weighing on your shoulders.” By the dead, Rikke felt worse’n ever. “D’you think you could put the blade up now?”

With a level of sourness few indeed could match, Isern secreted the knife in the ragged depths of her clothing.