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sky. His voice howled above the sound of the river.
    Guards ran to help him. Others darted behind the rock.
    ‘The boy had stinkweed,’ Slarda cried. ‘He used it on Steen. He is gone.’
    ‘Find him.’
    They were so busy with Steen and so headlong in their search along the path they did not see Nick. Susan saw him. He had gone the most unexpected way. She saw a tree come bucking down the river, its green head billowing like a sail, and there was Nick hidden in the branches, riding past not twenty metres away. He clung like a possum as the tree rolled. It slammed into the cliff opposite and the force of the water made it rear. It was as if the tree was growing again, lifting Nick with it. Then it plunged and was buried and the roots showed in the air, pink and brown. Still Nick clung in the branches. She saw his face flash white. Slarda saw it too. She had climbed on the rock to scan the path and saw Nick as she turned to cry to Osro. She gave a yell and unslung her crossbow. The others saw where she was looking. The tree had turned again and was racing away from the cliff towards the bend in the river. But Nick was exposed in the branches and could not move for fear of losing his hold. Slarda levered back the cord of her bow and slammed a bolt in the groove. Susan saw her grinning fiercely. The shot was forty metres, easy for her. Nick watched helplessly. Holding on with arms wide, he seemed to offer himself.
    No one watched Susan. She moved behind Osro and picked up a stone the size of a cricket ball. She was no good at throwing but knew that Nick was dead if she missed and the knowledge swelled Slarda’s face like a balloon, brought it close. It was as if she had simply to reach out and push the stone. Osro saw too late what she was doing. He lunged at her and knocked her down and put his foot on her. But the stone was gone. It curved in the air, slow as a football. Susan saw Slarda sight her bow. And that was all. A cry. The twang of a bowstring. Then a glimpse, a last one: the green tree sailing on the river, and Nick riding high, going from sight, going to safety.
    Osro ground her with his foot. Slarda stood over her with bleeding face. ‘Let me kill her, Master.’
    ‘No. Take one other. Hunt the boy. See him dead.’
    ‘Master,’ someone said, ‘he has taken Steen’s knife.’
    ‘It does not matter,’ Slarda said, ‘I have my bow.’
    ‘And later, when I have no use for this,’ Osro kicked Susan, ‘she is yours.’
    Slarda’s eyes shone. She gave a short quick bow, called harshly to Greely, and they were gone.
    ‘Now, Susan Ferris. Stand and walk,’ Osro said.
    She obeyed. She walked between two guards along the shingle and climbed a track leading into hills, away from the river. Osro led. Two men came last, carrying Steen in a litter made of blankets. They went on through the drizzling rain, through the afternoon into night. She felt as if she was going deeper and deeper into a nightmare and the only thing that kept her in touch with the normal world was the thought of Nick riding to freedom on a tree.
    She ate. She drank. She lay down to sleep; and did not know whether she dreamed Slarda standing in the dawn with Osro, and her voice saying, ‘It is done. The boy is dead.’

Chapter Three
‘Use yer loaf’
    He saw Slarda reel from the impact of the stone and the bolt from her crossbow flash across the river and rebound from the cliff. Susan was down, under Osro’s foot, and he screamed at the man to let her go. Then the tree bucked and almost threw him. It swung round the bend in the river and he saw water beating on rocks ahead. The tree gathered speed. He yelled with fear and burrowed into the branches. The roots struck the rapids as though crashing into a wall. The blow ripped one of his hands from the branch. The tree made a half turn, slamming into a boulder, lurching away. But a weight of water pressing on his back kept Nick in place. He got his hold again and rose on his legs to ride