‘There’s not.’ Galen gave him a sharp look. ‘Trust me, Raffi. I’ll take the pack. Let’s get nearer.’

They worked their way through the scrub to the road, opposite the third waggon in the line. Two men leaned on the front of it, talking. Their voices were clear in the stillness. Far back, a dog barked. Galen touched Carys on the shoulder. She gave one exasperated look at Raffi, then dropped to a crouch and sprinted soundlessly out to the waggon. She slipped under it like a shadow.

‘What if they find her?’ Raffi whispered, appalled.

‘Then they’ll find all of us. You next.’

The waggons jolted forward; the pack-beasts, mostly mules, plodding a few weary steps among shouts and one whip-crack. Galen touched Raffi and he ran, stooping low. Halfway there he froze, heart thudding, as the waggoner walked by, kicking the wheels, but the man’s back was to him, and in seconds Raffi was ducking underneath, the stink of mule-droppings close to his face. Grabbing the front axle, he hauled his chest up over the brace, jamming his feet wide against the planks at the back.

Above him the waggon base was bowed with its load – Galen hadn’t thought about that. It lay heavy on his back now, and in a moment of terror he imagined the Watchmen climbing on board and crushing him, and he gripped the greasy axle tight, his cheek lying sideways, the stink of dung in his nostrils.

It was a long time before they moved.

The first jolt almost shook him off; he grabbed tighter, feeling the axle slither and turn. Wrapping himself round the narrow brace, he clung tight, arms and legs aching, hoping he wouldn’t slip under it. Then they stopped again and he could loosen his hold.

Gradually the cold seeped into him. After an age of stopping and starting he felt exhausted; on top of the long walk from the ship the strain made his muscles knots of pain, and he was terrified of falling. Splinters of sharp wood jabbed his hands, and the puddles on the muddy roadway splashed his face. Then the waggon stopped again. They were still for so long this time he almost slept; only a wild grab kept him up. After that, a long progress. Looking down, he saw the wheels were crunching in gravel, leaving deep ruts over earlier ones.

They stopped.

‘Papers,’ a voice snarled.

Raffi gripped tight. The man was close. Boots splashed in the grit; he caught the word ‘barley’ and then ‘a couple of sacks of birds’.

The footsteps moved to the back. Hens squawked right in his ear, and the shaven boards on his back seemed heavier. Gritting his teeth, he waited for the man to climb on, tiny grains of flour and chaff drifting on him in clouds from the opened seams.