Can we hope that on rare occasions, perhaps late at night when the terrors crept close, he would think about how things he’d done could damage his mother’s faith, and not just in him, but in herself as well? The son, after all, is but an extension of the mother-at least so the mother believed, there in some inarticulate part of her soul, unseen yet solid as an Iron chain Assail the child and so too the mother is assailed, for what is challenged Is her life as a mother, the lessons she taught or didn’t teach, the things she chose not to see, to explain away, to pretend were otherwise than what they were.

Weep for the mother. Snell won’t and he never would, saving all his future to weep exclusively for himself. The creeping terrors awakened startling glimmers of thought, of near-empathy, but they never went so far as to lead to any self recognition, or compassion for the mother who loved him unconditionally, His nature was the kind that took whatever was given to him as if it was a birthright all of it, for ever and ever more.

Rage at injustice came when something-anything-was withheld. Things hi righteously deserved, and of course he deserved everything he wanted. All that he wanted he reached for, and oh such fury if those things eluded his grasp or were then taken away!

In the absence of what might be imposed, a child will fashion the structure of the world as it suits itself. Created from a mind barely awake-and clearly not even that when it came to introspection-that world becomes a strange place in-deed. But let us not rail at the failings of nearby adults tied by blood or whatever, Some children are born in a cage-it’s already there, in their skulls-and it’s a dark cage.

He was wandering the streets, fleeing all the cruel questions being flung at him. They had no right to accuse him like that. Oh, when he was all grown up, nobody would be allowed to get after him like this. He’d break their faces. He’d step on their heads. He’d make them afraid, every one of them, so he could go on doing whatever he liked. He couldn’t wait to get older and that was the truth.

And yet, he found himself heading for Two-Ox Gate. He needed to know, after all. Was Harllo still lying there? He hadn’t hit him so hard, had he? Enough to kill him? Only if Harllo had been born weak, only if something was wrong with him from the start. And that wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Harllo’s own mother had thrown him away, after all. So, if Harllo was lying dead in the grasses on that hilltop, why, it wasn’t Snell’s fault, was it? Something would have killed him sooner or later.

So that was a relief, but he’d better go and find out for sure. What if Harllo hadn’t died at all? What if he was out there somewhere, planning murder? He could be spying on Snell right now!-With a knife he’d found, or a knotted stick. Quick, cunning, able to dart out of sight no matter how fast Snell spun round on the street-he was out there! Waiting, stalking.

Snell needed to prove things, and that was why he was running through Maiten, where the stink of Brownrun Bay and the lepers was nearly enough to make him retch-and hah! Listen to them scream when struck by the bigger stones he threw at them! He was tempted to tarry for a time, to find one of the uglier ones he could stone again and again until the cries just went away, and wouldn’t that be a mercy? Better than rotting away.

But no, not yet, maybe on the way back, after he’d stood for a time, looking down at the flyblown corpse of Harllo-that would be the perfect conclusion to this day, after all. His problems solved. Nobody hunting him in the shadows. He’d throw stones fast and haul then, a human catapult-smack! Crush the flimsy skull!

Maybe he wasn’t grown up yet, but he could still do things. He could take lives,

He left the road, made his way up the hill. This was the place all right-how could he forget? Every detail was burned into his brain. The first giant tapestry in the history of Snell. Slaying his evil rival, and see the dragons wheeling in the sky above the lake-witnesses!

The slope unaccountably tired him, brought a tremble to his legs, fust nervousness, of course. His shins stung as he rushed through the grasses, and came to the place.

No body.

Sudden terror. Snell looked round, on all sides-he was out there! Wasn’t hurt at all! He’d probably faked the whole thing, biting down on his pain with every kick. Hiding, yes, just to get Snell in trouble and when Gruntle came back there’d be Hood to pay! Gruntle who made Harllo his favourite because Harllo did things to help out but wasn’t it Snell who brought back that last sack of fuel? It was! Of course Gruntle wasn’t there to see that, was he? So he didn’t know anything because if he did-

If he did he’d kill me.

Cold, shivering in the lake wind, Snell ran back down the hill. He needed to get home, maybe not right home, but somewhere close-so he could jump Harllo when he showed up to tell his lies about what had happened. Lies-Snell had no bag of coins, did he? Harllo’s mother’s coins, hah, wasn’t that funny? She was rich enough anyway and Snell deserved that money as much as anyone else-he reached up and tenderly touched the swelling on his left cheek. The bitch had hit him, all to steal back the money. Well, she’d pay one day, yes, she would.