‘A bloodless account of interest only to scholars will be hard to sell to the council. You need to catch their interest.’

Pilgrim thought about that. ‘If I draft a proposal, I’d be forever in your debt if you could look at it and suggest improvements. But I can’t promise that it will be as exciting as one of those old stories. The truth rarely is.’

Willow smiled. ‘You are as stubborn as Thorn.’

‘If you mean that I know what I need to do, I’m not going to disagree. And if the men’s council is unwilling or unable to give up a little money, there is something else I could put to them.’

‘Is this other thing more likely to turn a profit?’

‘First, we should concentrate on the work I need to do. Not on the work I might have to do to support it.’

‘You brought it up. The least you can do is give me a hint.’

‘Let’s just say that it involves finding bigger and better coilshells.’

7.

It was too late to make the journey back to Blessed’s lodge, so when the Hearth’s curfew bell tolled Pilgrim rode out through the gate to the strangers’ lodge close by and ate at one of the communal tables in the noisy crowded commons. Despite the pleasure of seeing his sister and meeting his nephew for the first time, he was weary and dispirited. The shock of Grandfather Bearbane’s malaise lingered still, and although he had known from the outset that there was only a small chance that his mother would volunteer unconditional help, her swift dismissal still stung.

Most of the men in the commons were rovers, migratory workers with no tribal affiliations who laboured in the Hearth’s fields, workshops and tannery for a year or two before moving on, but Pilgrim spotted a distant cousin, Creed, at a neighbouring table. Creed was sharing a bowl of sweetroot beer with two friends, looking up and making a comment to his companions as Pilgrim limped past after he had finished his meal, all three of them snickering.

Pilgrim stopped, leaning on his cane, waited for Creed to look at him and asked him if he could hear the joke he had just made.

Creed stared back, insolent and half drunk. He was dressed in patched and dirty workclothes and there was beer froth on his muzzle.

‘I have to wonder what someone like you is doing here,’ he said. ‘Son of one of the aunties, slumming it amongst hardworking folk. Are you spying for her? Or are you looking for a strong man to take care of you?’

‘Is that meant to be a joke? It needs some work.’

‘The joke is you,’ Creed said. ‘Got up in that fancy costume, reckoning it makes you better than ordinary folk.’

‘If that’s what you think, you are either stupid or very lucky,’ Pilgrim said.