They had come out near the corner of the wall, and the sea was close, the crash of the waves loud in Clariel’s ears and the scent of salt and weed strong on the breeze. She glanced eastwards to the bridge over the ditch that led into the South Gate, but there was no one watching, and no one was on the road. It was probably still an hour until the gate opened.

Climbing over the lip of the ditch, she saw the sea and the causeway to the Islet. The rocky island was smaller than she had expected. It looked to be not much more than three hundred paces across, in all directions, and though it rose out of the water to twice her height, it was much lower than she’d imagined it to be. In a storm, surely the dozen or so shanties and huts that clustered on it would be swept away?

‘Keep going,’ whispered Bel. ‘They’re right behind me.’

Clariel started forward, not realising that she had completely stopped. The ground fell away quite rapidly towards the narrow beach that led to the causeway, and up ahead there was a well-trodden path that joined up with the road behind them. She strode over to it, and started down.

Despite the hour, there were already a few beachcombers following the tideline, looking for flotsam. The closest was a woman, bent and old, clad in a raw woollen dress hitched up very high on her bare thighs and tied around her waist with a fraying rope. She had a sack in her hand and was wriggling her feet in the sand. A moment later she lifted one foot with a long worm caught in the grip of her toes, expertly transferring it to her sack without needing to use her hands.

As Clariel and Bel trod closer across the sand, the old woman turned towards them, and bowed her head.

‘We’re looking for Old Marral,’ said Clariel. ‘Can you direct us to his … his hut?’

‘Take you there for a two squid,’ said the old woman. ‘What do you want with Marral?’

‘Business,’ said Clariel. She reached into the small change pocket inside her tunic and drew out one of the large copper coins that in Estwael were called simply rounds, and in Belisaere were called squids, apparently because some long ago issue had featured something supposed to represent magic streamers and had been misinterpreted as a squid’s tentacles. ‘One squid.’

The old woman’s mouth quirked, but she shrugged and took the offered money.

‘Follow me,’ she said, swinging the sack to her back. ‘Stay inside the rock markers, or the sea’ll take you.’