16

Sorrows and pleasures of life vanish in time

Leaving behind only the good name one has gained

(Yunus Emre, 14thC)

The fire was still glowing red embers when she was roused by the first Call to Prayer of the new day. Rémi materialised beside her, balancing a bowl of hot broth, steam rising from it into frosty air and mingling with her own ghost breath. He offered the bowl to her and she took it gratefully, shamed into realising that she was the only sluggard still rolled in blankets that were white and cracking with frost. Rémi shrugged and smiled and signed. ‘No sleep,’ she recognised. ‘Dai says let you sleep now.’ She wondered how he had known, if he had been as wakeful. She was comforted by his care for her. Yes, a kind man, as Blue said, despite those sharp words spoken to her alone. All shall be well and all shall be well. Nene’s voice was close in her ear. Her heart lightened. All shall be well.

The earth, hardened by the hot summer, was sharpened by the first frost of winter but the way became marshy the closer they came to the great lake, and there was the sound of water running in stream beds. At times the animals squelched through mud, churning the surface of the road. They passed villages remade from more ancient villages, half-hidden amongst the undulating hills, and orchards where a few late apples were still hanging from almost leafless trees, and those leaves were already bronzed and yellowed by autumn and swirled along the road in front of them. Sometimes, the land dropped into forested ravines. Beyond the gentle hills, the mountains rose dream-like. The sun travelled before them, sinking lower and lower, flooding the sky red and orange and pink and staining the mountaintops.

‘Not much further,’ Thomas said. He had been riding alongside her for most of the afternoon but in a silence to match her own. ‘See? Where the sun is reflecting on the water?’ He pointed to a shining line away on his right. ‘That is the lake and Suleymanşehir is on its shores. Wait until we come to the top of the last pass then you will see.’

Then there it was, a vast stretch of water high in this highest of plains ringed by mountains and the sun drowning itself in a glory of rippling, dazzling, crimson splendour. They came down to the lake level along a good stretch of old road, repaired and made new and leading to the walls and the main gateway. There was the tail end of a caravan moving through; then only their own. The road led into a broad street busy with the traffic of horses and camels and mules and oxen and carts. In the middle of the street, a welcome sight, a tall fountain trickled water from ledge to ledge to fall into a deep curved bowl at its base. The street was bordered by buildings, many two rooms high and, at the furthest end of the street, the imposing bedestan, domed, four-square, its deep recessed arches marching around it; next to it, the cami and hamam and stabling and lodgings, all of them shining still with newness because, said Sakoura, they were not yet forty years old. It was called Viranşehir – the desolate city – until the town was new built and the trade route brought prosperity. Then it became Suleymanşehir but some were now calling it Beyşehir. Inside that flat-roofed mosque, he said, was a forest of cedar pillars and, marvellous sight, under a star-patterned grille high in the roof, was a pool dug deep into the ground, stone-lined and filled with water so that the stars in the sky above danced on the surface of the water below. The wise ones, the men who studied the heavens, came here to observe and read the stars. There was talk, said Sakoura, of building a medrese, a teaching school, next to the cami like the ones in Konya. Like the ones in his own city. That would be a fine thing for this town. Learning was a great and wonderful thing, and books were the only way to true knowledge. In his city there were many books. ‘Purity of writing is purity of the soul,’ he said. ‘It is putting God on paper and the heart can only be happy with the mention of God.’ He breathed deeply. ‘Mountain air made even fresher by the lake,’ he said. ‘This is a wonderful place. Some day, I would like to leave Attaleia’s heat and dirt and noise and come here to listen to the men of learning, though my wife likes the busyness of the city and the chatter of her women friends.’ He had a way of speaking that was calm and measured with many pauses to make sure he had been understood. His Turkish was good enough, he said, but his Arabic was better though it was not his own true language.

‘It’s a good plaäce right enough,’ said Blue, ‘but all the saäme A’d like to be back hoäme in the flat lands, even if we doän’t have nowt like this fer comfort.’

Back home, thought Dai, that poverty stricken little country where the mountains were not so high and the lakes were not so vast but the air was as sweet and the rivers of home wound down to the shining sea and around him was the old language of his childhood. Hiraeth, he thought, stabs as painful as a dagger wound.

The stables and lodgings were beyond the bedestan and closer to the lake-shore. Here the bustle was at its height; here, the caravans were being unloaded and goods taken to safe storage in the bedestan. Small boys, dark haired and dark eyed, scampered between the tall legs of the camels and missed by inches the kick of tired mules, and begged coins in return for small services. ‘You want fresh good water to drink?’ ‘You want me carry your bundles?’

Long, narrow, high-prowed fishing-boats were moored, side by side, by wooden jetties that were precariously balanced on stakes driven into the river bed. Fishermen were readying themselves for the night’s work on the bobbing boats, fixing nets and spears and torches. Reeds clustered thickly, and thickets of stunted trees grew out of the lake itself. A rising chill wind blew down from the mountains through the reeds and leaves and ruffled the lake so that small waves lap-lapped the shoreline. Overhead, a flock of long-necked birds was silhouetted in arrow-shape across the darkening sky. The long line of mountains wrapped themselves around lake and town and over all was the glint and glimmer of fading red sunset. Yes, a good place to live quietly enough, though it was on the busy trade route. So very different from the summer pasture, she thought, it could have been another world. So far from home and the measured life of the yürük that was lost to her now. She felt she was drifting, like twigs blown on to the lake and tossed up and down on the waves.

‘It looks deep,’ Dai said suddenly, startling her because she had not supposed he was so close to her, ‘but it isn’t. There was a grand palace round the far shore with shipyards and mansions and mosques and gardens and a causeway across the lake that led to another palace. Much of it is ruined now. The palace in the lake is still lived in but the splendour has gone.’

‘How do you know?’

He grinned suddenly, still gazing out over the lake. ‘I was a guest some years back. Well, the guest of a guest. I was interpreter for a man from Tangiers, a traveller, and he wangled himself an invitation – more than that, he got the Sultan to cough up provisions and horses and an armed escort as far as Ladhiq.’

‘Armed escort?’

‘Bandit country,’ he said briefly.

She was silent, wondering about his life; so adventurous, while hers had been set in the routine of summer and winter dwellings, and the travelling between them, and the little activities of every day. No wonder he had been so angered by her foolish boasting and posturing.

‘What’s troubling you?’ he asked. He knew his voice was abrupt. ‘Is it that you’re tired? I know you didn’t sleep – I wasn’t for sleeping much myself, last night. Or is it you were thinking of your grandmother?’

His perception shouldn’t have surprised her. Besides, there was a growing habit of honesty between them.

‘Partly that. She seemed very far away last night.’

‘And?’

He sounded impatient and behind them Blue’s voice bellowed something unintelligible. This was no time to be standing idly by the lakeside, however beautiful. No time to tell him how she hated this deception the more she was accepted, the more these men revealed truths about themselves. No, this was not the time.

‘It was nothing. Nothing of importance.’

‘It was enough to keep you awake most of the night.’

‘I’ll sleep all the better tonight.’

A growing honesty; that was all.

He nodded. ‘Come then – best get you sorted for the night.’

‘Rembled,’ she murmured absently, and saw the corners of his mouth lift.

‘It’s good Welsh you should be learning, not that heathen tongue of our blue man.’ Blue’s shout came again, more urgently. ‘Seems it’s me he’s wanting, now, isn’t it?’ He turned. ‘What now?’ It was Edgar who reached him first.

‘Amir’s cousin is here. He recognised Sakoura and came looking for Amir and Rashid.’

‘I’ll come.’

There were the courtesies to be got through first; then the lamentations for ill fortune that threatened to go on and on. Amir would have stamped on it, Dai thought, and subdued a smirk. This cousin was genuine in his concern, no matter how wordy he was. As bad as that cousin-in-marriage at the han, and as afflicted. That was the word he used.

‘How I wish we could welcome you as our guests, Dai-bey,’ he was saying, ‘but our house is afflicted. My wife is suffering, and her women. The physician is puzzled by their fever and sickness. They are, indeed, very ill.’ He was all but wringing his hands, twisting the ornate rings that bedecked every finger. His robes and turban were of fine woven cloth: a prosperous cousin of a cousin.

‘I am sorry for your troubles. Do not concern yourself with us. We’ll do well enough with lodgings and stabling here.’ The last thing they wanted, Dai thought, was sickness that might lay them all low.

‘But Sakoura says I am to give you a guide to take you to Attaleia.’

‘It was a thought only. We’ll do very well with Sakoura. He’s done well by us these last two days and he knows the road through the mountains as well as any man. That right, Sakoura?’

‘I have travelled the route many times before.’

‘You must stay with your household. I hope your wife and her women will soon be recovered. God’s blessing on them.’

‘And may God’s blessing be on us as well,’ Twm muttered in his ear. ‘Let’s hope it’s nothing catching.’

‘Probably some food or drink the women have taken. What’s left to do?’

‘Nothing. All’s well. Sakoura knows the best lodgings and the best places to eat. He’s well known hereabouts. Just as well – the place is heaving. Best if we take our turn in the hamam while we can. Lucky they built it double – no waiting around for the women to prink and preen. Now what are you looking after?’

‘Where did the boy go?’

‘I don’t know – back to the others, like as not.’ Twm frowned, his dark brows drawn together, the skin furrowing between them. ‘I’ve never known you coddle anyone as you do this boy. Not even Rémi who used to be your favourite.’ There was no response to the pricking words. ‘What’s to do, Dafydd? Something you should share?’

Dai shrugged. ‘Too green behind the ears, isn’t it now, for the boy to be loose in this place.’

‘Too many opportunities for mischief, you mean.’

Dai sighed. ‘Maybe so.’

It was clear he would say no more. Clear, too, that there was much to say.

The chestnut mare recognised Kazan straightaway. One of the stable hands was pulling at her halter, urging her towards a stall but the mare was jibbing. She whickered and tossed her head, yanking the man’s arm so that he swore and cursed all animals and this one in particular. And its owner. Especially its owner. The man tugged hard on the leading rein. He was tired. It had been a busy afternoon and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with fractious animals. Humans were bad enough, and the human who owned this mare was more beast than man. Kazan pushed her way through the crowded yard.

‘That’s a fine chestnut mare.’ She put out a hand to stroke the blaze on the mare’s nose, patted the shoulder nearest to her, felt the coat to be rough and dry. ‘Not looked after as she should be. Who does she belong to?’

‘Rich, fat man. Arrived this afternoon. Big caravan. Job finding room for them all.’ He was sullen, reluctant to talk. He watched the mare’s ears prick, saw her stop rolling her eyes till the white showed. She blew lovingly down the stranger’s tunic. His voice was less curt. ‘You’ve a way with horses, boy. Help me get this one into the stables.’ They walked the horse together into the dimness of the long building. It was already crowded with packhorses and mules and camels and riding horses and the smell and sound of them clogged the air. She pitied the chestnut mare, used only to the open air and starry skies. Well, that she would have back again. She would not stay with fat Vecdet to be sold to the highest bidder.

‘He’s a cargo of slaves,’ the man told her. ‘I pity the poor devils these cold nights, and the ones to guard them. He’ll lie in comfort but they’ll have to camp out in the marsh meadows down by the lake.’ He watched her again; she had taken a handful of hay and was smoothing down the mare’s flanks. ‘If you’re interested in buying, you’ll have a hard job to beat him down. I know him from past times. He’s a hard man.’ He looked past her, over her head. ‘Here’s that man of his. Great brute. Wouldn’t want to get the wrong side of him.’

Her head came up sharply. Yes, it was him, the big man with the nose hooked like a falcon’s but flattened, broken, and the great seamed scar from eye to jaw. A man hard as hardest rock.

‘Neither would I,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll leave you now.’ She gave the mare a last caress. The stabler jeered at her cowardice but then he sobered, caught at her arm. ‘Listen, boy. Take my advice. Don’t tangle with this fat bastard. He’s a bad man. Not on your own here, are you?’

‘No, I’m not alone.’

‘Best not be. He’s not choosy who he takes as slave. It’s bastards like that one that make us glad when winter comes and there’s no caravans travelling.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Take my advice, stay close to your people.’ He gave her a push. ‘Go now, before that one gets here.’

She hurried out of the crowded stables into the crowded courtyard. Where was he? She was too small to see over the heads of the crowd. There was Blue, head and shoulders above the rest. Edgar’s gold curls. She pushed her way towards them. And then there he was, walking with the handsome dark man, with Thomas, who had ridden by her side all afternoon though he had said barely a word. A troubled man. Not at all the hero she had thought him to be but a winsome man for all that.

Dai turned sharply as he felt the hand tugging at his sleeve. Pickpockets were rife in towns like this. He looked at her strained white face and eyes that were huge and dark.

‘What’s to do?’

‘He’s here,’ she breathed. ‘I’ve seen my chestnut mare and the man they call Big Aziz, with the scarred face.’

‘Have you now?’

‘The slaves are camped down by the lake.’

‘What’s this, Dafydd?’

‘Vecdet is here. Kazan has a score to settle.’

‘And you’re just the man to help? Dafydd, the man’s a brute and well protected.’

‘Even well protected brutes can be cornered.’

Twm looked down at Kazan’s white face. He sighed. ‘So what score is it, boy?’

‘He has my chestnut mare and my satchel with my belongings and my good curved bow and quiver. He wanted to make me his slave.’

Twm raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Indeed. You knew this, Dafydd?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you escaped, boy?’

‘With the help of one of his slaves, a boy called Niko, and I have sworn to rescue him and his sister.’

‘Dafydd, you knew this?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should have told me.’

‘It was not for me to be telling.’

Twm sighed. ‘But you were planning to help Kazan here rescue his friends. You and your conscience, Dafydd!’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t tell me – your grandfather was just the same.’

Dai rubbed his nose. He grinned. ‘Well now, funny you should say that…’

‘Isn’t it? Was this rescue to be with or without our help?’

‘With your help I was hoping it might be.’

The girl listened to them in alarm. She didn’t want to be the cause of any rift between them and Thomas sounded furious. Small wonder, when Dai was so aggravatingly calm and non-committal and his voice had fallen into that sing-song that she knew now was the rhythm of his own language. She looked from one to the other, relieved when she saw Giles sauntering towards them. His quick glance took in the two men and the white-faced boy. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

‘Problem?’ he said.

‘No problem. Not what this one would call a problem, anyway. We’re just going to liberate a horse and a couple of slaves from our friend Vecdet. That’s all.’

‘And a good curved bow and quiver and a satchel and warm ferace. That’s what you said, isn’t it, Kazan?’

She nodded, speechless. Giles considered, shrugged. ‘There’s nothing else to do tonight except sit around a fire and drink. Unless you’ve a story for us, Dai?’

‘We could plan a rescue.’

‘That too, Thomas.’

‘You’re as mad as he is.’

Giles considered. ‘Not quite as mad.’

‘My own man traduced by this Welsh bandit. Let’s hope he has a plan that will work. I’ve no wish to be netted and gutted like the fish in this lake.’

Dai laughed outright. ‘You’re a good man in a hard place, Twm. It’s not fighting I had in mind. It’s a hard business man we’re dealing with. A man without a conscience. How do you feel about bartering for a couple of slaves?’

‘I suppose it has to be me? It’s against your principles, isn’t it?’

‘You know it is. Besides, the man knows me and what I think about slavery.’

‘So I’m to be the one to haggle.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. Bath first and discuss this over supper. Nobody is going anywhere tonight. This has to be thought through if we’re not all to be food for the lake fish. Kazan, I begin to regret your company.’

‘Take no notice, Kazan. He’s as wild for this as Giles here.’

‘But I don’t want… You must not…’

‘Listen to the boy, Twm, stuttering and stammering. Put him out of his misery, for the sake of Dewi Sant.’

Thomas’ gaze fell on the boy’s unhappy face. ‘Be sure, Kazan, we have no love for Vecdet. We’ll all be happy to do him down. If we can help you as well, so much the better. And it’s clear it would please Dafydd here. Now, come on, time we were moving. We’ve a busy night ahead.’

It was like the first night over again; the asking, the granting, the careful taking of her into the female section of the baths, except that the women attendants here did not want to know her story; they were modest women who had seen too many strange and scandalous happenings when the caravans came in. There were few women bathers tonight and those were mostly one party travelling with husbands and fathers and absorbed in their own, safe lives; the stay-at-homes, the women of Süleymanşehir, had already visited the hamam, avoiding the busy hours when the caravans arrived. But she was scrubbed and oiled and clean when she sat down to supper, and back in her own new-clean, indigo-dyed kaftan and gömlek and Şalvar.

‘A little blue brother agaän,’ Blue greeted her. ‘Fish night and it’s not Friday, Fustilugs.’

She looked at the great fish on the platter, all bony scales and fins and sharp toothy heads and whiskers. ‘What is this?’

‘Lake fish. It’s carp. Seems the lake is boiling with them. They jump out of the water and into the boats, they’re so keen to be eaten.’ Edgar was full of energy and foolish humour. ‘Try it – it’s good though there’s not much flesh on it.’

That was true. More bones than meat. True, as well, that it was good. She wondered what Niko was eating, down there on the bitter-cold marshy lakeside.

It was an evening of talk and plans, everyone keen to contribute, everyone indignant when they heard the story of her capture and escape.

‘You make a habit of escaping,’ Giles joked. ‘The bandits – and now you tell us from Vecdet himself.’

‘Yer did all that all aloöne by yersen?’

‘I was not alone – well, not all the time. There was Niko. And there was the good father of Mehmi.’

‘Eh, young Fustilugs, weren’t yer frit?’

Frightened? She stopped. She had intended denying her fear; would her friend Kazan have admitted to fear? Surely not. No boy or man admitted to fear. But there was such a constriction in her throat it was difficult to utter any words, let alone careless bravado. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I was frightened.’

‘So would we all have been, Kazan,’ said Thomas. ‘You are a brave boy.’

‘Kazan the not-so-fearless-warrior,’ murmured Mehmi but his voice was comforting, not mocking.

‘But why did you leave your tribe?’ Edgar innocently questioned. She drew a breath. Now was the time to confess but she thought again what they would think if they knew she was an imposter. Impossible, now, to say who she was, to expose how she was betraying their trust, but the lie lay heavy on her, a wearisome burden, even though a part of her whispered how reluctant she was to give up the freedom of this boy’s guise; freedom and friendship with these men, and their admiration. But at least she could tell part of the truth, ease her conscience that way.

‘I promised to find my grandfather who I never knew. He came from your country, Edgar, and yours, blue man, but when he was a young boy he went to your country, Dai. That is how I know of your country. He was a great storyteller who travelled the world searching for his lost brother. His name was Will. Will-the-Wordmaker.’

She was not prepared for their reaction.

‘A’ve heard of him, A have, though not nivver fer many a year. Will-the-Wordmaker. Well, A nivver did.’

‘He came to Swineshead Abbey in his old age. The Crowland monks spoke of him.’

‘You speak as if he is dead.’

‘As far as I know, he’s alive and well though he’ll be an old, old man by now.’ Edgar’s face was alight with what he knew. ‘He made quite a stir when he told the monks that the last, true Princess of Wales was made a nun in Sempringham Abbey. That’s not so far from Crowland. It’s one of Saint Gilbert’s abbeys. Our monks were full of it but no one ever knew for certain if there was truth in it, or if it was just another of his stories.’ He turned to the Welshman. ‘Did you ever hear of that, Dai?’

‘No. Not a whisper. Taid – my grandfather – only said that Gwenllian, the infant daughter of our last prince, Llewelyn, was taken when she was a babe, no one knew where. There was talk of a nunnery but never a place. His brother Dafydd’s sons and daughters were spirited away from our country at the same time. There was word the boys were kept close prisoner in Bristol castle, poor devils. Y Groes Nawdd, too, a splinter of the true cross, our most holy relic. Edward Longshanks took that from us as well.’ His dark eyes darkened to blackness, remembering. ‘But this storyteller, this Will, Taid spoke of him often. Taid rescued him from drowning – pulled him out of the Mawddach Falls when this Will was but a dwt and my taid a young man himself.’

‘You all know of my grandfather? But this I cannot believe! It is impossible!’

‘It is God’s will,’ Edgar-the-altar-boy said solemnly.

‘There was a brother, as Kazan says. A music maker he was, as great as any of the Welsh bards though he was English born.’ Dai paused. ‘No – he was half Welsh, that was it. He couldn’t speak but he could make music out of the air itself, Taid said. He was taught by Ieuan ap y Gof, one of our greatest bards, Mehmi.’

Mehmi smiled. ‘I think…I truly believe…I remember my father speaking of this wonderful music maker. And a companion, I think, a small man with a wizened hand who used to be a music maker himself.’

‘That’s him. That’s Ieuan ap y Gof. His hand was ruined in the first Welsh War. How does your father know of them?’

‘They were in Konya. He saw them in Konya.’

‘My grandfather heard of this but when he arrived in Konya it was too late; his brother and your music man had already left.’

They were silent, barely able to comprehend the forces moving about them, nor the time shifts, the much-longed-for meetings missed by a breath. And now this, their own meeting, and all with their own tales to tell of Will-the-Wordmaker.

‘That yer grandad then, Fustilugs? The storyteller?’

Her eyes shone golden in the firelight. Her hair glinted gold-copper-bronze. Is this what is meant by alchemy? thought Dai. Here is mortal flesh, the base metal, turned to the pure gold of this girl’s soul. ‘That is my grandfather,’ she said.

‘No wonder you want to suck our stories out of our souls, boy,’ Thomas said. ‘It is in your blood.’

‘We all love to hear stories. That is what he said, my grandfather. It makes children of us all, he said, and we forget to fight, and that is truth. Sharing tales and laughter is what makes peace amongst us.’

‘He’s right an’ all, Fustilugs. A’ve not nivver met a man yet as doesn’t love a good taäle.’

‘And your story, and Edgar’s, see how we loved listening to your stories,’ she said eagerly. ‘See how we shared in your adventures and your misfortunes.’

‘And you are going to England to find him?’ Twm persisted.

‘That is what I have vowed to do. And now you have told me where to find him, in this abbey you speak of.’

‘But yer’ve nivver not known him, Fustilugs. How’s he going to know it’s yow?’

‘I have this token.’ She scrabbled under her tunic and pulled out the tiny jade axe swinging from its leather thong.

Giles leant forward. ‘I’ve seen these. They’re from the far countries, far away in the east. They say the sun sleeps in that land until it’s ready to rise the next day.’

‘Do they say so?’ Twm murmured, his one brow raised in disbelief.

‘I only say what I’ve heard.’

‘A’ve heärd as theer’s men theer as has one greät foot as they uses fer a sunshaäde and there’s others as ’ave long bird beäks and legs ’as end in claäws, just like a bird. A’ve heärd that.’

‘I’ve seen none of this and I’ve travelled far enough.’

‘I’ve heard there was a man who vanished into the Far Lands and he was not heard of or seen until many, many years had passed. When he returned to his family, they did not recognise him. And the tales he told! He was mazed… So I’ve heard,’ said Edgar.

‘I think it is the Venetian you mean – his name was Marco Polo,’ said Dai. ‘And his tales were true, though he said nothing of big-footed men nor bird-headed men. Heinrijc Mertens knew of him. This is a well-crafted piece of jade, Kazan.’

‘They say this stone protects those who wear it,’ she said. She slanted a mischievous glance at Twm. ‘So I have heard.’

‘Do they say so?’ Twm said again, but he was smiling. ‘Tell us more about your grandfather.’

‘But I want to hear about him from you, Edgar, and you, blue man and you, Dai the Welshman, whose grandfather rescued mine from drowning in this river with the strange name.’

‘Waterfall. It was the Mawddach waterfall.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve no gift for telling tales, Kazan. My Welsh tongue is tied if I try.’

She was disappointed. ‘But you could tell me why he was there, in your country.’

‘That I can do. He and his brother had come with Edward’s army – that’s the first Edward – to build his new-fashioned castles, but they ran away and made their way to Cymer Abbey, where the rivers meet and flow down to the sea. That is my bro – where I come from. They were looking for Ieuan ap y Gof, who had been Ned’s music teacher.

‘Ned?’

‘That was the brother’s name.’

‘The brother who could not speak but who made beautiful music. I know.’

‘They slipped and fell – it was winter and icy and only boys they were; hungry and weary boys. My grandfather and his friends were nearby, pulled them out, put them on a cart and took them to the monks at the abbey.’

‘And there Ieuan ap y Gof was waiting for them.’

‘You already know this story, is it?’

She shook her head. ‘Only that they went to Wales and that was where they parted from each other. The brother stayed with the music man and my grandfather went back home to his mother and sisters and always regretted the choice he had made. He said he…’ she frowned, trying to remember the strange words, ‘he made the wrong choice and shut out the saint. And some years after there was a great flood in his country and all his family was drowned and he had nobody so he set out to find his brother. But he never did. It is a sad story.’

‘It is sad that he has never seen his grandson,’ said Edgar.

‘But he was a storyteller,’ said Blue. ‘Everybody knew him and his stories. He maäde foölk laugh and cry with his stories. Like yer says, Fustilugs, everybody loves stories and they forget to fight when theer’re listening. That’s not sad. That’s a miracle, that is.’

Mehmi smiled to himself at the big man’s words; they would cheer him when he remembered his father’s face at their parting and inspire him to sing and play as well as he could so that he would win for himself a reputation like this Will-the-Wordmaker.

She couldn’t sleep. She was again by Dai’s side, but this time she had seen Twm’s raised eyebrows and knew what it signified. Secrets, she thought, were very difficult to live with. But when they were shared, what marvels happened. Like this of her grandfather. ‘Nene,’ she whispered, ‘if only you had known about this brown man and his grandfather who saved mine.’ She raised herself up on her elbow. She knew he wasn’t asleep though he was lying very still with one arm behind his head. ‘What else do you remember?’ she asked.

‘Nothing now. Later. Go to sleep, Kazan.’

‘But…’

‘Go to sleep. Tomorrow we must rescue your Niko, remember?’

No, she thought, I didn’t remember. Here am I, warm and safe, and I had forgotten him because of the stories of my grandfather. She huddled into her guilt and was quiet but there was no chance of sleep or slumber.