Stylus in hand, Marcus was drawing on his wax tablet when his hated captor Jaskar and the weasel’s tall henchwoman arrived at the workshop under capes that protected them from a downpour outside. It was such a grey day that Kregar, despite being miserly about the use of oil, had lit a lantern.

His master wiped damp clay from his hands onto his well-worn apron. ‘Welcome Jaskar, welcome Sukild. Why are you here?’ There was a coldness in the greeting that Marcus knew the visitors would have detected.

From among a tray of recently fired items, the small man picked up a bowl and examined it before putting it down again. ‘Good morning Kregar; you are very busy I see.’

‘Very busy. What do you want?’

While Marcus kept working, practising possible designs for the border of his current urn, he listened carefully to the slightly belligerent tone in Kregar’s voice and risked a glance at Jaskar, who was frowning.

‘Respect.’

Kregar gave a derisive snort and although Marcus did not like his master, he admired the way that the stout craftsman stood up to Jaskar.

‘Oh, not for me,’ Jaskar said softly, coming further in to the workshop and looking at the shelves. ‘Although I believe as an elder I am entitled to respect. But I refer to something far more important and consequential: respect for the gods.’ He paused by a large, lidded urn with a picture of the demi-god Feskar, who was depicted with a large salmon in his two hands, while being up to his waist in a river. Marcus was very pleased with the image as not only had he caught the spirit of the occasion (Feskar had caught a prince of the salmon in order to negotiate, so while the image had a strong suggestion that the fish was wriggling to break free, it also caught an intelligence in the look of the salmon: it was listening). Once again the figure of Feskar was unambiguously modelled on Kregar.

Jaskar picked up a knife used for cutting clay and tapped it with such strength against the urn that Marcus feared he would scratch the image. The small man looked to his companion. ‘Is this respectful, do you think, Sukild?’

‘I do not think so Jaskar,’ she promptly responded.

‘Why not?’ Jaskar raised an eyebrow.

Surprised by the follow-up question, the dark-haired woman called Sukild hesitated and when she did respond it was with an uncertain tone. ‘It is not respectful to the gods to present yourself as Feskar.’

‘Exactly.’ Jaskar gave a cold smile. ‘Far from being respectful, the council believes images such as these are conceited, arrogant, provocative, subversive and…,’ he paused as if trying to remember the exact words someone had spoken in a meeting, ‘heretical.’ That last word was pronounced with particular weight.

Another positive trait of Kregar’s, thought Marcus, was that he spoke only after considering his words. Only after a flush of anger had faded from the workshop owner’s bearded cheeks did he respond. Surprisingly, Kregar laughed and said, ‘have you seen the town’s happiness score today?’

‘Fifty-three?’ said Jaskar after a pause.

‘Up eight in two weeks. Reversing a downward trend that has lasted months. And you know why?’

Neither of the visitors responded but Marcus could see that Jaskar’s eyes were gleaming with hatred.

Hands on hips, Kregar was confident now. ‘It’s my pottery. The people love these Feskar stories. I’m making the tribe a success again.’

‘It has to stop, Kregar. We are here to inform you of yesterday’s decision by the council.’

No one spoke. Marcus could sense the stillness in Carmella and Farkin, both of whom had stopped work. A glance their way. No response, both were looking at the floor. There was real tension in the clenched jaw of Kregar and an unpleasant sense of gloating in the smirk on the woman’s face.

After a long interval, Jaskar must have realised that Kregar wasn’t going to speak, so he walked over to a jug on the wet rack and picked it up, even though it hadn’t been fired and the handle might tear away. He spoke without looking over his shoulder, ‘Can you remember the exact wording of the decree Sukild?’

‘It has come to the attention of the council that some citizens have been manufacturing and selling items with depictions of the gods. The portrayal of a god is not a matter for individuals or for commerce. All images purporting to represent a god must be approved by the council. Non-approved images will be destroyed and their creator may be imprisoned for up to a month.’ The black-haired woman finished her report with a cold smile.

Red-faced, Jaskar gripped the edge of his table, which creaked with the strain.

‘That’s very clear, isn’t it?’ The councillor went back to the urn showing Feskar and the salmon prince, then suddenly pushed it off the table so that it shattered on the ground. Carmella let out a moan and Farkin cried, ‘oh no!’ A powerful rage shook Marcus and he had taken two steps towards the little sod with the intention of smashing him in the face, before managing to bring himself under control. It had been seventy years since he’d felt such impotence in the face of cruelty. Having left home and gotten away from his older brother, Marcus had lived an independent life with no reason to ever put up with a bully. Here, he was trapped by the danger of being locked in a cage until he died of thirst.

‘You owe me five silver,’ said Kregar with astonishing self-control. Again, Marcus found reason to admire his owner, despite everything.

Jaskar laughed and looking around, spotted a large bowl with panels showing a story of Feskar climbing a mountain in order to seduce the moon. Before he could reach it – with the obvious intention of breaking it – Kregar moved quickly to block the councillor.

‘Leave now, Jaskar.’

The smaller man stared up at the burly one then placed a finger on Kregar’s chest. ‘One month in prison if you make another of these.’

He turned and swaggered to the door, the woman following.

‘Jaskar,’ said Kregar.

‘What?’

‘You owe me five silver.’

Without turning around, the councillor laughed. His companion did stop, simply to show her scorn, then hurried on.

‘You just made a very bad mistake Jaskar,’ Kregar had to raise his voice to make sure the departing figures heard him. But he did not sound as angry as he probably felt. ‘You too Sukild. I won’t let this pass.’

Walking over to the door and closing it, Kregar turned to face Marcus and the other two slaves. Although his voice was level Marcus could see ripples in the potter’s cheeks as he clenched his jaw from time to time. ‘I’m going out for some time. Carry on working.’

‘Master, am I still to use the gods in my designs?’ asked Marcus.

‘Yes, slave, you are.’

When the door slammed shut and the three of them were left alone, Carmella looked up at Marcus with a triumphant smile.

Although Marcus did continue to work it was hard to concentrate when there was an increasing level of noise outside. From time to time, he went to the windows and looked out to the yards of the neighbours where the artisans and craft workers had ceased work and were gathered in small groups talking with considerable vehemence. When Kregar was present, Marcus had to duck away. Otherwise he strained to pick up on the conversations. It seemed that it was normal to have small statues and shrines to a god in your home and everyone was deeply resentful of the council claiming the right to approve or disapprove of these. There was some sympathy for Kregar too, for having lost one of his extraordinary and valuable pots.

‘Happiness thirty-one,’ muttered Carmella.

Marcus came back from the window. ‘What?’

‘The menu. It has fallen twenty points already today.’

Calling up the Ark Andulan menu, Marcus found his heart was beating faster with excitement. ‘Thirty now.’ Sod them all. Hopefully that Happiness score would keep falling. Were there consequences for a community with a low Happiness? Marcus hoped so; hoped that they were on the path to ruin.

‘Is this what you planned?’ The noise of the pottery wheel turning diminished as it slowed down. Carmella had ceased to work the pedal and was looking at Marcus with an expression that was almost reverential.

‘No. Not really. I didn’t have a plan exactly. I was thinking his fame might encourage Kregar to run for the council.’

Carmella went over to a large bowl and as she poured water into it to clean her hands she looked over. ‘This is better. The council have made a mistake: the people treasure their family gods. But the council will never admit to mistakes. They are all like Jaskar.’

‘What’s going on?’ even though it was safe to speak freely, Farkin leaned down towards Marcus and whispered.

While Carmella gave a grunt of exasperation, Marcus met the anxious gaze of the young man. ‘There’s a hell of a row brewing. The council are trying to stop us making our pottery with pictures of Kregar on but they’ve gone too far.’

Even as he said this, a new, deeper noise from outside made Marcus hurry back to the window. A growing rumble of tramping feet was drawing near, like the approach of a thunderstorm. And there it was! A crowd over a hundred strong, carrying their icons and pictures of the gods, held defiantly in the air. Nearby, their neighbours hurried to join the throng, which continued to march towards the town centre. A woman with upraised arms and an urn wobbling on her head ran after them. Then came quiet.

‘We should escape now,’ said Carmella, retying the headscarf around her grey hair to keep it out of her eyes.

‘Now?’ wondered Marcus aloud. His heart beat faster. If they ran and were caught… it would be the cage.

‘Yes. Even if they notice the population decline, they aren’t going to be able to organise a chase until this settles down.’

Marcus drew a deep breath and then another. This was so unexpected. Yet she was right. It was still a big risk but would he get a better chance? ‘Follow me then.’

Instead of making for the door Marcus ran upstairs. The long bedroom used by Kregar had animal skins on the floor, a bed that was low to the ground and heaped with blankets, several chairs, two chests, and there, in the far corner, the arms and armour he was looking for.

‘Come on!’ Marcus called back down. Neither of the other two had moved. ‘I need your help. I’m going to dress in the armour and lead you two through the streets. It will be less suspicious that way.’

‘Oh,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘Come on Farkin. Hurry up. Lend him a hand.’

There were a surprising amount of straps to the heavy chainmail hauberk and Marcus felt his impatience grow. Now that he was committed to the escape attempt all anxiety had gone and instead he was filled with a desire to get on with it.

While Farkin was helping with the straps, Carmella had gone to one of the chests and was filling a satchel with the silver coins that were inside it. Marcus called across to her, ‘Do we need those? Won’t they weigh us down?’

‘Perhaps they will serve to bribe a guard to let us out.’

At last, Marcus was ready. Metal helmet on his head, scabbarded sword at his side, he strode back downstairs and picked up the leashes and collars that they had to use when out in public. When raising a collar towards Farkin, the young man momentarily interposed his hands to stop Marcus and blinking tears back said, ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘And you don’t want to live your life as a slave here in this sodding cess pit of a town.’ Carmella was white-lipped with anger or urgency. ‘So put that on Farkin and let’s get going.’

‘Calm yourself, Farkin,’ said Marcus, ‘take a breath. I’m going to lead you out. Just keep your head down.’

The youth inhaled and nodded, but his eyes were still frantic and he swallowed heavily. Catching Marcus’s eye, Carmella put on her own collar, stood behind Farkin and put her hands on his waist, pointing him towards the door. ‘Go ahead Marcus, lead us to freedom. I suggest we go to the east gate, do you know the way?’

Did he? His thoughts slid around images of streets and houses. ‘Past the fountain with the dolphins?’

‘That’s right.’

With a firm, confident stride, leashes in hand, Marcus walked through streets that were empty apart from a few slaves in their rough, brown tunics. No one stared at him; in every case the slaves quickly looked away. Could he encourage more slaves to escape? If they all ran now, surely that would be best for everyone? But how to spread the word safely? Then there was his 'Rescue the Kanagaran Slaves' quest. If only he knew where any of them were, he would encourage them to join the escape attempt. The two young Kanagrian people whom he'd promised to rescue were at a farm somewhere?

‘Turn left here,’ muttered Carmella.

Doing as he was told, Marcus was surprised when soon after, she said, ‘stop!’

They were outside a bakers and the scent of fresh bread was overpowering. Taking the leash out of Marcus’s hand, Carmella ran in through the doors.

Farkin began muttering some kind of prayer over and over with increasing nervous energy, until Marcus put his hand on the youth’s arm and whispered, ‘relax. She’s just getting us some food for the journey.’

Already the door was opening again and Carmella re-joined them, satchel bulging. But as Marcus set off, a male slave in an apron came to the door and soon after the thud of footsteps on a wooden floor heralded the appearance of two young women, sisters perhaps by their shared dark hair and brown skin.

‘What’s going on Carmella?’ asked the man.

Marcus’s companion flushed and looked around the empty street. ‘We’re escaping, Gettan.’

‘I’ll come too.’

‘And I.’

‘Me too.’

More hurried thumps on the floor and the three bakers were soon placing their leashes in Marcus’s hand. He could tell from the scent that the bags they carried were full of bread. Now, as they walked through the quiet alleyways, they were definitely attracting curious stares. Two male slaves even seemed to be following at a distance.

The road to the eastern gate was an earthen path that ran for fifty yards beyond the nearest house to a thick double-door that was currently closed with a heavy bar in place. Two small, wooden towers – more like huts stuck on the walls – flanked the gate, Feeling that any hesitation would be a giveaway, Marcus walked up to the gate, then looked up from one tower to the other.

‘Open up there!’ he shouted.

A man in a metal, conical helmet peered out of a window. ‘It’s closed until after the meeting.’

‘What meeting?’

‘Where were you? The town’s gone crazy about a new decree from the council. There’s a big meeting up at the square. You should go. It’s important.’

‘So’s our delivery. Open up and we’ll hurry back.’

No answer. But soon the soldier appeared, looking much like Marcus in his chainmail, but with a long spear strapped to his back while he climbed down a ladder.

‘Give us a hand,’ the soldier grunted as he pushed the bar from underneath.

Between them, Marcus and the soldier heaved the bar up until it could be slid to the ground with a thump. Then the soldier shoved at the left gate until it had opened with a gap wide enough to walk through.

Leading the five slaves out of the city, Marcus felt his heart had never pounded so hard in ninety years of living on earth. It was filling his ears with heat and noise. Ahead were farmed fields and a break in the grey sky revealed a lovely, azure sky whose exact tone Marcus was determined to remember forever and use in his work whenever he wanted to evoke that most beautiful of feelings: freedom.

‘Stop there!’ The soldier had an arm up and a distant expression. ‘Why did our population drop by six? Who are you?’

Turning around, Marcus drew his sword and positioned himself between the soldier and the others but Carmella pushed past and swung her satchel, it landed with the very distinct clank of a large quantity of coins hitting the ground. ‘There’s over five hundred silver there. Take it and let us go.’

With the man’s face covered by his helmet and beard, it was hard to read his expression. But he did go down onto one knee beside the bag and start to open it. As he pulled on a strap, a movement from the edge of his vision caused Marcus to look up. With both hands raised, holding a rock the size of a large book, a man dashed from the gate and hurled the heavy weight hard onto the soldier, smashing it into the man’s head and neck. With a loud clang just like that of a church bell being rung, the soldier slumped to the ground.

Another man ran out the gate, gave Marcus a look, then stooped by the body of the soldier to untie his boots. While the two men stripped the body of armour, Carmella reclaimed her bag and Marcus anxiously watched the walls. Nothing. At last the men were done and the party of eight hurried towards a small but dense copse of olive trees.

The further they got from the city, the more Marcus felt his anxiety give way to happiness. And it seemed his companions felt the same. There were plenty of smiles and even Farkin gave a great foolish grin when he caught Marcus’s eye. They were free! But what next, wondered Marcus? He would be hurrying towards Sina, hoping she was still alive. Would any of the others come with him? That was a discussion they must have once a good distance from Three Towers.