By late af­ter­noon, I stood on top of rocky cliffs, look­ing out to sea. Antler Is­land, and a haze that would be Scrim bey­ond it. I was north of Forge. The coast-road home would go right through the ru­ins of that town. It was not a com­fort­ing thought.

  So now what?

  By even­ing, I was back on my hill­top, scrunched down between two of the boulders. I had de­cided it was as good a place to wait as any. Des­pite my doubts, I would stay where I had been left un­til the con­tact time was up. I ate bread and salt-fish, and drank spar­ingly of my wa­ter. My change of clothes in­cluded an ex­tra cloak. I wrapped my­self in this and sternly re­jec­ted all thoughts of mak­ing a fire. How­ever small, it would have been a beacon to any­one on the dirt road that passed the hill.

  I don’t think there is any­thing more cruelly te­di­ous than un­re­mit­ting nervous­ness. I tried to med­it­ate, to open my­self up to Ga­len’s Skill, all the while shiv­er­ing with cold and re­fus­ing to ad­mit that I was scared. The child in me kept ima­gin­ing dark, ragged fig­ures creep­ing sound­lessly up the hill­side around me, Forged folk who would beat and kill me for the cloak I wore and the food in my bag. I had cut my­self a stick as I made my way back to my hill­side, and I gripped it in both hands, but it seemed a poor weapon. Some­times I dozed des­pite my fears, but my dreams were al­ways of Ga­len gloat­ing over my fail­ure as Forged ones closed in on me, and I al­ways woke with a start, to peer wildly about to see if my night­mares were true.

  I watched the sun­rise through the trees, and then dozed fit­fully through morn­ing. Af­ter­noon brought me a weary sort of peace. I amused my­self by quest­ing out to­ward the wild­life on the hill­side. Mice and song­birds were little more than bright sparks of hun­ger in my mind, and rab­bits little more, but a fox was full of lust to find a mate and fur­ther off a buck battered the vel­vet off his antlers as pur­pose­fully as any smith at his an­vil. Even­ing was very long. It was sur­pris­ing just how hard it was for me to ac­cept, as night fell, that I had felt noth­ing, not the slight­est pres­sure of the Skill. Either he hadn’t called or I hadn’t heard him. I ate bread and fish in the dark and told my­self it didn’t mat­ter. For a time, I tried to bol­ster my­self with an­ger, but my des­pair was too clammy and dark a thing for an­ger’s flames to over­come. I felt sure Ga­len had cheated me, but I would never be able to prove it, not even to my­self. I would al­ways have to won­der if his con­tempt for me had been jus­ti­fied. In full dark­ness, I settled my back against a rock, my stick across my knees, and re­solved to sleep.

  My dreams were muddled and sour. Regal stood over me, and I was a child sleep­ing in straw again. He laughed and held a knife. Ver­ity shrugged, and smiled apo­lo­get­ic­ally at me. Chade turned aside from me, dis­ap­poin­ted. Molly smiled at Jade, past me, for­get­ting I was there. Burrich held me by the shirt-front and shook me, telling me to be­have like a man, not a beast. But I lay down on straw and an old shirt, chew­ing at a bone. The meat was very good, and I could think of noth­ing else.

  I was very com­fort­able un­til someone opened a stable door and left it ajar. A nasty little wind came creep­ing across the stable floor to chill me, and I looked up with a growl. I smelled Burrich and ale. Burrich came slowly through the dark, with a muttered, ‘It’s all right, Smithy,’ as he passed me. I put my head down as he began to climb his stairs.

  Sud­denly there was a shout and men fall­ing down the stairs. They struggled as they fell. I leaped to my feet, growl­ing and bark­ing. They landed half on top of me. A boot kicked at me, and I seized the leg above it in my teeth and clamped my jaws. I caught more boot and trouser than flesh, but he hissed in an­ger and pain, and struck at me.

  A knife went into my side.

  I set my teeth harder and held on, snarling around my mouth­ful. Other dogs had awakened and were bark­ing, the horses were stamp­ing in their stalls. Boy! Boy! I called for help. I felt him with me, but he didn’t come. The in­truder kicked me, but I wouldn’t let go. Burrich lay in the straw and I smelled his blood. He did not move. I heard old Vixen fling­ing her­self against the door up­stairs, try­ing vainly to get to her mas­ter. Again and then again the knife plunged into me. I cried out to my Boy a last time, and then I could no longer hold on. I was flung off the kick­ing leg, to strike the side of a stall. I was drown­ing, blood in my mouth and nos­trils. Run­ning feet. Pain in the dark. I hitched closer to Burrich. I pushed my nose un­der his hand. He did not move. Voices and light com­ing, com­ing, com­ing …

  I awoke on a dark hill­side, grip­ping my stick so tightly my hands were numb. Not for a mo­ment did I think it a dream. I couldn’t stop feel­ing the knife between my ribs, and tast­ing the blood in my mouth. Like the re­frain of a ghastly song, the memor­ies came again and again, the draught of cold air, the knife, the boot, the taste of my en­emy’s blood in my mouth, and the taste of my own. I struggled to make sense of what Smithy had seen. Someone had been at the top of Burrich’s stairs, wait­ing for him. Someone with a knife. And Burrich had fallen, and Smithy had smelled blood …

  I stood and gathered my things. Thin and faint was Smithy’s warm little pres­ence in my mind. Weak, but there. I ques­ted care­fully, and then stopped when I felt how much it cost him to ac­know­ledge me. Still. Be still. I’m com­ing. I was cold and my knees shook be­neath me, but sweat was slick on my back. Not once did I ques­tion what I must do. I strode down the hill to the dirt road. It was a little trade road, a ped­lars’ track, and I knew that if I fol­lowed it, it must in­ter­sect even­tu­ally with the coast-road. I would fol­low it, I would find the coast-road, I would get my­self home. And if Eda fa­voured me, I would be in time to help Smithy. And Burrich.

  I strode, re­fus­ing to let my­self run. A steady march would carry me fur­ther faster than a mad sprint through the dark. The night was clear, the trail straight. I con­sidered, once, that I was put­ting an end to any chance of prov­ing I could Skill. All I had put into it – time, ef­fort, pain – all wasted. But there was no way I could have sat down and waited an­other full day for Ga­len to try and reach me. To open my mind to Ga­len’s pos­sible Skill touch, I would have had to clear it of Smithy’s tenu­ous thread. I would not. When it was all put in the bal­ances, the Skill was far out­weighed by Smithy. And Burrich.

  Why Burrich, I wondered. Who could hate him enough to am­bush him? And right out­side his own quar­ters. As clearly as if I were re­port­ing to Chade, I began to as­semble my facts. Someone who knew him well enough to know where he lived; that ruled out some chance of­fence com­mit­ted in a Buck­keep town tav­ern. Someone who had brought a knife; that ruled out someone who just wanted to give him a beat­ing. The knife had been sharp, and the wielder had known how to use it. I winced again from the memory.

  Those were the facts. Cau­tiously, I began to build as­sump­tions upon them. Someone who knew Burrich’s habits and had a ser­i­ous griev­ance against him, ser­i­ous enough to kill over. My steps slowed sud­denly. Why hadn’t Smithy been aware of the man up there wait­ing? Why hadn’t Vixen been bark­ing through the door? Slip­ping past dogs in their own ter­rit­ory be­spoke someone well prac­tised at stealth.

  Ga­len.

  No. I only wanted it to be Ga­len. I re­fused to leap to the con­clu­sion. Phys­ic­ally, Ga­len was no match for Burrich and he knew it. Not even with a knife, in the dark, with Burrich half-drunk and sur­prised. No. Ga­len might want to, but he wouldn’t do it. Not him­self.

  Would he send an­other? I pondered it, and de­cided I didn’t know. Think some more. Burrich was not a pa­tient man. Ga­len was the most re­cent en­emy he’d made, but not the only one. Over and over I re-stacked my facts, try­ing to reach a solid con­clu­sion. But there simply wasn’t enough to build on.

  Even­tu­ally I came to a stream, and drank spar­ingly. Then I walked again. The woods grew thicker, and the moon was mostly ob­scured by the trees lin­ing the road. I didn’t turn back. I pushed on, un­til my trail flowed into the coast-road like a stream feed­ing a river. I fol­lowed it south, and the wider high­way gleamed like sil­ver in the moon­light.

  I walked and pondered the night away. As the first creep­ing tendrils of dawn began to put col­our back into the land­scape, I felt in­cred­ibly weary, but no less driven. My worry was a bur­den I couldn’t put down. I clutched at the thin thread of warmth that told me Smithy was still alive, and wondered about Burrich. I had no way of know­ing how badly he’d been in­jured. Smithy had smelled his blood, so the knife had scored at least once. And the fall down the stair­case? I tried to set the worry aside. I had never con­sidered that Burrich could be in­jured in such a way, let alone what I would feel about it. I could come up with no name for the feel­ing. Just hol­low, I thought to my­self. Hol­low. And weary.

  I ate a bit as I walked and re­filled my wa­ter­skin from a stream. Mid­morn­ing clouded up and rained on me for a bit, only to clear as ab­ruptly by early af­ter­noon. I strode on. I had ex­pec­ted to find some sort of traffic on the coast-road, but saw noth­ing. By late af­ter­noon, the road had veered close to the cliffs. I could look across a small cove and down onto what had been Forge. The peace­ful­ness of it was chilling. No smoke rose from the cot­tages, no boats rode in the har­bour. I knew my route would take me right through it. I did not rel­ish the idea, but the warm thread of Smithy’s life tugged me on.

  I lif­ted my head to the scuff of feet against stone. Only the re­flexes of Hod’s long train­ing saved me. I came about, staff at the ready, and swept around me in a de­fens­ive circle that cracked the jaw of the one that was be­hind me. The oth­ers fell back. Three oth­ers. All Forged, empty as stone. The one I had struck was rolling and yelling on the ground. No one paid him any mind ex­cept me. I dealt him an­other quick jolt to his back. He yelled louder and thrashed about. Even in that situ­ation, my ac­tion sur­prised me. I knew it was wise to make sure a dis­abled en­emy stayed dis­abled, but I knew I could never have kicked at a howl­ing dog as I did at that man. But fight­ing these Forged ones was like fight­ing ghosts: I felt no pres­ence from any of them; I had no sense of the pain I’d dealt the in­jured man, no echoes of his an­ger or fear. It was like slam­ming a door, vi­ol­ence without a vic­tim, as I cracked him again, to be sure he would not snatch at me as I leaped over him to a clear space in the road.

  I danced my staff around me, keep­ing the oth­ers at bay. They looked ragged and hungry, but I still felt they could out­run me if I fled. I was already tired, and they were like starving wolves. They’d pur­sue me un­til I dropped. One reached too close and I struck him a glan­cing blow to the wrist. He dropped a rusty fish-knife and clutched his hand to his heart, shriek­ing over it. Again, the other two paid no at­ten­tion to the in­jured one. I danced back.

  ‘What do you want?’ I de­man­ded of them.

  ‘What do you have,’ one of them said. His voice was rusty and hes­it­ant, as if long un­used, and his words lacked any in­flec­tion. He moved slowly around me, in a wide circle that kept me turn­ing. Dead men talk­ing, I thought to my­self, and couldn’t stop the thought from echo­ing through my mind.

  ‘Noth­ing,’ I panted, jab­bing to keep one from mov­ing any closer. ‘I don’t have any­thing for you. No money, no food, noth­ing. I lost all my things, back down the road.’

  ‘Noth­ing,’ said the other, and for the first time I real­ized she had been a wo­man, once. Now she was this empty malevol­ent pup­pet, whose dull eyes sud­denly lit with av­arice as she said, ‘Cloak. I want your cloak.’

  She seemed pleased to have for­mu­lated this thought, and it made her care­less enough to let me crack her on the shin. She glanced down at the in­jury as if puzzled, and then con­tin­ued to limp after me.

  ‘Cloak,’ echoed the other. For a mo­ment they glared at one an­other in dull real­iz­a­tion of their rivalry. ‘Me. Mine,’ he ad­ded.

  ‘No. Kill you,’ she offered calmly. ‘Kill you, too,’ she re­minded me, and came close again. I swung my staff at her, but she leaped back, and then made a snatch at it as it went by. I turned, just in time to whack the one whose wrist I had already dam­aged. Then I leaped past him and raced down the road. I ran awk­wardly, hold­ing onto my staff with one hand as I fought the fasten­ing of my cloak with the other. At last it came un­done and I let it fall from me as I con­tin­ued to run. The rub­ber­i­ness in my legs warned me that this was my last gam­bit. But a few mo­ments later, they must have reached it, for I heard angry cries and screams as they quar­relled over it. I prayed it would be enough to oc­cupy all four of them and kept run­ning. There was a bend in the road, not much but enough to take me out of their sight. I con­tin­ued to run and then trot­ted for as long as I could be­fore dar­ing to look back. The road shone wide and empty be­hind me. I pushed my­self on, and when I saw a likely spot, I left the road.

  I found a sav­agely nasty thicket of brambles and forced my way into the heart of it. Shak­ing and ex­hausted, I crouched down on my heels in the thick of the spiny bushes and strained my ears for any sound of pur­suit. I took short sips from my wa­ter-skin, and tried to calm my­self. I had no time for this delay; I had to get back to Buck­keep; but I dared not emerge.

  It is still in­con­ceiv­able to me that I fell asleep there, but I did.

  I came awake gradu­ally. Groggy, I felt sure I was re­cov­er­ing from a severe in­jury or long ill­ness. My eyes were gummy, my mouth thick and sour. I forced my eye­lids open and looked around me in be­wil­der­ment. The light was ebbing, and an over­cast de­feated the moon.

  My ex­haus­tion had been such that I had leaned over into the thorn bushes and slept des­pite a mul­ti­tude of jab­bing prickles. I ex­tric­ated my­self with much dif­fi­culty, leav­ing bits of cloth, hair and skin be­hind. I emerged from my hid­ing-place as cau­tiously as any hunted an­imal, not only quest­ing as far as my sense would reach, but also snuff­ing the air and peer­ing all about me. I knew that my quest­ing would not re­veal to me any Forged ones, and hoped that if any were nearby, the forest an­im­als would have seen them and re­acted. But all was quiet.

  I cau­tiously emerged onto the road. It was wide and empty. I looked once at the sky, and then set out for Forge, stay­ing close to the edge of the road, where the shad­ows of the trees were thick­est. I tried to move both swiftly and si­lently, and did neither as well as I wanted. I had stopped think­ing of any­thing ex­cept vi­gil­ance and my need to get back to Buck­keep. Smithy’s life was the barest tendril in my mind. I think the only emo­tion still act­ive in me was the fear that kept me look­ing over my shoulder and scan­ning the woods to either side as I walked.

  It was full dark when I ar­rived on the hill­side over­look­ing Forge. For some time I stood look­ing down on it, seek­ing for any signs of life, then I forced my­self to walk on. The wind had come up, and fit­fully gran­ted me moon­light. It was a treach­er­ous boon, as much de­ceiver as re­vealer. It made shad­ows move at the corners of aban­doned houses, and cast sud­den re­flec­tions that glin­ted like knives from puddles in the street. But no one walked in Forge. The nor­mal in­hab­it­ants had aban­doned it not long after that fate­ful raid, and evid­ently the Forged ones had as well, once there were no more sources of food or com­fort there. The town had never really re­built it­self after the raid, and a long sea­son of winter storms and tides had nearly com­pleted what the Red Ships had be­gun. Only the har­bour looked al­most nor­mal, save for the empty slips. The sea-walls still curved out into the bay like pro­tect­ive hands cup­ping the docks. But there was noth­ing left to pro­tect.

  I threaded my way through the des­ol­a­tion that was Forge. My skin prickled as I crept past sag­ging doors on splintered frames in half-burnt build­ings. It was a re­lief to get away from the mouldy smell of the empty cot­tages and to stand on the wharves over­look­ing the wa­ter. The road went right down to the docks and curved along the cove. A shoulder of roughly-worked stone had once pro­tec­ted the road from the greedy sea, but a winter of tides and storms without the in­ter­ven­tion of man was break­ing it down. Stones were work­ing loose, and the sea’s drift­wood bat­ter­ing rams, aban­doned now by the tide, cluttered the beach be­low. Once carts of iron in­gots had been hauled down this road to wait­ing ves­sels. I walked along the sea-wall, and saw that what had ap­peared so per­man­ent from the hill above would with­stand per­haps one or two more winter sea­sons without main­ten­ance be­fore the sea re­claimed it.

  Over­head, stars shone in­ter­mit­tently through scud­ding clouds. The evas­ive moon cloaked and re­vealed her­self as well, oc­ca­sion­ally grant­ing me glimpses of the har­bour. The shush­ing of the waves was like the breath­ing of a drugged gi­ant. It was a night from a dream, and when I looked out over the wa­ter, the ghost of a Red Ship cut across the moon­path as it put into Forge har­bour. Her hull was long and sleek, her masts bare of can­vas as she came slip­ping into port. The red of her hull and prow was shiny as fresh-spilled blood, as if she cut through run­nels of gore in­stead of salt­water. In the dead town be­hind me, no one raised a shout of warn­ing.

  I stood like a fool, limned on the sea-wall, shiv­er­ing at the ap­par­i­tion, un­til the creak of oars and the sil­ver of drip­ping wa­ter off an oar’s edge made the Red Ship real.

  I flung my­self flat to the cause­way, then slithered off the smooth road sur­face into the boulders and drift­wood cluttered along the sea-wall. I could not breathe for ter­ror. All my blood was in my head, pound­ing, and no air was in my lungs. I had to set my head down between my arms and close my eyes to re­gain con­trol of my­self. By then the small sounds even a stealthy ves­sel must make came faint but dis­tinct across the wa­ter to me. A man cleared his throat, an oar rattled in its lock, some­thing heavy thud­ded to the deck. I waited for a shout or com­mand to be­tray that I had been seen. But there was noth­ing. I lif­ted my head cau­tiously, peer­ing through the whitened roots of a drift­wood log. All was still save the ship com­ing closer and closer as the row­ers brought her into har­bour. Her oars rose and fell in near-si­lent uni­son.