Krunat followed the group of fargi down the dusty path, her assistant hurrying behind with a bundle of wooden stakes. Each one of the fargi carried a young fruit tree from the nursery, roots balled and ready for planting. This time Krunat was going along with the working party to make absolutely sure that the trees were planted where they belonged. Some of the Yilanè in this city were as stupid as fargi, forgetting instructions and botching the simplest jobs. She had found a number of fields and plantations that did not match the model at all and had had to make corrections. Not this time. She would put in the markers herself and make absolutely sure that the trees were planted where they belonged. She rolled one eye up towards the darkening sky. It looked as though it might rain. Good, fine for the new trees.

A turning in the track took them to the edge of a green field. A line of fargi were coming across the grass towards them. That was Krunat’s first thought—but there was something wrong about them. They were too tall, too thin. Fur on them.

She halted, frozen with shock. Ustuzou here, in the city? It was not possible. Her assistant passed her just as the sharp crack of hèsotsan sounded across the field.

Fargi curled, fell, her assistant dropped the stakes with a clatter as a dart caught her in the side. Krunat turned in panic, ran back into the safety of the trees. She knew the city well, there were guards near by, they must be warned.

“One of them is getting away, there!” Herilak called out, starting forward.

“No time!” Kerrick called out. “We don’t have much farther to go—and we must start the fire before the rain comes.”

He ran now, gasping for breath, with the tired hunters running behind him. That row of trees ahead, that would be the place. He heard hèsotsan being fired behind him but he dared not look, ran on.

He stumbled and dropped beneath the tall oak tree, threw down his weapons, and dragged the carved box from the bag at his waist. There was more firing and loud shouting as Herilak ran up.

“They know we are here. Killed some, so did they. They are back in the trees now and we’re holding them.”

“Get me the branches,” Kerrick called out, forcing himself to move slowly as he knelt and took the fire stones from the box. When he took out a pinch of dried wood as well a sudden gust of wind blew it from his hand; raindrops spattered on the leaves above. A length of branch was dropped beside him, then another.