Frequently we slowed to a virtual stop to negotiate the wagon through streets so narrow that we scraped against houses and shops on both sides. Most of them were white plaster and timber-framed ruins that tier fractionally outwards like inverted pyramids. The thatched roofs on either side of the street almost meet in the middle, but at ground level you can drive a wagon through. Just. I lost count of the number of times the street was blocked by some imbecile taking his geese or chickens to market. It took us three-quarters of an hour to cover about a mile and a half, a good ten minutes of which was spent arguing with the red-faced driver of the hay cart that was coming from the opposite direction.

I was not used to handling weapons (other than wholly ineffectual stage swords, of course, and since I had played almost nothing but girls, I didn’t get to handle those much either), and the feel of the crossbow in my hands, though it was little more than a toy, excited me. As we passed the hay carter, I let him glimpse it and he stopped throwing insults at us. Orgos noticed and frowned at me.

“Sorry,” I said. “I wouldn’t have used it.”

“You got that right,” he remarked warningly. “And use your accent.”

“What? Why? There’s no one around.”

“Get used to it now,” he insisted, still using the nasal, singsong tones himself, “and you’ll be more comfortable should it become essential.”

“I’m shy,” I answered with a coy smile that was supposed to amuse him and make him sympathetic. It didn’t.

He leaned his face close to me and his black eyes fastened on to mine as he whispered, “This is not a game, boy, and there is more than just your scrawny neck on the chopping block. I am not requesting that you practice that accent, I am telling you to. Else get off my wagon.”