Hidden among the leaves above, a pigeon cooed. As if it was a signal, the woman recovered herself. She turned slowly to study him, her raven-black eyes like slivers of glass poking deep into every secret cranny of his soul. “I think, son of Councillor Grasp, you could be very useful to me. I might have a task for you, if you were willing. It’s dangerous, but there would be … rewards. What do you say?”

A few minutes ago, the woman was nearly dead. Now she was asking him to join her. Excitement ran like chlorophyll through his veins.

“My name, ma’am, is Petronio. Whatever you ask, I shall do!”

She laughed. “How very gallant! And I am Lady Fenestra, secret envoy of Maw. I am glad we are properly introduced. A bright future awaits us. All we have to do is take it! “

7• THE JOURNEY BEGINS

Ark slept fitfully, his dreams punctured by huge ravens swooping toward him. Through the night, every little creak and cry saw his eyes shoot open, convinced the guards had worked out that he was still very much alive and in possession of dangerous information.

That dawn, like any other dawn, his mother held him close and gave him a kiss that he’d usually find embarrassing. Only this time, she wouldn’t let him go.

“I know it’s the only way,” she said. “You’re right that the King must be warned and soon, before the coming festival. If he is overthrown, chaos will rule and Maw will already have won. He needs to see that his councillors have driven a rusty nail into the heart of this good wood. But I hate to think of you facing danger. Maybe your friend can help.”

“He’s not a friend!” Ark protested. “I hardly know him.” Mucum was someone to get out of the way of at work.

“He’s on your side — we think you should trust him. Anyway, Father and I spent hours discussing it. You’ll have to be the one to go. You can see, he’s not up to the journey today.” His father sat in his cot-bed staring at the fire.

Nor any day, thought Ark. He looked at his mother’s face. The red rowanberry hair dye did its best to disguise her gray roots, but the years had eaten away at her youth, leaving furrows that lined her forehead, deeper than a scaffield plow could cut. Her dress was moth-eaten, second- or probably even thirdhand. How could they afford new cloth on his tiny wages? And now, even they were gone.

“And they won’t listen to me, a mere woman.”

“How can you say that? You’re stronger than any of them!”