They huddled together, shoulders touching. Kargrin looked along the street to make sure no one was about, then took a small tin box out of a pocket on the inside of his dark red cloak. Opening it, he reached in with two fingers and spoke three words, words that were imbued with a complex chain of Charter marks, some of them visible in his breath as he exhaled, others running down his arm and fingers, joining with many more marks that began to froth out of the box. Kargrin pinched them together and slowly drew out a faint, shimmering net of lights that was composed of thousands of marks.

‘Closer!’ he commanded, and they all leaned in, helmets and heads touching. Clariel felt the cold steel of Gullaine’s helm against her forehead as Kargrin’s hands flew up, casting the net of thousands of faintly glittering marks into the air. The shining tracery spread out above the group like the branches of a sheltering tree, then faded into nothing. Kargrin grunted. He waited a moment, stepped back, and indicated for the others to do likewise.

‘What was that meant to do?’ asked Clariel, for she could see no change in anyone. They were all perfectly visible. Surely a spell of unseeing would cloak them in darkness or something, at the very least?

‘It was meant to divert attention from us,’ said Kargrin. ‘As it will. Onlookers will see us but make no note of it, nor remember our passage, unless we actually bump into them, or make physical contact. So be sure you don’t. It should be easy enough until after first light, when the streets get busy.’

‘But I can see everyone clearly,’ protested Clariel.

‘You are inside the spell,’ said Kargrin. ‘Trust me. It worked. The marks are still around us, if you look carefully. Squint, and stare upwards, that may help.’

Clariel narrowed her eyes and bent her neck back. At first she couldn’t see anything, but as her eyelashes brushed together, lids almost closed, she saw the marks, suspended in the air above her like falling leaves caught in an instant, never to descend.

‘If you’re satisfied, perhaps we can be on our way?’ asked Kargrin. ‘Roban, take the front.’

Roban nodded, and stepped outside, sword still held ready. His wariness made Clariel think of other hunts, and the seriousness of the hunters, and she remembered something Sergeant Penreth of the Borderers had told her long ago.

‘Never underestimate your quarry, be it boar, sow, deer or even fox. I have seen hunters slain by all of them, fast or slow. A fox bite gone bad in the deep forest can be as much a death blow as having your guts torn out by a boar’s tusk, or your head broken by a stag.’

chapter ten

to the islet