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noticed if I’d had any ill intent towards you.’
    Bahl paused, about to speak, then shrugged and returned to more important matters. ‘The boy refused? How is that possible?’
    ‘With this one there’ll be no simple answers. The boy’s trouble, but now he is your trouble. Take care, my Lord. The Land has not been so dangerous a place since the Great War.’
    Isak stumbled on down the street, stubbing his toe on the cobbles, but there was no chance of a rest. He’d been drifting off to sleep in the warmth of the stables, soothed by the comfortable sighing of horses, when the door had burst open and his father appeared, his face contorted into a mask of terror and rage.
    ‘You’ve done it now,’ Herman screamed, ‘and you’ll get what’s coming to you, white-eye bastard! Soon I’ll be rid of all your trouble at last. You’re going to the palace, and I hope you rot there!’
    Before Isak had been able to say a word, a mob of drunken men had set upon him with drink-fuelled passion, and with so many of them, there had been no chance of fighting back. Instead, Isak took a deep breath and forced his way out through them, then took to his heels and ran, not caring where he was headed. The cobbles were painful against his bare feet so he turned into the nearest alley and hopped the fence at the end, picking a direction at random. His mind was racing: what had he done now? There had been real intent in the punches he’d received; they were going to kill him if they caught him. Isak had to escape - or find a patrol - so he headed for where most of the towers were situated, where the rich folk must live. There’d be guards there, surely. Soon he found himself on the long avenue leading up to the palace. The moons escaped the clouds for a moment and shone down on to the smooth walls and the Tower of Semar, which loomed out from behind them. They lit a path for Isak to follow, but instead he just stood and gaped at the sight; he was still standing there when the leaders of the pack caught up.
    Before Isak had fully grasped what was happening a fist flew into his stomach and drove the wind from him. As he doubled over, that blow was followed by a knee to the groin. Thin hands gripped his shoulders, and Isak saw a man’s rat-like features for a split second before they smashed into his face, then he crashed to the ground. A hot sharp burst flowered in his side as he was kicked and spun on to his back. Now the rest of the gang had caught them up, but they silently kept their distance from the fight.
    As Isak blinked back the pain he saw the drizzling rain glint in the moonlight as it fell around him. With an effort, he forced himself to his knees, his eyes fixed on the hatred blazing out of the face of the man who’d hit him. The man drew a knife from his belt, ignoring a cry behind him, and as Isak struggled to stand, his attacker lunged forward, a hungry smile on his lips.
    Isak heard someone - Carel, maybe? - shout out a warning, but his eyes were fixed on his attacker. He managed to bring his left hand up, grasping the hilt and stopping the dagger from sinking into his throat. Pain screamed up his arm and into his shoulder as the edge sliced his palm, but he kept his grip for long enough to be able to grab at the man’s wrist with his other hand, then pulled his stunned assailant close and buried his teeth into the man’s hand.
    The assailant screamed and dropped the knife, which clattered on to the cobbles and was immediately forgotten. He swung desperately at Isak, who released his bite, gave the man a bloody grin and threw him against the wall of a house behind him. The man was reaching for another weapon, but this time it didn’t matter: Isak held back his blow until the man had just got a finger round the hilt of the second blade, and then he lashed forward with both palms to smash into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch. As the man twitched and went limp, the only sound was Isak’s breathing, ragged