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in the distance he heard the screech of fighting cats.
    He sat up on his pallet, pushing the swamp-cotton shawl aside. He rubbed at his face, then stood.
    There was a light downstairs, a single oil-candle in a dish in the family cell.
    Callum sat at the table, face tired and lined. Petria was at his side, their pup at her breast.
    “Still no sign?” asked Callum. He had clearly only just returned from the stock-pens.
    Flint shook his head. “I thought I might go out and look around,” he said.
    “And find what? Nothing, in the dead of night, Flint. Nothing but drunks and street rats. Save it until morning when you can see beyond your nose and there are people around to answer questions.”
    “I couldn’t sleep.”
    “Clearly. Guilty conscience? Did you two have a row or something?”
    Flint met Callum’s look, resenting the words yet giving them serious thought.
    “Not really,” he said. No more than usual, at least. But had her teasing of him had more behind it than usual? Her accusations that he was too straight? What undercurrents had he missed in her words? Had she been trying to make more serious accusations about the way he treated her, but only been able to come out with teasing and jokes?
    Maybe he was too oppressive, too protective. Maybe she was trying to assert her independence.
    “Well... maybe,” he conceded. “I don’t know.”
    “Go back to bed,” said Petria. “Let me talk to her tomorrow to see if I can find out what’s wrong.”
    Grateful, he stood, then left them together.
    Back in his sleeping cell he lay down, leaving himself uncovered in the heat of the night.
    Outside, a cat screamed again. He did not think it was a good omen.
     
     

Chapter 3
    Dawn brought brief respite before the day’s heat, a damp haze clinging to the treetops, screening out the sun.
    Flint had seen the sky shade from deep grey to roseate silver, to a weak, golden wash and now to this hazy blue. All around, Trecosann was awakening, groggy after the festivities.
    He had been to all their favourite haunts already, called on the families of her friends and questioned those who were awake.
    There was no sign of Amber now and no one had seen her since the previous afternoon.
    Passing through the fringes of the bellycane paddy, past the track that led to the town Oracle, he came to the humpy form of the family home. This was one of the oldest fibre buildings in Trecosann, its bulbous form encrusted with vegetation, a self-regulated dwelling that had survived–so it was said–over two hundred human generations. Some claimed even longer.
    He went inside.
    The only sounds came from Milly the house mutt. She fell silent when she heard him enter, perhaps fearing that he was his father, Tarn. Mutts were inherently of limited intelligence, but what insight they had was specific and sometimes particularly acute.
    In any case, it didn’t take much insight to grasp the vicious nature of the head of the Eltarn household.
    Flint made a brief appearance in the workroom to reassure Milly, and to ask her if she had seen Amber today.
    “Milly done see Amber?” she replied, then shook her head. “Just master mistress, eh?”
    He went through to the stairwell and climbed the warm, pliant steps to the sleeping floor. Loud snoring came from his parents’ cell.
    He pulled the translucent screen aside and stepped into Amber’s room. An untidy sleeping pallet with a shawl woven by Aunt Clarel occupied most of one wall–it was impossible to tell if it had been slept in the previous night or not, but Milly would have said if she had been here. Amber’s clothes were stowed in the storage space behind the far screen. Alcoves in the walls held a few personal items: an artboard, a pair of weaving screens, a rivershell necklet that matched the bracelet she always wore, some combs, a half-clamshell full of coloured sand.
    Nothing appeared to have changed. Nothing appeared to be missing.
    He went back down to the family room to