‘It’s possible.’ But she doubted it even as she spoke.

‘ But she fell backward. That’s what we were told – that’s how she got her skull stove in. You can see the wound, at the back of the head. So how, then, was the plate on her chest punctured?’

‘Come on, uncle. You never ask a question if you don’t already know the answer.’

He lifted his cloak back over his shoulder, revealing a mittened hand holding a bronze knife, and he began sawing at the net strands over Kuma’s torso. ‘Actually I don’t know the answer – not for sure. But I have a theory.’

He quickly cut enough strands to be able to peel back the netting, itself sticky, from Kuma’s chest. Then he reached under the breastplate to cut into its leather ties. Carefully, respectfully, he lifted the plate off Kuma’s body. It came away with a sucking sound, to reveal a grimy linen tunic. He slit through the rotting cloth and peeled that back to reveal Kuma’s chest, scraps of flesh and fat and muscle over ribs that gleamed white. Flies buzzed into the air, and there was a fresh stench, sharp and rotten.

Teel pulled off his deerskin mittens and handed them to Milaqa. ‘Hold these for me. This is going to be messy.’

And he dug his fingers into Kuma’s chest, in the gap between the racks of her ribs. Bone cracked. He pushed and probed, spreading his fingers into the soft mass beneath. He was looking for something. His expression was grim; Milaqa knew he had his squeamish side. Then his hand closed. He looked at Milaqa. He withdrew his hand, and held out his fist; black fluid and bits of flesh clung to his skin. He opened his hand to reveal a small object, flat, three-sided, evidently heavy and sharp, coated in ichor. He rubbed it on his cloak, and held the object up to his eye.

‘It’s an arrowhead,’ Milaqa said slowly.

He nodded. ‘ Somebody shot your mother – right in the heart. That’s how she died. The head injury surely happened as she fell from her horse, or was maybe faked later.’