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They found a still section of the river where the water pooled. Winny wetted the scarf and cleaned the blood from Tamrin’s face and arms.

  “Those were terrible thorns,” she said. “I was just on the road over there. Collecting. I heard the noise of the things and I hid in the hedgerow.”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you hide?”

  “You heard them. You heard their voices. Wouldn’t you hide?”

  Tamrin took the scarf and started to clean the blood from her legs. The scratches weren’t deep. They’d soon heal.

  “You’re not scratched,” she said.

  “No?” Winny examined her arms. “Well. Old skin,” she smiled. “It’s tougher.”

  Tamrin looked carefully at her.

  “You’re not old.”

  Winny’s face was smooth enough. Small creases framed her eyes. She had taken the sun a little. Her arms were browner than her cheeks. Her hair was short enough to be a man’s, but cut like a woman’s.

  “What do you mean, they killed a man?”

  “They were carrying him above their heads. They’re very strong. They tossed him one to another and swung him round. He was screaming and his legs looked broken. One of them threw him very high and, just as he was about to catch him, stepped aside and let him fall to the ground. His back snapped and his head thudded on the road.”

  “He was dead?”

  Tamrin hated the story. Didn’t want to hear it. Needed to know how it finished.

  “No. Nearly dead. They just fell on him and started to eat him alive. Then he died. Not soon enough.”

  Tamrin moved away from Winny. She dipped the scarf in the pool to rinse it out. The blood swirled red around it.

  “I must have moved too quickly,” said Winny. “Trying to get away. To get further out of danger. They heard me and chased me. You know what happened next.”

  Tamrin was cold now. Even in the sun. Her face and limbs damp from washing.

  Winny stood up.

  “Thank you for saving me,” she said. “I have to go. You can keep the scarf.”

  She strode away, sturdy boots beneath a long green skirt, upright and slender.

  “I’m Tamrin,” she called. “Please don’t go.”

  Winny stopped.

  “Are you sure?”

  “People call me Tam,” she said.

  Winny came back and sat down.

  “Nice to meet you, Tam. What are you doing out here? And how do you make mists?” ||

  Smedge looked at the tailor

  and the tailor looked at Smedge and they understood something about each other. Dark knows dark when it sees it.

  “I want her back,” said Shoddle.

  “She’s trouble,” said Smedge. “Always will be. You’ll be better off without her.”

  “She’s got magic,” said Shoddle. “That’s why I sent her to the college. To learn how to use it properly.”

  Smedge pretended to eat the stew that Shoddle had bought for them.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Magic’s useful.”

  “For a tailor?” asked Smedge.

  Shoddle rapped his thimbled finger on the table.

  “For anyone. There’s no business won’t do better with some magic behind it.”

  “What if she won’t work for you? You can’t make her.”

  The tailor tapped his cheek.

  “Yes, I can,” he said. “I’ve got something she wants.”

  “Have you? What’s that?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  There was a single red rose in a clay vase on the table. In his annoyance, Smedge touched it and it turned black. The tailor shifted in his seat and eyed Smedge.

  “You’re a sharp boy,” he said.

  Smedge looked at the rose.

  “Turn it back,” said the tailor.

  “I don’t want to.”

  The tailor’s grin wasn’t pleasant and Smedge knew he had discovered a weakness and would prod at it. The tailor feared magic.

  “You can’t,” he said.

  “Tamrin’s trouble,” said Smedge. “She’s always in trouble at the college.”

  “I’ll soon sort that out.”

  “What good is she to you?”

  “She can make me money. And there’s always other things you can get with magic.”

  Smedge wanted to hear more so he said nothing.

  “Besides,” added the tailor, “I found her, so she’s mine and no one else can use her.”

  “You found her?”

  The tailor cast a look around the room. Other diners had looked at them when he rapped the table, but only briefly. No one was listening.

  “She was extra,” he whispered.

  Smedge stopped pretending to eat and listened, wanting to hear what the tailor could tell him about where Tamrin was from, who she was.

  “I want her back,” the tailor said. “And if I can find her, I can make her come back and work for me, can’t I?”

  “Yes,” said Smedge. “I think you can. If you can find her. Perhaps if you told me where she came from?”

  The tailor sniggered and shook his head.

  “Will you help me?”

  “Go home,” said Smedge. “I’ll look for her.”

  The tailor shook his hand. He paid the bill and walked off. Smedge watched him flex his fingers and rub his hand on his jacket as he walked away.

  “I’ll look for her,” he said to himself. “But I won’t bring her to you.”

  He ducked round the corner and into an alley. Sidled up along the wall with slow, deliberate steps. The cobbles were slippery where people emptied their chamber pots. He didn’t bother stepping aside to avoid anything. Round another corner, into a small courtyard with a pile of bones and meat scraps from a butcher. Three crows were pecking at the offal. Smedge, on silent feet, drew closer. He pounced. The crows cawed and flapped. He seized one by the wing and dragged it back. In a single movement he snapped its neck, pulled off a wing and stuffed it into his mouth. A slow, stupid grin, decorated with black feathers, crept over his face.

  When you’re running away from one road you’re always running towards another. Tamrin was surprised to see how close they were to the road Winny had been travelling when the creatures had appeared.

  “This is mine,” said Winny.

  She dragged a handcart out from behind the hedgerow.

  “Those things were so stupid they either didn’t see it or didn’t bother about it,” she said.

  Tamrin gave her a hand.

  “What is it?”

  “What does it look like?”

  It looked like a handcart, half-laden with old pans and kettles, iron hinges, a wheel rim, part of a harrow, the door from a kitchen range, and smaller bits of iron and other metals.

  “It looks like rubbish,” said Tamrin.

  “That’s what it is. It’s rubbish. Unless you’ve got a use for it. Then it’s something.”

  The cart was back on the road now and Winny grabbed the handles.

  “Right,” she said. “Your college is that way.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is. I’ve just come from Canterstock. That’s where I got this old oven door. So, you don’t want to go back that way?”

  “No.”

  Tamrin made her fight-you face. The one she used a lot at the college.

  “Steady on,” laughed Winny. “I’m not taking you anywhere you don’t want to go. You can just walk off on your own, can’t you?”

  “Sorry. Yes.”

  “Right. This tailor of yours, the one who came for you. What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you want to find him?”

  Tamrin had told her story, or part of it. She had not told Winny about the aching need she had to find out who she was and where she had come from. She had not told her how much she missed Vengeabil.

  “I’m curious,” she said.

  “Th
en let’s find him.”

  “How can we do that?”

  “You learn a lot when you’re pushing a cart, taking away scrap metal. You see a lot. You hear a lot. You know what I mean?”

  Tamrin bit her lip.

  “You mean you know him? You know where he lives?”

  Winny began to push the cart along the road towards Canterstock. Tamrin didn’t follow. An unpleasant, sick sensation in her throat stopped her. She wanted to stay with the woman, but she wouldn’t follow her to Canterstock.

  “I know the direction he came from,” she called. “There’s a fork in the road up ahead. One way to Canterstock, the other towards wherever he came from. That’s where I’m going. Want to come with me?”

  Tamrin sprinted after her and took hold of one of the handles of the cart.

  “That’s the way,” Winny smiled. ||

  A crow circled the high walls

  of the Castle of Boolat. It was tired and wanted to land. It was hungry and wanted to eat. It was fearful and wanted to fly off again. Slanting down with the sun at its back it made a last, large circle and found a perch on the rough stone above the main gate. It lowered its glossy black head, listened and watched.

  A woman, slim and tall, ghost-grey in a flowing gown, shouted orders.

  “Try harder. Get further.”

  The crow couldn’t see clearly. It flapped aching wings and resettled in the courtyard above their heads.

  The woman was prodding a stick at an ugly figure. If Tamrin had seen it she would have thought it very like the creatures who had sniffed at her hiding place. This one, though, was bigger, bumpier, smellier, and where they had spoken with short grunts and coughs this one rattled and clattered.

  “It hurts,” it rattled.

  The woman prodded again and a spark arced across the stick.

  “Ow. No.”

  “Move, you lump. Get through there.”

  The creature, driven by the pain of the prod, tried to get through the great gate. It winced as it passed under the arch, then staggered forward, took a few lame steps across the drawbridge and screamed out in pain. The woman didn’t follow.

  “Go on,” she shouted. “Further.”

  Her face was lit with smiles. She hugged herself with pleasure. The creature made a final, heaving effort to move ahead and was thrown back with such force that the woman had to step aside to avoid being knocked over. It huddled into a ball and lay shivering and whimpering.

  “All right,” she said. “That’s enough for today. We’ll try again tomorrow.” She looked at the crow. “What do you think of that, Smedge?”

  The crow hopped from its perch, stirred up dust on the courtyard as it landed, spread its wings wide, crouched low and sent a long, croaking caw echoing from the thick stone walls. It shifted shape, taking on the form of a dog for a moment, and Smedge emerged from the process, shaking his shoulders and spitting out a black feather.

  “Don’t try those tricks with me,” said the woman. “Understand? I’ll know.”

  Smedge looked at the lumpish figure on the ground.

  “And get out of that stupid uniform,” she added.

  “Sorry, Ash.”

  Smedge closed his eyes and the uniform became a grey jerkin and leggings.

  “What’s happening with Bakkmann?” he asked.

  “You saw it yourself,” said Ash. “You were watching. She can get through the gate, just a little way. As far as the drawbridge.”

  “The sealing spell is broken?” asked Smedge.

  “Not broken. Melting. Dissolving. Fraying at the edges.”

  “Bakkmann didn’t go far,” said Smedge.

  “Far enough. It’s like a knot. When it’s tight there’s no shifting it. But once you begin to work it loose then it’ll get easier and easier, and then all of a sudden, its strength is gone and it slides undone. You just have to work it.”

  Bakkmann was scrabbling in the dust, standing up.

  “Can you go through?” asked Smedge.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “It hurts,” said Smedge, looking at the crouched form of Bakkmann.

  “You think the pain stops me?” said Ash.

  “No. Of course not.”

  Ash sneered at him. She stepped away and walked straight towards the gate. As soon as she reached the edge of the courtyard a clap like the slamming of a great door smashed the walls and a line of bright light whipped across her face. She flinched, stepped once more and was thrown back and sprawled at Smedge’s feet. Her face was bleeding from a deep cut. She stood, wiped her sleeve across her face and smiled. She was trembling.

  “I don’t mind the pain,” she said. “It’s the indignity. I won’t be a prisoner, not any more. I won’t.”

  Smedge was frightened of her ability to bear pain. He waited for her to speak.

  “Bakkmann first,” she said. “When she’s conquered the spell I’ll be next. And it’s weaker every day. Now, what are you doing here?”

  “It’s Tamrin,” said Smedge. “I got her expelled so the tailor came for her.”

  “The tailor,” she hissed. “So we know where he is now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he useful to us?”

  Smedge smiled.

  “He’s greedy and dishonest and cruel and sly.”

  “Good,” said Ash. “I like him already. But is he useful?”

  “I know more about Tamrin now,” said Smedge. “And she is the key to everything. Once we get her back, we’ll have won.”

  Ash stared at him.

  “Get her back?” she said. “What do you mean, get her back?”

  “She ran away,” said Smedge.

  “Where is she now?”

  “I’m not sure. She can’t have got far.”

  Bakkmann clattered a high, terrified wail and scuttled away on thin sharp legs.

  Ash slapped her hand across Smedge’s face. The boy felt a lash of flame on his cheek and then he was all fire, blazing like a torch in a dungeon. The pain consumed him. ||

  Tim was sorry to leave

  Vengeabil’s kitchen. It was the nearest thing to a real room in a real house that he had known since he was a tiny boy.

  “Come back and talk to me,” said Vengeabil. “You’ll know whether you can or not. Sometimes there’ll just be a wall with a curtain over it. Sometimes there’ll be a door behind the curtain.”

  “Thank you,” said Tim.

  He stopped and sniffed.

  “That smell’s here again,” he said.

  “You can smell it, can you?”

  “Yes. Are you making it to keep people away?”

  “What do you think? Where’s it coming from?”

  Tim walked up the passageway and back again.

  “It’s coming from the college,” he said. “Not from down here.”

  “That’s right,” said Vengeabil. “You’ve been so used to it that you hardly noticed. When you did, you thought it was from my kitchen. Now you’ve been away you can smell it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s rotten. It’s decaying. It’s like a piece of meat left on the road. It stinks. The college is dying. That’s what you can smell. Only you have to step outside to notice it.”

  “Why? Why’s it like that?”

  “Ask Frastfil.”

  Tim watched the kitchen door close. He stood for a while, thinking about all that he had learned in there. He braced himself against the stench and climbed the stairs back into the college.

  It took two days. They stopped often on their journey. Winny gave Tamrin a brass bell with a wooden handle.

  “Ring this,” she told her when they drew near to a group of cottages.

  Tamrin swung the bell and enjoyed the sound of the clapper against the metal, liked the feel of the reverberations in her hand.

  “Old iron,” shouted Winny.

  Tamrin laughed at the pleasure of the noise.

  “Old iron,” she joined in.

  People came to their do
ors and waved. Winny waved back to some of them, stopped at others who beckoned her to them. She sharpened their knives and axes and scythes with a small grindstone on the back of the cart. She let Tamrin turn the handle while she held the blades against the stone. Some paid her in cash, others in kind. She took apples and bread, cheese, cold meat, squares of old linen, a straw hat, anything that might be eaten or traded.

  “Got anything for me?” she asked everyone. And she exchanged coins or goods for anything made of iron or copper.

  Tamrin kept to the cart and wouldn’t go into the houses even when they pressed her to join them for a drink of cordial or a meal. So Winny didn’t go in either. She let them bring food out to the cart and she sat there with Tamrin.

  A couple of times Winny spoke quietly to a householder and listened.

  “He’s passed this way,” she told Tamrin. “He’s on his way home. No one knows who he is but not enough people travel this way to pass without notice.”

  They rested in the hottest part of the day, under the shade of trees. The cart was heavy to push. Tamrin wished she could magic it along a bit more easily but she held back. Winny was very strong and took most of the strain.

  Tamrin took a long time getting her courage up to ask Winny the question.

  “Are you a tinker?” she asked.

  Winny sucked at a sweet grass stem.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Sorry I asked.”

  Winny patted her arm.

  “I don’t mind. There’s nothing wrong with tinkers. They do a good job and they’re not the thieves and liars people say they are. Not most of them, anyway. But they mend pots and pans. I just collect scrap metal.”

  “So are you?”

  Winny squinted at Tamrin. The sun was mid-sky.

  “You know I’m not, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you asking me?”

  Tamrin shook her head.

  “You want me to tell you I’m not a tinker and then tell you what I am, don’t you?” she laughed.

  “Don’t make fun of me,” said Tamrin.

  “I’m not making fun of you. I like you. I think it’s funny that you didn’t ask. It’s a wizard question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if most people want to know something they ask, straight out. That’s not a wizard way. Wizards always come at things sideways.”