Yellow Moon glanced up, her pretty face pulled into its usual pout. They had named the child for the colour of the moon in the dry, dust-storm spring in which she had been born. ‘Out,’ the girl said. ‘Mother, you’re dripping on the carpet.’

‘Where did he go? Did he say?’

‘He might have gone to the fields.’ The family owned stretches of the maize fields around the central city.

She heard a noise now, beyond the hiss of the rain. A dull roar, like the breaking of a wave on an ocean shore. It was a sound she had grown used to in Northland, but in River City, in the heart of the continent the Northlanders called the Land of the Sky Wolf, she could not be further from the ocean.

‘Up,’ she snapped. ‘On your feet.’

‘What?’

‘We’re leaving, now.’

‘After the game,’ said Yellow Moon.

‘Now!’ Walks In Mist grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet. ‘For once will you do as you’re told?’

The girl started to cry.

Bear Claw got to his feet, eyes wide. He was tall for his age, with a fine black stripe painted down the centre of his face. ‘You’re frightening her.’

‘Good. Come on.’

Bear Claw followed slowly. ‘What about our stuff? I’ll get our cloaks—’

‘No!’ And she took his hand too, and dragged them both out through the door.

Outside the rain still fell hard and vertical, and that roaring noise was louder, coming from the north. People were emerging from their houses to see, curious, some in hooded cloaks, most with bare heads, all peering to the north, shouting questions to each other.

Walks In Mist thanked the gods of sky and earth that the cart was still there, that the miserable-looking driver hadn’t driven away, or run off. She shoved her children aboard, and clambered up herself. ‘Go,’ she snapped at the driver.

‘Where to?’

‘That way!’ She pointed. ‘South! Just drive south, as fast as you can.’

The cart rolled off, the wheels sticking in the muddy ground. They made faster progress once they were on the hardtop main track. They hurried south, heading for the open fields away from the ceremonial district, clattering past more neat houses, mounds bearing shrines and gifts for the deities. People were leaving now, grabbing bundles of possessions, dragging children, pulling cloaks over their shoulders, loading carts. Soon, Walks In Mist feared, all fifteen thousand people in the town, said to be the largest city in the Continent, would be fleeing, or trying to. Probably most would leave it too late. She wished she knew where her husband was.

And now Bear Claw pointed back, the rain running down his face. ‘Look!’