Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

In the afternoon of the second day, the endless rumble of the engine stuttered, coughed, and fell into silence. Lying on his bunk, Simon felt the stillness of the metal walls. After two days of near constant noise and vibration, the engine had stopped. The wheels did not turn, the tracks were one with the snow-covered road, and a profound and peaceful quiet reigned.

‘Blast. Damn and blast it all to hell,’ Vikki shouted.

Jonas, who was sitting with her at the controls, said: ‘What happened?’

‘We’ve bloody stopped is what happened.’ A dull thump suggested she had hit something. ‘Let me out.’

In the cramped cabin space of the snowcrawler, moving anywhere required other people to get out of the way. Two people could sit at the controls; the other three usually lay or sat on their bunks.

‘What’s the problem?’ Riga asked.

Vikki squeezed past Jonas. ‘When I know, I’ll tell you. The engine stalled. I have to look at it.’ She opened the hatch. Freezing air rushed in, displacing the warm fug that had built up in the cabin. ‘Pass me my coat and tool bag.’

Simon shivered. It was so warm in the cabin, one could easily forget that outside the steel walls lay snow and ice.

Riga unwound herself from her bunk and handed Vikki her fur coat, followed by her bulky bag of tools. ‘Do you need any help?’

Vikki shrugged on the coat and threw the tool bag through the open hatchway. ‘I’ll let you know in a minute.’ She slammed the hatch after her.

The scriver, Holomy, huddled under his blanket. ‘I do hope this doesn’t take long. This journey is uncomfortable enough without delays.’

Simon resisted the urge to tell him how uncomfortable it would be without the snowcrawler. Already it felt much colder in the cabin, just from having the hatch open for a minute — but even with the hatch closed, the temperature would drop, slowly but steadily, until it was as cold inside as out. Unless Vikki restarted the engine, of course.

L glyph [https://i.imgur.com/2vwU4yB.png]

In the streets of Athanor, night had fallen and the street lamps flared blue. The weaver’s workshop still rattled to the insistent rhythm of the looms; Grumman’s family worked long days.

Nana set a steaming pot on the table. ‘Fish stew.’

Grey-green lumps bobbed to the surface. ‘It… smells good,’ Lorie said carefully. She picked up her spoon. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Fish.’ Nana shook her head. ‘I can’t get salt cod for love nor money, so it’s fresh fish, which isn’t the same at all, but it’s cheap enough and beggars can’t be choosers.’ She seized Sam’s bowl and slopped stew into it. ‘Well, mustn’t grumble. How was your day in school?’

Lorie filled her bowl. ‘Oh. All right.’ She poked the stew with her spoon. Two whole days at the Arcanum, and she was still stuck rote-learning the Prime Grammar with the youngest students. In the afternoons, they sat cross-legged in a big echoing hall called the gymnasium and were instructed in meditation, which was even more mind-numbingly boring. ‘It’s just… not what I expected.’

Nana grunted. ‘Most things in life aren’t. But you’re learning, yes? Make any friends?’

‘Well, there’s Phin.’

‘A boy?’

‘They’re all boys, Nana.’

‘Hmm. Don’t play with your food, Sam, eat it. There’s starving children would be grateful for that stew, you know.’

‘Could I give it them?’

Nana glared at him. ‘Don’t you start with me, boy. Money’s tight and we must make the best of it until your father’s back. It won’t be easy, but we can manage, and I don’t need any smart-mouth from you.’

‘Sorry.’ Sam shovelled stew into his mouth and swallowed. ’There’s a fish market down near the docks. I could go tomorrow and see if there’s salt cod.’

Lorie eyed her brother. Lately he always seemed to be ducking out of the house on one invented errand or another, which invariably took much longer than it should. Which was not, in itself, suspicious — Sam couldn’t be expected to stay inside all day — but he had the fidgety look he always got when he had a secret, and that worried her. With their father absent, there was no telling what trouble he might get into.

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She sighed and poked at a grisly bit of fish. Her father, by now, would be far away — miles and miles on the long, cold road to Sark, and every day took him further from them. She wished he was here. She could tell him about the Arcanum, and he’d understand, and help — but wishing was useless. He wouldn’t be back for weeks.

Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

Over the snow-bound plains, night crept in softly. Stars dusted the sky, and in the distance, wolves howled their cold and lonely music.

Obeying the universal human instinct to look helpful in a crisis, Simon and the others gathered outside the snowcrawler to watch Vikki work. Jonas hovered round her, holding a cold-lamp and handing her tools as she asked for them. Riga stomped up and down the road embankment, gathering sticks for a fire. Simon paced back and forth, swinging his arms to keep warm. Only the scriver Holomy — sensible man — remained inside.

It wasn’t snowing or blowing a gale, but it was cold and the clear sky promised it would be even colder before long. Already, Simon’s hands and feet and leg ached. He’d thought he had done with cold, that he’d never have to face snow again. And yet here he was, back on the icy Athanor road, listening to wolves sing their hunger to the darkening sky.

Vikki cursed and muttered as she puzzled over the engine. ‘It should bloody work. What’s wrong with the damn thing?’

‘You’ll figure it out,’ Jonas said. ‘Can I help with anything?’

Riga dumped another arm-load of sticks. ‘You can light a fire before we all freeze.’

‘Might be a good idea,’ Vikki said. ‘Even when I’ve fixed this, the engine will take a while to warm up.’

‘All right.’ Jonas handed Simon the cold-lamp.

Simon took his place at Vikki’s shoulder. She had removed a plate from the side of the snowcrawler, exposing a mass of gears.

Jonas undid his heavy outer coat. From an inner pocket, he extracted a notebook and the chewed stub of a pencil. He stripped off his gloves and tucked them under his arm. He scrawled something in the notebook — a sigil, Simon assumed, though rather casually done — then ripped the page out. He laid the scrap of paper carefully on the sticks Riga had piled up.

‘Hurry up, Sparky,’ she said.

Jonas frowned. The paper flared into flame. Steam rose from the damp wood, and the fire spread. ‘We’ll need more fuel.’

‘I’ll get some,’ Riga said.

‘You shouldn’t go alone,’ Simon said.

Jonas took the cold-lamp back from him. The fire snapped and crackled.

Vikki exclaimed. ‘It’s the gas line. I bet that’s it. Jonas, can you warm things up without setting them on fire?’

‘Nothing could be simpler. Show me what needs to be done.’

Riga strode down the embankment. A smooth blanket of snow stretched away from the road. A deceptive smoothness, Simon knew — the snow covered ridges and deep hollows, rocks and tree stumps.

‘Wait, Riga.’ Simon said. ‘I’ll help gather firewood.’ He plunged after her.

She paused for him to catch up, and they walked on together. ‘There looks a good spot.’ She pointed to where spindly branches broke the snow.

Simon glanced back at the road. Jonas and Vikki had climbed onto the snowcrawler. The fire was a small orange glow against the dark bulk of the machine.

‘Go back if you want,’ Riga said. ‘I don’t need your help.’

She marched on, her long legs striding easily through the snow, leaving Simon to flounder in her wake. ‘It’s more dangerous out here than you realise,’ he said.

She didn’t respond.

He plodded after her. Away from the cold-lamp and the fire, it was dark and getting darker as night fell. The moon rose pale over the hills. Simon focused on the ground ahead of him, searching the snow for the subtle signs of hidden obstacles.

Riga reached the bushes they’d seen, and started breaking off branches. Simon joined her. The road, and the snowcrawler, were now over hundred yards away. A short sprint if not for the snow, the darkness, and his bad leg. He tugged at the twiggy branches. The green wood bent instead of breaking.

‘Do you hear something?’ Riga said.

Simon stood still and listened. His breath hung before him in a frozen cloud. There was no wind, no noise at all. ‘No. Should I?’

‘I thought I saw something move.’ She drew her sword. ‘Come on.’

‘It could be a wolf,’ Simon whispered. Both grey wolves and dire-wolves lived on the plains. Neither made a habit of preying on men, but then, usually men had the good sense to stay out of their way.

Riga pushed through the skeletal bushes, the blade extended before her. She stumbled, and stopped.

Simon joined her. They stood at the top of a steep slope. Below a stark white sheet of snow glistened beneath the stars. The wolves howled, sounding closer. He shivered.

‘You’re scared,’ Riga said. Her voice dripped scorn. ‘I can see you’re scared. Why are you even on this trip? We don’t need you.’

‘Yet I’m here.’

‘So you are.’ She gazed out at the plain and pointed. ‘See it?’

‘See what?’

She swung her arm. Simon jerked back reflexively. His boots slipped and suddenly he was falling. Hard ground struck him with bruising force and he rolled. Soft snow cold in his face and mouth, tumbling and sliding, sky and land over and under by turns. A final thump and he lay still, half-buried in snow and gasping for breath.

Slowly, he gathered himself and sat up. He’d fallen to the bottom of the hill. At the top, Riga’s tall figure stood out dark against the snow. Then she turned and disappeared from view.

She had tried to hit him. The realisation stunned him more than the fall had. With no provocation at all, she had tried to hit him, watched him roll down the hill, then walked away.

The wolves howled. Simon staggered out of the hole he’d made in the snow and clambered up the hill, digging hand and foot holds as he went. When he reached the top, there was no sign of Riga. He set off in what he hoped was the direction of the road.

Before long, he spotted the fire and the black bulk of the snowcrawler. Figures moved, silhouetted against the firelight. He trudged onward.

‘Simon?’ Jonas yelled.

‘Yes,’ he shouted back, and kept walking.

Exhaustion hit when he tried to climb the steep bank to the road. Jonas took his arm and helped him the last few yards to the fire. ‘Riga said she’d lost you. I was about to insist she go find you.’

Simon half-sobbed, half-laughed. ‘Lost me? She tried to kill me.’

Jonas frowned. ‘My cousin may be a little rough around the edges, but she doesn’t murder people. Not as a habit, and not without reason, anyhow.’

‘Cousin?’

‘My mother’s Phylaxes,’ Jonas said. ‘The hair, you know.’

Simon swayed. ‘She left me out there.’

‘That’s not her story. Come on, let’s get you in the warm. Vikki got the engine running — one of the gas pipes had ice in it. We should be on our way soon.’