‘You all right with me doing the job?’ I ask after a while. Not up to him, of course. But it sounds like he’s the only one who knows how to build this thing. Be happier if he thought I was up to it. Pretty sure there’s going to be more to it than they’ve said so far.

All I get is a grunt and a nod. Then Ripple comes over. She’s been exploring everywhere like a dog does, finding new smells. Now she sniffs Bardán’s leg. He’s got a pretty strong stink about him.

‘You like dogs?’ I ask. Trying to put him at his ease. Not that anyone would be easy here, with all the rules about not saying this and not saying that. ‘This one’s mine. Ripple, her name is. She’d be coming up with me most days. Long way for her. But she likes a run.’

He reaches out to stroke her head with his stiff fingers. I see a flash of teeth in the bristling beard. Maybe a smile, maybe more of a grimace. Gone quick.

I try again. Look around first, though I know there’s nobody close enough to hear. ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘This feels a bit odd. Not quite right. You sure you want to build the thing? You sure you want to work for this fellow?’ Could get me in trouble. But I’m not working for Master Tóla yet.

Bardán looks right at me. Eyes like an animal’s when it’s trapped and wants to bolt, but can’t.

‘No need to be scared,’ I say, quiet-like. Think, once I’ve said it, that it could be a lie. No need to be scared of me, that’s true enough. Can’t say the same about Master Tóla or even Gormán, friendly as he is. Can’t think how to say what I want to say – that I’m not happy to do the job if this poor sod’s being forced into it for some reason. Got a feeling he’s not quite right in the head. Reminds me a bit of Dribbles, back in Mathuin’s lockup. Never said much, and when he did there wasn’t a lot of sense in it.

‘Got to finish,’ Bardán says. ‘Stone on stone. Wattle and mud. Nine couples. Every tree in the wood.’

‘For good luck, yes?’

‘That’s what they say.’ He smiles again, only this time I know he’s not happy, he’s angry. ‘An old tale. The heartwood house.’

Seems he can put his words together all right if he tries. Makes me wonder if it might be just that he hasn’t talked for a long time. Forgotten how, nearly. Where’s he come from? Where’s he been? In some place like that hellhole of Mathuin’s? ‘How long since you tackled the job last time?’ I ask.