‘The Guild has sent us some guards, for the house and the workshop, and also to … look after us. The family.’

‘Why do we need guards?’

‘I don’t think we need them particularly,’ said Harven, but he was looking at his shoes again. ‘It’s just something they do here. In any case, one will be guarding you. To and from the Academy, and so forth. His name is … um … well, it’s slipped my mind for a moment. He’s waiting to meet you downstairs. Also your mother wants Valannie to help you with your clothes.’

‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ asked Clariel. She was wearing what she wore most ordinary days in Estwael, basically her own version of a Borderer’s uniform: a short-sleeved doeskin jerkin over a knee-length woollen robe with long sleeves dyed a pale green with an inch of linen trim at the wrists and neck; woollen stockings; and knee-high boots of pig leather, made from the first boar Clariel had hunted and killed herself, when she was fourteen.

Admittedly, leather and wool was a little too heavy to be comfortable in Belisaere. The sun was hotter and the winds warmer here by the sea, compared to Estwael, which was situated in a high valley and surrounded by the wooded hills of the Great Forest. There was a term used disparagingly in other parts of the Kingdom, when it was unseasonably cold: they called such days an ‘Estwael Summer’.

‘Women wear different things here,’ said Harven. ‘Valannie will help you buy whatever you need.’

Valannie was Clariel’s new maid. She had been waiting for them at the new house and, like it, had been provided by the Guild rather than being hired by the family. Jaciel didn’t care about choosing her own servants, particularly since Valannie was immediately competent and useful. But Clariel had refused her help as much as possible so far. She was determined to do without a maid, since she could not have the help of her old nurse, Kraille, who had chosen to retire to her son’s farm outside Estwael rather than brave the horrors of the city.

‘So you need to come down,’ said Harven.

Clariel nodded, without speaking.

‘I’m sorry, Clarrie,’ said her father. ‘But it will all be for the best. You’ll see.’

‘I hope so,’ said Clariel bleakly. ‘You go, Father. I’ll be down in a minute.’