The hasty purposefulness of such passers-by increased Antyr's feeling of isolation rather than eased it and his thoughts darkened again.

All of us fleeing, he thought. But from what? He gave himself no answer.

Eventually, he reached a street that ran alongside the high wall which surrounded the city. He looked up and saw its rough lichened stones disappearing damply into the torchlit canopy of fog. Built to keep out the city's enemies, the wall seemed to him now to be more like that of a prison; herding together the people like rats in an overcrowded lair.

Too much ale, he thought again, to excuse the gloomy vision, though licking his lips he found them damp and greasy from the fog, and the acrid taste of soot on his tongue effortlessly displaced that left by his evening's drinking. He spat.

'Ho there!'

The voice made him start and he groped awkwardly for his club. As it tangled incongruously in his belt and cloak, firefly lights appeared, floating some way ahead of him. They were followed by the muffled clatter of arms and before Antyr could decide what to do, a dark shadow formed beneath the lights. As he watched, it shifted and then broke into a group of individuals. One of them strode forward, holding a torch high. It was an old man, though he carried himself straight and tall.

'Oh, it's you, Antyr,’ he said, peering forward earnestly. ‘I might have known you'd be the only one around here wandering the streets on a night like this.'

There was a familiar reproach in the voice that irritated Antyr, but his relief at finding that he had been stopped by the local Watch, and not by the Liktors or some more sinister group, took the edge off his reply. Besides, under the older man's gaze, he could not argue against the truth.