“I was at the ruins yesterday,” he says, the peacemaker, “and I found this.” He tosses something over that I catch deftly, turning it in my hand and examining it closely.

“What is it?”

Bit shrugs. “My mother thinks it might be one of the Travesters’ religious objects. Like you see around their necks sometimes.”

It’s like a tiny stick man. I can see a similarity to the little gold figures the Travesters wear on chains. Emee’s single “God”. But this one is wooden, nearly black. Curious, I turn it between my fingers. “Could be old,” I reckon. “My Nanna might know what it is.” I glance across at him. “Shall I show her?”

Bit nods. “All right. I want it back, though.”

I’m about to say something else when a scream sounds from outside. I shove the trinket in my pocket and jump off the bed. Bit is already at the door. We run through the building, along the dim central corridor, anxious faces peering out of doorways, and skid to a halt at the end of the hallway where there’s a window overlooking the street.

“Watch out,” whispers Bit, his back against the wall on one side of the window. I press myself against the wall on the other side.

Carefully, we peer out. On the street down below there are three Black Marks. A young man, Jorzy’s age, has been shoved, or thrown, against the brick wall of the opposite building. Two women, heads down, are running for their lives in the opposite direction. One of the Black Marks holds a gun to the man’s head. A shot rings out. The man collapses in a heap on the ground.

With a gasp, I lean against the wall, hoping like hell we haven’t been seen.

“That was Yule,” Bit whispers across to me. His teeth are chattering. “He works for the gr-grocer.”

In my pocket, I feel around for the reassuring weight of my pocketknife, my talisman, my good luck charm. Not that it’ll make any difference to the man on the street, or to us, if we’re seen. What will happen to us, me and Bit, once we’re seventeen or eighteen? The Black Marks don’t like the older boys. They know that one day the older boys will grow up to replace the fathers that have been taken away. But they still need them to operate their machinery and run their factories. Unless they decide to use women. Will there come a time when all the boys, no matter what age, will be culled?

I peep round the edge of the window. The street is empty. Only the body remains, blood seeping between the cobbles.

“I’m going along the river now,” I whisper. “Are you coming?”

Bit’s eyes are big as he shakes his head at me, and I don’t blame him. There’s too much at stake.

11