“The Caucasas?” Jorzy echoes, frowning. The other two men exchange glances. “Are you sure he meant that region?” We’re in the pub, standing around a wooden barrel this time. It’s not so crowded, and I wonder what the other men are doing tonight. I hope there hasn’t been another cull of the working men. Lanterns hang from the blackened beams, casting a dull light over us all.

“Yep.” I tip my face towards the full mug of beer and suck up a mouthful. The heat of the pub makes the beer taste especially cool and sweet.

“Those were his exact words?” my brother persists.

“Yes, I said so.” Hasn’t he been listening? I’ve repeated the conversation, word for word. Strangely, the men look at each other in dismay. I drink another mouthful of beer, eyeing them carefully. I thought it was useful information, but they don’t seem very impressed.

“This is very bad,” mutters Moustache, glaring as if it’s my fault.

“It might not be anything,” says Jorzy, distracted, running a hand through his thick hair. “After all, who will run their stinking factories if we Cerels are sent to the Caucasas?”

The other man laughs darkly. “Perhaps they want the jobs for their own.”

Moustache leans in. “I’ve heard that Travesters from other regions want to come here for the work. Country folk could keep the factories going.”

Looking around, I can see the trouble in their faces, though I could be wrong. I’ve been drinking my beer quickly in case they send me off again before it’s finished, and things are getting a bit hazy. The other voices in the pub seem to be getting louder. Some argument is going on over where the beer is served.

“What is this Caucasas place, anyway? It sounds all right to me.”

The third man glares, then lowers his eyes to his beer. “It’s a wasteland,” he growls.

“He’s right,” says my know-it-all brother. “There’s nothing there, except some fields of undersized sunflowers. Nothing much else grows there, I’ve heard. It’s in the north, so the winters are long and hard, much colder than here.”

“Fresh air, plenty of land, room to spread out,” I mutter, licking foam from the tankard. “Sounds good to me.”

Jorzy frowns in my direction. “That’s because you’re not thinking it through.”

“He might as well send us to the moon,” mutters Moustache.

“Why doesn’t he just put us all out of our misery?” asks the other man keenly.

Jorzy leans in, a fierce expression in his eyes that reminds me of Nanna. “Because if people found out then he would be ousted, as easily as his predecessor. He has to be seen to be fair.”

Moustache snorts in disgust.

“We must act,” murmurs the other man. “Sooner, rather than later.”

Yeah, right. They’ll never get their act together.