The blood on his shirt was stiffening as well as staining. Under his thin cover he could still feel a movement, as if tiny insects were running down his side, but he took no notice of this faint trickling. Above everything else Heriot was consumed with raging thirst. He looked into the maze around him. Somewhere there must be a place where he could find something to drink. Moving gently, as if he were a fragile bubble-man who might burst at any moment, Heriot edged himself up, then slid down from the cart, to stand, looking around vaguely before setting off, unaware of the curious glances he was attracting, unaware of just how strange and out of place he looked with his long braid of hair and bloodstained shirt, wandering through a city of tents that was preparing to celebrate a great and powerful declaration of peace. He hadn’t gone very far before he was challenged. His arm was seized, and he thought, at first, it must be by one of the soldiers.
