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summoning the memory like a nobleman calling for his jester. For some reason, though, the walk in the plantation wasn’t available – someone else was dreaming it, or it was sulking and didn’t want to come out. Instead, he remembered another walk with his grandfather, a month or so before or after the trip to the wood—
    â€˜Are we there yet?’ he heard himself say.
    He knew where he was; it was the reverse of the view from the porch, because they were standing on the lower slopes of the mountain, looking down at their valley. Behind them, the constant hiss and gurgle of the hot springs were almost loud enough to drown out Grandfather’s voice. A dozen or so yards to his right, a solitary crow was tearing at the ribcage of a long-dead lamb.
    It was his birthday.
    â€˜Not quite.’
    â€˜How much further?’
    â€˜Not far.’
    â€˜When will we get there?’
    â€˜Later.’
    Grandfather was looking at the view; he seemed to like it a lot. Presumably he enjoyed looking at the farm from different angles, which was fair enough. Ciartan liked the view too, but now he’d seen it and he was getting cold and fidgety, and it wasn’t as if anything about it was going to change. ‘Can we go on now, please?’
    Grandfather sighed. ‘Yes, all right.’ He dipped his head sideways, to say this way .
    They were above the last scruffy patches of grass and heather now, in the belt of black rock and clinker that separated the marginal grazing of the lower slopes from the snowcap. It was foul stuff to walk on, particularly with short legs; every time you put your foot down it went over sideways on the chunks of black stuff, and you could feel the sharp edges right through the soles of your boots. Nothing at all lived up here, not even crows.
    Ciartan was bored.
    Grandfather sensed that; he was good at guessing people’s moods. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s see how much you know. Let’s see: do you know the name of this mountain?’
    That was a silly question. ‘The mountain,’ Ciartan replied. But Grandfather shook his head.
    â€˜All mountains are called The Mountain by somebody or other,’ he said. ‘No, this one’s got a proper name, just as the farm’s called Haldersness and the valley’s called Raffenriverdale. Do you know what the mountain’s proper name is?’
    Ciartan shook his head.
    â€˜Thought not,’ Grandfather replied.
    â€˜Tell me,’ Ciartan said. ‘Please,’ he added, remembering his manners.
    Grandfather stopped, either for effect or because the gradient was a bit too much for his bad knee. ‘This mountain,’ he announced, ‘is called Polden’s Forge.’
    â€˜Oh,’ Ciartan said. ‘Why’s it called that?’
    Grandfather shook his head. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you want to hear it.’
    â€˜Yes, I do,’ Ciartan replied eagerly. ‘Please.’
    â€˜Well.’ Grandfather dug the point of his short spear into a soft crack between two lumps of rock and leaned hard on the butt end. ‘Many years ago, our people didn’t live here. In fact, nobody even knew this country was here. We all lived far away across the sea, in what they used to call the Empire.’
    â€˜I know all about that,’ Ciartan interrupted. ‘That’s where the men go raiding every year, to bring back the metal and stuff.’
    Grandfather nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Now, the Empire’s a very big place – bigger than our island, which is East Island, and almost as big as East Island and West Island put together. That’s how big it is.’
    Ciartan closed his eyes for a moment, visualising the enormous extent of the Empire. That was an impossible task, so instead he thought of the biggest thing he could think of, which at that moment happened to be the long