By mutual consent, one end of the enclosed space, behind a jumble of stones – the only other feature beside the lean-to in their barren confinement – had been set aside for passing water and eliminating their wastes. Jondalar became nauseatingly aware of the smell permeating the entire enclosure on the second day. It was worse near the lean-to, where the putrefying flesh of morbid infection added its malodorous aroma, but at night he had no choice. He huddled together with the others for warmth, sharing his makeshift cloak with those who had even less to cover them.

In the days that followed, his sensitivity to the odor dulled, and he hardly noticed his hunger, but he did seem to feel the cold more and was dizzy and light-headed occasionally. He wished for some willow-bark for his headache, too.

The circumstances began to change when the man with the wound finally died. Ardemun went to the gate and asked to speak to Attaroa or Epadoa, so the body could be removed and buried. Several men were let out for the purpose, and later they were told that all who could would attend the burial rites. Jondalar was almost ashamed by the excitement he felt at the thought of getting out of the Holding, since the reason for the temporary release was a death.

Outside, long shadows of a late afternoon sun spread across the ground, highlighting features of the distant valley and river below, and Jondalar felt an almost overwhelming sense of the beauty and grandeur of the open landscape. His appreciation was interrupted by a prick of pain on his arm. He looked down with annoyance at Epadoa and three of her women surrounding him with spears, and it took a large measure of self-control to prevent himself from pushing them out of his way.

"She wants you to put your hands behind your back so they can tie them," Ardemun said. "You can't go if your hands are not tied."

Jondalar scowled, but he complied. As he followed Ardemun, he thought about his predicament. He wasn't even sure where he was, or how long he had been here, but the thought of spending any more time cooped up in that Holding, with nothing but the fence to look at, was more than he could bear. One way or another, he was getting out, and soon. If he didn't, he could foresee a time when he might not be able to. A few days without food was no great problem, but if it continued for very long, it could become one. Besides, if there was any chance at all that Ayla was still alive, hurt perhaps, but still alive, he had to find her fast. He didn't know yet how he was going to accomplish it, he only knew he was not going to stay there very much longer.

They walked some distance, crossing a stream and getting wet feet along the way. The perfunctory funeral was over quickly, and Jondalar wondered why Attaroa bothered with a burial ceremony at all when she showed no concern for the man while he was alive. If she had, he might not have died. He had not known the man, he didn't even know his name, he had only seen him in his suffering – unnecessary suffering. Now he was gone, walking in the next world, but free from Attaroa. Perhaps that was better than spending years looking at the inside of a fence.

As short as the ceremony was, Jondalar's feet were cold from standing in wet footwear. On the way back, he paid more attention to the small waterway, trying to find a stepping-stone or a way across that would keep his feet dry. But when he looked down, he didn't care. Almost as though it were intended, he saw two stones next to each other at the edge of the stream. One was a small but adequate nodule of flint; the other was a roundish stone that looked at though it would just fit in his hand – the perfect shape for a hammerstone.

"Ardemun," he said to the man in back of him, then spoke in Zelandonii. "Do you see these two stones?" He indicated them with his foot. "Can you get them for me? It's very important."

"That is flint?"

"Yes, and I'm a flint knapper."

Suddenly Ardemun appeared to trip, and he fell down heavily. The crippled man had trouble getting up, and a woman with a spear approached. She spoke sharply to one of the men, who offered his hand to help him up. Epadoa marched back to see what was holding up the men. Ardemun got to his feet just before she arrived, and he stood contritely apologetic while she railed at him.

When they got back, Ardemun and Jondalar went to the end of the Holding, where the stones were, to pass their water. When they returned to the lean-to, Ardemun told the men that the hunters had returned with more meat from the horse kill, but something had happened while the second group was returning. He didn't know what it was, but it was causing some commotion among the women. They were all talking, but he hadn't been able to overhear anything specific.

That evening, food and water were brought to the men again, but not even the servers were allowed to stay and slice the meat. It had been precut into chunks and left for the men on a few logs, with no conversation. The men talked about it while they were eating.

"Something strange is going on," Ebulan said, switching to Mamutoi so Jondalar could understand. "I think the women were ordered not to speak to us."

"That doesn't make sense," Olamun said. "If we did know something, what could we do about it?"

"You're right, Olamun. It doesn't make sense, but I agree with Ebulan. I think the women were told not to speak," S'Amodun said.

"Maybe this is the time, then," Jondalar said. "If Epadoa's women are busy talking, maybe they won't notice."

"Notice what?" Olamun said.

"Ardemun managed to pick up a piece of flint…"

"So that's what it was all about," Ebulan said. "I couldn't see anything that would make him trip and fall."

"But what good is a piece of flint?" Olamun said. "You have to have tools to make it into anything. I used to watch the flint knapper, before he died."

"Yes, but he also picked up a hammerstone, and there is some bone around here. It's enough to make a few blades and shape them into knives and points, and a few other tools – if it's a good piece of flint."

"You're a flint knapper?" Olamun said.

"Yes, but I'm going to need some help. Some noise to cover up the sound of stones hitting stones," Jondalar said.

"But even if he can make some knives, what good will they be? The women have spears," Olamun said.

"For one thing, they're good for cutting the rope off someone whose hands are tied," Ebulan said. "I'm sure we can think of a competition or game that will cover up the noise. The light is almost gone, though."

"There should be enough. It won't take me long to make the tools and the points. Then tomorrow I can work inside the lean-to, where they can't see. I'll need that legbone and those logs, and maybe a piece of a plank from the lean-to. It would help if I had some sinew, but thin strips of leather should work. And, Ardemun, if you find any feathers while you are out of the Holding, I could use them."

Ardemun nodded, then said, "You're going to make something that will fly? Like a throwing spear?"

"Yes, something that will fly. It will take careful whittling and shaping, and that will take some time. But I think I can make a weapon that might surprise you," Jondalar said.