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.

The silence was the worst. Axle grease was all over his hands by now, they slipped constantly, and he had to cling on with knees and fingertips, praying to Flain to send him strength to last out. The stiffness of his own muscles tormented him; he sweated, despite the cold, to think he might not be able to unclench them if he needed to run.

A sound, to the left. Cautiously he twisted his head. The boots were back. They stood close by the left front wheel, one up on the rim, the other turned aside. With a hiss of breath, Raffi gripped so tight his hands ached.

The Watchman had dropped something.

A coin.

It lay there in the mud. For a terrible second, Raffi stared at it; then the man had bent and was groping for it, his face close to Raffi’s, the long straggly hair falling over his eyes. His hand reached under the wheel and touched the coin.

Then he was gone, like a nightmare.

Icy with sweat, Raffi clung on as the waggon began to move, lurching and swaying. The shadow of the gate fell over him; briefly there were paved stones, the hollow echo of hooves in a covered place. Then more mud.

He breathed a prayer. He was in the city.

Raffi clung tight till the waggon came to a corner and slowed; then he let go and slid down with a thump, unable to stop himself. The street was dim; the waggon rolled noisily over him, its great wheels creaking high on each side. He lay there till it had gone, then picked himself up painfully, his hands so rigid he could hardly open them. Standing upright made him gasp, his knees weak.

‘Raffi!’

The hiss was from a doorway; briefly Carys’s face showed in a patch of light. ‘Over here!’

Limping across, he slid in beside her, down to a crouch.