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Dustfinger rubbed his hand over his face, feeling his scars on it like a picture postcard saying ‘Greetings fro for a single day even if he wanted to ‘To help you please the girls even better in future!’ Basta had hissed in his ear before wiping the blood off his knife

‘Oh, curse it all!’ Dustfinger kicked the nearest wall so hard that he felt the pain in his foot for days to come ‘You’ve told that writer about hter knows more about me than I do! Very well, out with it! I want to kno too Tell s htens the noose until I’ht? But why should that bother ed – it ed Basta can’t hurt !’

Dustfinger took a step towards Silvertongue as if to grab him, shake hiie ca hi for you in the book They want to kill Gwin and you try to help hied! It will si you can do about it Do you understand? You o back, ever!’

Dustfinger stared at the girl as if he could shut her up that way, but she held his gaze She even tried to take his hand

‘You should be glad to be here!’ she faltered as he retreated froo away, far away, and …’ Her voice quivered Perhaps she had seen the tears in Dustfinger’s eyes Angrily, he wiped them aith his sleeve, and looked round like an ani for so forward and, even worse, no going back

A trio of wolanced curiously in his direction Dustfinger often attracted such glances; anyone could see he didn’t belong here A stranger for ever

Three children and an oldfootball with a tin can on the other side of the square Farid looked at theer’s rucksack over his narrow shoulders, and grey cat hairs clung to his trousers He was deep in thought, wriggling his bare toes into the gaps between the paving stones He was always taking off the trainers Dustfinger had bought hi about barefoot, even on hot tarmac, with his shoes tied to the rucksack like loot he was taking ho children too Had he given son to the old man with theer took a step back A shiver ran down his spine

‘My grandchildren have been ad the tame marten that boy has on a chain,’ said the old er took another step backwards Why was the dark-hairedat him like that? In quite a different way from the women at the bus stop ‘The children say the marten can do tricks and the boy’s a fire-eater Perhaps we could come to the show and watch at close quarters?’

The cold shiver spread right through Dustfinger, although the sun was shining down on him The way the oldwho had run away long ago and was now back, tail between his legs, perhaps with lice in his coat, but definitely his, the old

‘Nonsense, we don’t do tricks!’ he ain, but the old man followed him – as if they were linked by an invisible thread

‘I’ a hand as if to touch Dustfinger’s scarred face

Dustfinger’s back caht in front of hi--

‘Go away!’ Dustfinger pushed his!’ The boy hurried to his side Dustfinger snatched the rucksack from his hand, picked up theno notice of the ani teeth The oldthe rucksack over his shoulder and tried to push past him