Flenser with Steel sprawled as though unconscious, his convulsions subsiding. Let Steel think him incapacitated. It would give him time to think of the most advantageous explanation.

Flenser with Rangolith came slowly to his feet, though the two members were still in a posture of confusion. Flenser pulled them together. No explanations were due here, but it would be best if Farscout didn't suspect soulstrife. "The cloaks are powerful tools, dear Rangolith; sometimes a bit too powerful."

"Yes, my lord."

Flenser let a smile spread across his features. For a moment he was silent, savoring what he would say next. No, there was no sign of the weak-willed one. This had been her last, best try at domination — her last and biggest mistake. Flenser's smile spread further, all the way to the two with Amdijefri. It suddenly occurred to him that Johanna Olsndot would be the first person he had ordered killed since his return to Hidden Island. Johanna Olsndot would therefore be the first blood on three of his muzzles.

"There's one more item for Craddleheads, Farscout. An execution…" As he spoke the details, the warmth of a decision well-made spread through his members.

— =*=

The only good thing about all the waiting had been the chance it gave the wounded. Now that Vendacious had found a way past the Flenserist defenses, everyone was anxious to break camp, but…

Johanna spent the last afternoon at the field hospital. The hospital was laid off in rough rectangles, each about six meters across. Some of the plots had ragged tents — those belonging to wounded who were still smart enough to care for themselves. Others were surrounded by stranded fencing; inside each of those was a single member, the survivor of what had once been an entire pack. The singletons could easily have jumped the fences, but most seemed to recognize their purpose, and stayed within.

Johanna pulled the food cart through the area, stopping at first one patient and then another. The cart was a bit too large for her, and sometimes it got caught in the roots that grew across the the forest floor. Yet this was a job that she could do better than any pack, and it was nice to find a way she could help.

In the forest around the hospital there was the sound of kherhogs being coaxed up to wagon ties, the shouts of crews securing the cannons and getting the camp gear stowed. From the maps Vendacious had shown at the meeting, it was clear the next two days would be an exhausting time — but at the end of it they would have the high ground behind unsuspecting Flenserists.

She stopped at the first little tent. The threesome inside had heard her coming and was outside now, running little circles around her cart. "Johanna! Johanna!" it said in her own voice. This was all that was left of one of Woodcarver's minor strategists; once upon a time, it had known some Samnorsk. The pack had originally been six; three had been killed by the wolves. What was left was the "talker" part — about as bright as a five year old, though with an odd vocabulary. "Thank you for food. Thank you." Its muzzles pushed at her. She patted the heads before reaching into the cart and pulling out bowls of lukewarm stew. Two of them dug in right away, but the third sat back for a moment and chatted. "I hear, we fight soon."

Not you anymore, but "Yes. We are going up by the dry fall, just east of here."

"Uh, oh." It said. "Uh, oh. That's bad. Poor seeing, no control, ambush scary." Apparently the fragment had some memories of its own tactical work. But there was no way Johanna could explain Vendacious's reasoning to it. "Don't worry, we will make it okay."

"You sure? You promise?"

Johanna smiled gently at what was left of a rather nice fellow. "Yes. I promise."

"Ah-ah-ah… Okay." Now all three had their muzzles stuck into stew bowls. This was one of the lucky ones, really. It showed plenty of interest in what went on around it. Just as important, it had childlike enthusiasms. Pilgrim said that fragments like this could grow back easily if they were just treated right long enough to bear a puppy or two.

She pushed the cart a few meters further, to the fenced square that was the symbolic corral for a singleton. There was a faint odor of shit in the air. Some of the singletons and duos were not housebroken; in any case, the camp latrines were a hundred meters away.

"Here, Blacky. Blacky?" Johanna banged an empty bowl against the side of the cart. A single head eased up from behind some root bushes; sometimes this one wouldn't even do that much. Johanna got on her knees so her eyes weren't much higher than the black-faced one. "Blacky?"

The creature pulled himself out of the bushes and slowly approached. This was all that was left of one of Scrupilo's cannoneers. She vaguely remembered the pack, a handsome sixsome all large and fast. But now, even "Blacky" wasn't whole: a falling gun had crushed his rear legs. He dragged his legless rear on a little wagon with thirty centimeter wheels… sort of like a Skroderider with forelegs. She pushed a bowl of stew toward him, and made the noises that Pilgrim coached her in. Blacky had refused food the last three days, but today he rolled and walked close enough that she could pet his head. After a moment he lowered his muzzle to the stew.

Johanna grinned in surprised pleasure. This hospital was a strange place. A year ago she would have been horrified by it; even now she didn't have the proper Tinish outlook on the wounded. As she continued to pet Blacky's lowered head, Johanna looked across the forest floor at the crude tents, the patients and parts of patients. It really was a hospital. The surgeons did try to save lives, even if the medical science was a horrifying process of cutting and splinting without anesthetics. In that regard, it was quite comparable to the medieval human medicine that Johanna had seen on Dataset. But with the Tines there was something more. This place was almost a spare parts warehouse. The medics were interested in the welfare of packs. To them, singletons were pieces that might have a use in making larger fragments workable, at least temporarily. Injured singletons were at the bottom of all medical priorities. "There's not much left to save in such cases," one medic had said to her via Pilgrim, "And even if there was, would you want a crippled, loose-bonded member in your self?" The fellow had been too tired to notice the absurdity of his question. His muzzles had been dripping blood; he'd been working for hours to save wounded members of whole packs.

Besides, most wounded singletons just stopped eating and died in less than a tenday. Even after a year with Tines, Johanna couldn't quite accept it. Every singleton reminded her of dear Scriber; she wanted them to have a better chance than his last remnant had. She had taken over the food cart and spent as much time with the wounded singletons as she did with any of the other patients. It had worked out well. She could get close to each patient without mindsound interference. Her help gave the brood kenners more time to study the larger fragments and the uninjured singletons, and try to build working packs from the wreckage.

And now maybe this one wouldn't starve. She'd tell Pilgrim. He'd done miracles with some of the other match ups, and seemed to be the only pack who shared some of her feelings for damaged singletons. "If they don't starve it often means a strength of mind. Even crippled, they could be an advantage to a pack," he'd said to her. "I've been crippled off and on in my travels; you can't always pick and choose when you're down to three and you're a thousand miles into an unknown land."