I’m back in the cells, hearing Strangler’s voice from the ruins, thinking how useless my help turned out to be. And I’m back in the other place, the place I can’t get out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I’m fighting, I’m falling, I’m wondering how a god who’s supposed to be merciful can stand by and watch this. I want to shrink down and hide. I want to be invisible. But I’m out here in the open, and Blackthorn’s right next to me, and there’s no getting away.

‘Help us, please!’ gasps the lad, pulling on my sleeve. ‘The farm – too far – Fergus . . .’

We go back with him, running. When we get there it’s a sorry sight, a cart overturned, sacks of grain spilled everywhere, and a man pinned underneath. He’s alive, at least; he’s groaning in pain, and in my head it’s Strangler all over again. Folk are trying to free the horse, and more folk are trying to lift the cart at the same time, and everyone’s in everyone else’s way.

Blackthorn and I don’t need to talk, don’t even need to look at each other. I pass her the knife, she snaps out a couple of orders and cuts the harness away. Once the horse is free, I squat down and get my shoulders under the back of the cart.

‘When I give the word, slide him out quickly and carefully,’ Blackthorn says to the other fellows. ‘Wait until I say, or you’ll do him more damage. Ready, Grim?’

I grunt a yes, then lift. Needs to be high enough for the wheel to come off the ground, with enough room for them to pull the fellow out clean. ‘Now,’ says Blackthorn. Sliding, scraping, a yell from the man as they move him. I hold until she says, ‘He’s out, Grim,’ then I set the thing down again.

Blackthorn said she’d forgotten how to act around ordinary people, but she does just fine. Tells them she’s a healer; takes a good look at the man and says he’s got a leg broke and maybe ribs too. Makes a splint with sticks and kerchiefs. Talks to the fellow quietly while she puts it on, gets him calmed down. Snarls at a woman who’s panicking, shuts her up quick.