Swain was half a year away from entering the Rowan Field, his limbs looking too long for his body, wiry muscles stretched upon his frame. He was all energy and ideas, always coming up with ways to brighten each day, whether it was leading stealthy night-time excursions to catch river rats or organizing raids on the kitchen ovens. Tahir had caught Haelan more than once as he was sneaking after Swain and a dozen others – You can’t go, Tahir had said, it’s too dangerous – but lately either Haelan had perfected his skulking skills or Tahir had decided to turn a blind eye to the adventures.

Swain climbed the scaffolding to work on the parts of the hull that Haelan couldn’t reach; working together they made quick progress along the barge. The sounds of Sif giggling drifted around them as she played with the dog, a wiry ball of white fur that took a willing part in Swain’s adventures, sniffing out pies that had been hidden in the kitchens or rooting out rats’ nests along the riverbank. All of a sudden the dog abandoned Sif and began jumping at the scaffolding below Swain, trying to bite his dangling mallet.

‘Stop it, Pots,’ Swain ordered.

‘Why do you call him Pots?’

‘He was born in a cook pot in the kitchen, him and six others. And he kept going back after the litter was grown and given out. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at finding the pies.’ Swain grinned conspiratorially as he climbed down from the scaffolding. He crouched low, beckoning Haelan closer, and pulled something from a pouch at his belt.

‘Here’s some of the last pie Pots found, keep us going till highsun.’ He passed some to Haelan and Sif, then threw the rest to the dog, who swallowed it without chewing.

‘Thank you,’ Haelan mumbled over pie-crust. He gave his last bit to Pots and scratched him behind an ear.

‘Well, it’s a family business, looking after you.’ Swain winked at him. ‘You mean Orgull. He was your uncle? Your da’s brother,’ he said, steering his thoughts away from his mam and Dun Kellen.

‘Aye. He left here a long time ago, joined the Gadrai in Forn Forest after killing a giant from the north.’ Swain’s hand dropped to a hatchet hanging from a loop at his belt, running a thumb along its edge. ‘He gave me this, when he left.’

It was a perfect, smaller copy of the throwing axes Haelan saw the warriors of Gramm’s hold carrying.

‘What was he like?’ Swain asked him, something other than his usual confidence in his face.

Haelan shrugged. ‘Big.’

Swain laughed. ‘I remember that. He used to throw me around like Pots with a rat. Do you remember anything else?’