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been taken from us. But my aunt will tell you more about that.’
    ‘How do you control them?’ asked Wydrin. She was watching as a huge, strangely lithe-looking werken pounded down the street opposite, a woman dressed in furs riding between its shoulders. It was as sleek as a cat. ‘I mean, how do they know what you want them to do?’
    ‘Werken riders are all joined.’ Bors took off his glove and turned his palm to face her. In the middle there was a chip of green stone about the size of a penny sunken directly into his flesh. ‘There is a corresponding piece of the Heart-Stone in my own werken.’ Catching her look, he grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. Not too much, anyway.’
    ‘Do we have much further to travel?’ Frith broke in. ‘Our time is limited.’
    ‘And expensive,’ added Wydrin.
    ‘Not at all. We are here, in fact. Welcome to the Tower of Waking.’
    The Tower of Waking, as Bors called it, rose from the centre of Skaldshollow like a giant splintered bone. It was clearly a part of the mountain they’d left intact, building their homes and streets around it, and what was left was a flinty, sharp-edged protrusion of grey and black rock. It was shaped a little like an arrow head, and here and there narrow windows like scars flickered with guttering flames. Two werkens stood by the entrance, strange winnowed creatures with long, jagged heads and what appeared to be huge iron swords by their sides. Two human guards stood next to them, nodding briefly to Bors as they passed.
    Inside they were immediately met by a great sweeping staircase that led up to a cavernous hall. Shadowy chambers branched off to all sides, lit with smoking oil lamps. Frith found himself looking everywhere at once, very aware that numerous werkens could be hiding in this dark, stony place. On his shoulder Gwiddion squawked quietly into his ear.
    ‘Quite a place you have here,’ said Wydrin, and her voice sounded strange and small in the huge space. In the middle of the hall the floor rose up to form a great empty plinth, and in front of it stood a woman with red-brown skin and long black hair loose over her shoulders. She wore a mixture of leather and furs, a red-beaded necklace at her throat, and she watched them carefully as they approached. Her mouth was a thin slash below her nose and the corners turned down just before she greeted them.
    ‘Thank you, Bors,’ she said. Her voice was low and clipped at the edges. ‘You may go.’
    Bors didn’t move immediately. He was looking around at the chambers above them. ‘Is my sister here?’
    ‘Nuava is assisting me.’ As if answering a summons, a young woman appeared from one of the shadowy tunnels to their left. She shared the same warm skin as her brother and aunt, but her hair was a mass of unruly dark curls, tamed beneath a pale blue scarf. She had an armful of heavy books and she eyed the newcomers warily.
    ‘She is shut up in here with you all the time,’ said Bors. He shifted from foot to foot, as though he wasn’t as sure of himself as his words suggested. ‘It’s not healthy. I want her to come out with me, just for a few hours. The snows are clearing and . . .’
    ‘Nuava is
assisting
me,’ repeated Tamlyn Nox.
    ‘Nuava is becoming you, you mean,’ Bors took a step forward, not looking at his sister. ‘Teaching her your witch-ways, keeping her in the dark until—’
    ‘I’m sorry, but can you have your family disagreements another time?’ said Frith. His voice rang out in the empty hall. ‘I believe you have a job for us?’
    Tamlyn Nox shot Bors a look and the young man retreated, walking back down the steps without a single glance back. Nuava put the heavy books she was carrying down onto the plinth, the tops of her cheeks flushed faintly pink.
    ‘Indeed.’ Tamlyn nodded to them. ‘Lord Frith, your companions. I wish to employ you to retrieve an item that was stolen from us.’
    ‘That sounds straightforward enough,’ said Wydrin. She