Storm smoothed the front of her tunic, feeling the coarseness of the cloth under her palms. She reached out a tentative hand to stroke a tunic of deepest blue, the colour of the Albatross. “This one. I want to wear this, please.” And she sighed with pleasure. Bellum Island was proving more wonderful than she could have imagined.

“The bath is ready, Mistress!” The servant, her face pink with effort, bowed to them.

Storm had never felt so gloriously clean in all her life. She had been soaped, scrubbed and towelled by the servant, much to her embarrassment. Her hair had been washed three times, oiled and combed. But she couldn’t get used to the feeling of it brushing her cheeks and the back of her neck. Betaan had refused to let Storm tie it up again into a topknot. “It’s the fashion here, for formal occasions. Besides, you have such lovely hair. It falls in waves, like the sea. Mine is as straight as a stick. You will leave it alone! It will soon grow long enough to plait, if you wish.”

“I won’t be here that long.” She sighed. It might be true, but she wanted to pretend otherwise.

“Don’t say that,” Betaan said. “Or do you wish to make me sad?”

Storm felt herself smiling at the words.

She doesn’t mean it! warned her mind-voice, but Storm pretended not to hear. She followed her hostess down the wide stairs to meet the members of the Pact, revelling in the feel of silk on her skin, tingling with excitement. She pushed Uncle Lake’s warnings from her mind. She could stop being Yanlin’s Weather-witch for tonight at least. After all, she was about to meet the richest people in the world!

6

They were ushered into a room as tall as two houses. The floor was made of blocks of yellow wood polished until they gleamed. But it was the windows that stole her breath. They reached from the floor to the blood-red ceiling, and their wooden frames were filled with square pieces of clear glass set in lead. The slanting rays of the dying sun flooded through them, and she could see Bellum Town below and around her, warped and shimmering.

“Mistress Storm of Yanlin! Betaan, daughter of Talon!” a servant bellowed.

With silken rustlings, the room turned to face them. Each figure wore a painted mask: pale skin, pink cheeks, black kohl around their eyes. They do look like wooden dolls, Storm thought, but far more frightening! Both men and women wore their hair loose, falling in oiled locks around their necks.