‘Street’s empty,’ reported Kargrin, blinking madly, his eyes tearing up from the sunlight after his sojourn as a giant mole. ‘Just one pie seller and her cart is set well back off the road. I hope I was right about those bolt-throwers on the hill being slow to set up. And Bel being fit enough …’

‘Where is Bel going to fly me to? Back to the Palace?’ asked Clariel. She thought about where she wanted to go, but there was no obvious answer. She still yearned for the Great Forest, but a part of her now felt that she hadn’t … earned … that. Her parents had been killed, and their murderers still lived. That needed to be rectified. The Great Forest would have to wait.

Kargrin shook his massive head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We have to get you safe. If your mother really is dead, then Kilp will want to see you set up as Queen, married to Aronzo and safely under his control. Bel will fly you to the Abhorsens at Hillfair.’

He rumbled up and gestured at the spy hole.

‘Have a look, get both eyes adjusted to daylight,’ he said. ‘If you see the Paperwing, tell me immediately. Do you want a glass of wine?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Clariel. She sat down by the window and looked out. Going to the Abhorsens at Hillfair. To her grandfather and aunt, and apparently a multiplicity of cousins. Who all thought her mother was a kinslayer … It was not an attractive proposition. Except that the Abhorsens would surely gather a force to combat Kilp, so she could at least join in that …

Clariel sighed and blinked. Even though the morning light was diminished by a band of clouds, it was still harsh on her eyes. The street looked much like any other street in Belisaere, paved with grey stone and bordered by the deep but gently curved gutters built to cope with the torrential rain in spring. This road was wider than the streets on Beshill, but the houses opposite, though as always faced with white stone, were only two or three storeys high and in general looked less well-kept.

There was no one on the street, which was very unusual in any part of the city. Clariel saw the pie seller diagonally opposite, leaning against her handcart, looking disgruntled. She wasn’t even bothering to keep the firebox going so the pies stayed hot, judging by the lack of smoke from the slim bronze chimney at the front of the cart. No point wasting money on fuel as well as a barrow-load of unsold pies that would have to be sold for animal fodder. Unless the citizens of Belisaere were less discerning than those in Estwael, who could detect a day-old pie at first glance, let alone first taste.