Nib Benyt, who owned The Greased Pig. There was a man quick to take advantage of strife. With travel incants too dangerous now, he was running a wagon from Batava to Fothel, in the Fifth district. Not that he was the only one. Dorana’s roads and byways had grown Brantish busy, crammed full of wagons and carriages and carts and horses.

“Remmie—” Barton stared around them. “I know the District Council has said you’re welcome to stay in the cottage, but you won’t, will you? Won’t you go to Elvado?”

Nearly four months ago, with too much of The Greased Pig’s ale in his belly, he’d told Barton that Barl would soon be Lady Danfey. Had shown him the incants she’d sent him, the first of many… or so she promised.

But it hadn’t quite worked out that way.

“Remmie?”

He looked up into Barton’s puzzled face. “I’d like to visit Barl, yes. Make sure she’s all right. But I don’t know if I’ll stay there.”

He didn’t know if he’d be welcome.

“Travel with me, then,” said Barton. “At least as far as Fothel. I’d appreciate the company.”

“Yes. Why not?”

Another glum silence, as they considered their forlorn surroundings.

“Let’s see Benyt now, then,” Barton said at last. “Buy ourselves passage out of this cursed place.”

For one awful moment Remmie thought he might weep. He loved this schoolhouse. Had poured heart and soul and sweat and dreams into it. Remembering his pupils’ faces, their cries of dismay as he told them there’d be no more classes until Dorana’s troubles passed, he had to bite his lip.

“Come on, Remmie,” said Barton, sadly. “Let’s go.”

Nib Benyt sold them two seats on his wagon, leaving Batava on the morrow, at first light. Returning to his hushed cottage, Remmie picked himself some fresh beans from the garden then went inside to prepare them and make a small chicken pie. And after that, with supper cooking, he washed himself clean of pastry-makings and retired to the parlour, where he kept Barl’s letters in a carved cherrywood box. Staring at the small collection of folded notes, he felt anxiety stir.

Almost three weeks had passed since he’d last heard from her. In the beginning, after her surprise visit and her even more surprising news, she’d written twice a week. Kept her word and sent him incants copied from Morgan Danfey’s books. But then twice a week became once, and once a week became sometimes. When he’d heard nothing for twenty-six days, he wrote to her. Was something wrong? Could he help?

Her reply, when it finally came, was curt and hurtful.

Stop bothering me. I’m busy. I’ve sent you plenty of incants. Amuse yourself for a while.