With a sigh of frustration from Lug, they set off on the path again. Liska recognised some of the boulders they passed, but then the mist thickened and it was hard to see anything at all. After another hour of walking they stopped and realised, to their horror, that they were back at the arrow sign again. This time the face had been changed to look more sinister: snapped twig crosses for eyes and a downturned mouth.

‘Oh, very funny!’ Liska shouted. ‘A dead face? Why don’t you come out here and show yourself? Then we’ll see whose face is dead!’

‘You really shouldn’t shout at the kittimews,’ said Elowen. ‘They are an ancient and respectable people. You should treat them with kindness: leave them gifts and tributes, ask their permission when you cross their lands . . .’

‘How can we ask their permission when they just hide in the mist and tease us?’ Liska was on the verge of shifting into her griffyx shape. Then she’d be able to sniff these kitty-things out and give them a good biting. Maybe even smell a path through the maze while she was at it.

‘The pale one is right,’ came a voice from somewhere in the mist. ‘You is wrong to be shouting at us. You should be giving offerings and stuff, and being thankful we is not eating you for trespassing.’

Lug flinched while Liska whirled around, searching for the voice’s source. It had come from somewhere behind them and, straining her eyes against the fog, she could make out a shadowy smudge coiled on top of a nearby rock.

‘Who are you?’ she asked it. ‘Why do you keep messing around with my signs?’

A yawning sound, and the thing uncoiled. It slank down from its perch and padded towards them, stepping out of the mist and into plain sight.

It was a cat. Or at least something cat-like.

Wild felines lived in the trees of Arborven, climbing branches, catching mice and chasing flying squirrels. Some mages even kept them as pets, so Liska was familiar with the pointed ears, slitted eyes, striped fur and long, twitching tail. This creature, however, walked on two feet and wore an assortment of clothes. If the patched, darned and stitched fragments of tattered fabric it was dressed in could be called that.

It was about the size of a small child but had a sly, calculating look in its yellow eyes. Several rings glinted in its torn ears and the fur on top of its head had been smeared with some kind of ochre, stiffening it into a spiky crest.

‘I is moving the signs because I is bored,’ it said, then emphasised its comment with another yawn. Liska noticed its pink tongue and needle-sharp white teeth. ‘Why is you humies walking through kittimew lands anyhow? You is never coming out of your trees normally.’