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The hut gradually filled with the bittersweet smell of Ferrik's smoke weed. He lay back, looking at them through half-closed eyes.
     "Please, Ferrik. It's been a long while since we went to the city." En route, Laz had cautioned Dann against mentioning the stranger and his gifts. Ferrik saw little use in dredging through what was past. "There'll be music at the inns and good food and strong ale … for you … and … and I can pay - I've made a good stock of pipes to sell - and if we take our gear we could always hunt on the way back."
     "If he ain't too tired," muttered Dann. "Remember that female what he had his eye on last time? Nice, she was. Alehouse keeper's daughter, too. Reckon he's in with a chance there."
     "Not interested," snapped Laz. "Shut up."
     "Well, she was interested in you, my friend. And you know what they say, 'when a female beckons …' huh huh huh."
     "Leave it out." A purple flush spread up Laz's cheeks. He carefully avoided meeting Ferrik's eye. "I just want a bit of fun."
     "Seems to me," drawled Ferrik, "that a pretty young wench could provide that and more. Maybe you aren't telling me everything. If you are, then maybe you'll feel differently about her in a month or two. So what else is there - since neither of you smoke or drink, far as I know." His mouth twitched. "Leastways, not when anyone's watching. What other attraction could there be? Nothing to do with this mysterious stranger, I suppose?"
     Laz and Dann glanced at each other.
     "Not this again." Ferrik squinted through the smoke. "You've heard he can see into what's gone and what's to come. I suppose you're hoping to learn more about your own beginnings. What does it matter, Laz? You're here, aren't you? Your belly's full. You've got somewhere warm and dry to sleep. That should be enough. It's enough for your brothers."
     "Nothing wrong with wanting to know about myself," muttered Laz, darting a quick look at his brothers, dozing replete in front of the fire. "Everybody else knows who they were born to."
     "And are they any better for it?" Ferrik asked, mildly.
     "I don't even know my birth season."
     "Maybe you wasn't born at all," sniggered Dann. "Maybe you was hatched …"
     "That's not bloody funny, errand-boy," snarled Laz, shoving his elbow into him. Dann lost his balance, clawed at the air and fell on his backside.
     "Errand boy?" Dann scrambled to his feet. Rage had joined up all his freckles. His hair stood out from his head in orange flames. He glowed like a red-hot poker. "Who you calling errand boy, bobtail chaser?" He gave Laz an almighty shove and was on him before he hit the ground.
     "That's all you bloody are," squealed Laz. "Admit it. Run here. Run there. Do this. Carry that. Oddjobber ain't you? Homestead gofer. Who crushes the bones? Who digs worms for the pen-birds? Who was it had to clean out the latrines?"
     "Me. Yeh. How can I forget?" Thump. "From the stink, most of it came from your mouth." Thump. "At least I'm not a useless hanger-on, like you."
     "Useless? Me? I'm a hunter. This place would fall apart if it wasn't for me. You'd all die of starvation …"
     Laz suddenly found himself suspended in mid-air, his face inches away from Dann's.
     "That's enough," said Ferrik, and dropped them onto the floor. "Tidy yourselves up. A meeting's been called. If you hadn't been so busy scrapping you'd have heard the summoning bell."
     "Right you are," Dann said cheerfully. He slyly punched Laz a couple more times for good measure before carefully dusting himself down and tidying his hair. Laz waited until he'd finished, then kicked his feet from under him.
     Ferrik arranged himself in front of the door. "Dann, my best knife seems to have disappeared. And the whetstone. Check they haven't made their way into your pockets, boots, or any pouches arranged about your person for the purpose of transferring ownership. Leave them on the table before we go."

They walked rapidly towards the main square, avoiding swarms of hoglets turning over the waste piled outside each hut. Ferrik kept between Dan and Laz, administering a rough clout to each when he finally tired of their scowls and vigorous hand gestures. Rom and Longshanks resentfully followed. Neither had any interest in settlement politics and that was what these summonings usually descended to.
     Laz didn't mind. He liked the Assembly Hall.
         None of the other Homesteads boasted such a fine building. It was strong enough to serve as last-ditch defence if real trouble came. The walls were two massive stones thick with a rubble-filled gap between, the door made of solid Soak planks strengthened with large-headed iron nails. In addition, the roof was virtually weatherproof, the floor of split-stone flags, always dry, and covered with cut fern.
     But this wasn't what impressed Laz. It was the graceful shape of things that didn't need to be beautiful to function that filled him with wonder. On the east side, the building had an arched window hole made of stone polished smooth as egg shell, each piece joined so tightly to the next that a hair couldn't be drawn between them. Round the huge door was another arch, also of stone, fashioned into twisting turning leaf patterns. There were folk who could carve simple shapes from timber, Laz being one of them, but to work stone was an ancient skill, the trick of which was long forgotten.
     The interior was less impressive. Rush-lights battled against the shadows. A turf fire smoked in a huge stone bowl mounted on a pedestal. Laz knew that there'd once been carvings on this too, but all were now cracked and blackened by the heat. Rows of benches, many half-rotten and propped on flat stones from the tumbledown bell-tower, faced a platform reached by four shallow steps. Here, under the window hole, stood a vast stone table on which communal food and other resources were shared out.
     Wyc stood motionless before this table, leaning on her stick and staring balefully at the folk noisily crowding in. Laz examined her with interest: he and Dann had made wagers on when her beak of a nose and up-jutting chin would finally meet. His gaze dropped hurriedly as Wyc's head snapped round and he found himself being scrutinised by the old seer's bird-bright eyes. Whistling unconcern, Laz brought out his knife and began whittling away a piece of wood, waiting to see what would emerge.

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