‘All right?’

‘Half dead: Rubbing his aching arms, he looked up. ‘Curse Galen to the pit, and all his ideas!’

‘It seems to have worked.’ She sounded amused; looking at her he saw she was filthy, her face smeared with grease. He must look as bad.

‘Where now?’

‘The building with the spire. It must be close.’

They were in a narrow street, evil-smelling, the houses leaning overhead. There was no light, not even from the moons. He wondered if their light ever reached down here, through the blackness of the blighted city. He could glimpse drifts and wraiths of smoke round him, as if the wind could never blow it away. The vapours rose from drains and sewers; anyone who lived here in the rotting city had long forgotten the warmth of the sun. Deep underground, Tasceron was burning. That was its punishment, and for them, its safety.

A rat scuttled down the street. Raffi caught hold of Carys and they ran close to the walls of the dim buildings, stumbling over rubble and holes. A peculiar low screech made them stop and look up in terror, and they saw above the house-tops a great dark shape float across the gloomy gap.

‘What was that!’

Carys shook her head. ‘I daren’t think.’

When they found it, the building was ruined. A great hole gaped in the wall; above them the spire crumbled into darkness.

‘Looks like it’s going to fall down,’ Raffi muttered.

‘Maybe.’ Carys glanced round. ‘Is he here?’

‘I don’t know.’ Raffi rubbed his face. He was so tired, and already the city confused him, the smokes fogging his sense-lines. Nothing felt clear. He climbed in through the hole after her.

It was pitch black. They edged forward a step.

‘Galen?’ Raffi whispered. ‘Galen, are you here?’

The crack of the tinder-box answered him. In a far corner a flame grew; it showed a dark face turning towards them. Carys grinned and took a step in, but Raffi grabbed her, rigid. ‘It’s not him.’

The face was filthy. A great burn-mark seared one cheek and, as the man raised himself up, they saw that half of his hair was gone, and the burned scalp was painted with a hideous snake, a veep, its great fangs wide. He uncurled himself; stained blankets fell from him; he muttured something and to his right another sleeper groaned and sat up.

Suddenly Raffi saw they were all around him; huddled, uncurling shapes. ‘Out!’ he hissed. ‘Get out! Now!’

She was already moving. As he fled he heard shouts; in corners faces rose up and stared at him, grotesque faces without eyes, scarred, skeletal with hunger. Leaping the wall, he flung spell-binds behind him, but it was hard to think; the horror of the uncurling creatures made him race into the darkness heedless, round a corner, down a street, until a shadow stepped out in front of him and grabbed him with both hands.

‘Keep still. Keep still!’