‘We’re not going to steal anything,’ said Pummel, two hours later. ‘Just because we need food and clothes doesn’t mean it’s all right to take someone else’s.’

They were gathered in a deserted house halfway along the street where the Grandfather Wind had dropped them. A piplum tree grew through the floor and up through the roof, the plaster walls were cracked, and every corner was festooned with spider webs and dust.

Pummel still felt dizzy from their landing. And the curse, which he hadn’t even noticed last time he was in Berren, made his head ache. But he wasn’t going to give in about the stealing.

Lord Rump shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Then our mission will fail before it is begun, dear boy. Unless you have some coins tucked about your person? I certainly have none. And if we cannot buy what we need, it is only sensible to take it.’

Pummel glanced at Duckling, who said, ‘Grandpa’s right, we can’t buy anything, not without coin. If we want food and clothes we’ll have to steal them.’

‘Exactly what I was say—’ began Lord Rump.

‘But we could leave a promise,’ continued Duckling. ‘A written promise. Then, as soon as we do have some money, we can come back and pay them.’

Lord Rump’s bushy eyebrows twitched in dismay. ‘You want to put something in writing? No no no, never put anything in writing. Why, when I was hunting the dog-men of Outer Stevia—’

‘That’s agreed then,’ said Duckling. ‘Grandpa and I’ll go. The rest of you wait here, we won’t be long.’ And she and Lord Rump hurried away, still arguing.

They were gone for an hour, during which time Pummel could think of hardly anything but food and the Harshman. In his head, burning eyes were mixed up with hot porridge, and sausages and gravy sat next to iron teeth, a bony skull and a monster who left footprints of ice everywhere he trod.

The children had escaped from the Harshman three times now, and each time had been harder. A day and a half ago, he had come so close to killing Otte – to killing all of them – that Pummel’s knees still trembled when he thought of it. It was only Duckling’s witchery that had saved them.

No, he reminded himself. It’s not Duckling’s witchery; it’s Sooli’s. And when this is over, Duckling will have to give it back to her. Just as I’ll have to give back the raashk.

He felt a twinge of sorrow at the thought. He had grown used to being more than a farmboy. He had even grown used to being able to walk through walls.

But he would give up the raashk all the same. It was Sooli’s heritage, and he could not keep it from her.

In fact, he would have handed it over already, just as Duckling would have handed over the Wind’s Blessing. But, according to the chicken, one child was more vulnerable than three. One stick could be broken, where three would hold.

Which meant that if the Harshman caught one of them, the other two would still have the power to help.

Pummel glanced at the chicken. It was hard to remember that she was really a five-hundred-year-old wise-woman, the Bayam of Saaf, who had been caught up in her own curse. Right now, she was sprawled in a patch of sunlight from the broken roof, with her eyes half closed and one black wing stretched out, like any other chicken.

Pummel hoped she hadn’t forgotten who she was again.

When Duckling and Lord Rump returned at last, they carried a bundle of assorted clothing and a dozen hot pies. Lord Rump was rolling his eyes. Duckling looked furious.

As she handed a pie to Pummel, she said, ‘I left a note promising to pay for what we took, and Grandpa stole it. I had to go back and leave another one, then watch him all the way to make sure he didn’t sneak off and get rid of that too.’

Pummel nodded, unsurprised, and bit into his pie with a groan of pleasure.

Everyone else was eating hungrily. Otte picked off bits of pastry and shared them with his mice. Sooli, Arms-mistress Krieg and the cat chewed and swallowed with silent intensity. The chicken snapped up peas and scraps of meat as if they were spiders trying to escape.

At last, all the pies were gone except one. Lord Rump gazed at it mournfully. ‘I suppose this one must be yours, Arms-mistress. I would not wish you to go hungry, even though my own belly is not yet half full.’ He put on a pitiful expression. ‘Please, take it. Your need is greater than mine.’

The corner of Arms-mistress Krieg’s mouth turned up, and she took the pie, saying, ‘How many did you eat on the way back?’

‘Why, none at all,’ said Lord Rump, looking offended.

‘Three,’ said Duckling, through her last mouthful.

While the arms-mistress ate, Lord Rump handed out breeches and pants, shirts and coats. He gave Sooli a long blue garment, saying, ‘Duckling found this for you; it has a hood that you can pull over your face, and pockets for your hands. I suggest you put it on before we leave this shelter; if anyone in the city sees the colour of your skin, you will be arrested on the spot as a Saffy spy.’

Otte, who was still hunting down bits of pastry, looked up. ‘Lord Rump, you must not say Saffy, it is very rude. Sooli’s people are the Saaf.’

Lord Rump raised both eyebrows. ‘My apologies, young Sooli, I did not mean to insult you. Saaf, is it? I shall not forget. But my warning still holds. Keep yourself hidden.’

He turned to Arms-mistress Krieg. ‘We have a coat for you, too, to conceal your sword as we walk through the city. Please try not to kill anyone unless you absolutely must.’

He stopped talking for long enough to swap his filthy dress for a fine pair of trousers, a shirt and waistcoat. He had even found a cravat somewhere, and he wound it around his neck and knotted it with great care.

‘I feel almost human again,’ he said. ‘It is a pity we cannot bathe, but our smelliness will not stand out among our friends in the Strong-hold, who are not fond of soap and water. Duckling, tuck in your shirt. Otte, you have gravy on your chin; please wipe it off. Now, try to look honest, all of you, instead of like a band of villains. Are we ready?’

Pummel nodded. Sooli swallowed and drew the hood of her coat more closely over her face. Otte looked sick with fright, but he said, ‘We are ready.’

‘In that case,’ said Lord Rump, turning to one side so that everyone could see his distinguished profile, ‘let us step back into the fray. Our worst enemy is far behind us. Our goal awaits us. Onwards, my friends. Onwards to the Strong-hold of Berren!’