The puppy must be saved—this was the only thought that had kept Grince going throughout the last day or two, or three—he couldn’t remember how long he had been running and hiding, in fear of his life, cradling the small dog that was tucked into the scorched tatters of his shirt. He had fled in terror after the soldiers had stormed the sanctuary owned by gruff, ugly Jarvas—searching for Emmie, his best friend in the world, who had given him all five of the puppies from her huge white dog to be his very own. Four of those little scraps of life now lay dead in the burned-out shell of the warehouse that had been a home to so many poor families. Grince was desperate to save this one remaining survivor—for as far as he was aware, the puppy was the only living creature that he still knew. Emmie, if she lived, was nowhere to be found.
The boy’s first clear memory after the swords and the blood and the flames was daylight, an open kitchen doorway, a small loaf cooling on a table—and hunger: terrible, gnawing hunger and thirst. He had been in and out of that house before the goodwife had time to turn round from the fire she was tending, with his booty clutched tightly in one dirty fist. The woman had been too stout to catch him, though he remembered the sound of her wails and curses pursuing him all the way down the street, until he’d rounded a corner and found a chink of an opening in a cellar grating through which his skinny form could slide.
Grince remembered how-difficult it had been to feed his dog, that first time. The little creature was scarcely ready to progress beyond its mother’s milk, and already it was limp and weak with hunger, showing no interest in the morsel of bread that he held up to its mouth. The boy shuddered, remembering how close he had come to losing his precious pet. If he hadn’t remembered what Emmie had told him about mother dogs chewing up the food for their youngsters… When he’d tried it, Grince’s mouth had been almost too dry with apprehension to chew the bread, but somehow he had managed. Once he had forced one or two of the resulting pellets between its tiny jaws, the puppy seemed to get the idea. Like the child, it was a survivor.
That evening in the cellar marked the turning point for both of them. Grince, though still deep in shock at seeing his mother’s disemboweled corpse in the ruins of Jarvas’s compound, found new purpose to his life in caring for the tiny dog. Puppies ought to have milk, he knew—but milk was scarce indeed in Nexis, and though he searched long and desperately, he could find none. Then he thought of cheese—would that do, instead? By now his search was taking him toward the less poverty-stricken homes in the north of the city. Cheese he found in an unguarded pantry, having slipped like a shadow through an open kitchen window. There was also a pot of porridge, simmering at the edge of the fire, ready for the morning. Grince stole that, too, wrapping the hot handle in a scrap of rag before picking it up. He had been astonished at how easy it was.
Seeking a lair to enjoy his spoils, the boy had discovered a high window at the rear of the arcade that had its wooden shutter swinging slightly ajar. It had been difficult to climb with the puppy still tucked into the scorched rags of his shirt—and even more difficult to get the porridge pot up there without spilling the contents—but Grince, goaded by his need, had managed it in the end and, grunting and swearing, had pulled himself up over the sill. The opening was protected by a row of metal bars, but the spaces between were just wide enough for a small, skinny boy to squeeze between.
Grince had dropped down hard on the other side of the wall, falling awkwardly because he was trying to protect both his precious dog and the contents of the porridge pot. Luckily, the floor’s stone flags were covered in a layer of dusty, prickly straw that cushioned the bump a bit. For all his care, though, the landing still knocked the breath from his body and slopped a little of the congealing cereal over the edge of the pot. Grince swore and, with a grubby finger, scooped up a lump of the porridge that was still clinging to the rim. He popped it into his mouth, and it suddenly made him realize how hungry he was. He could have eaten the lot, but restrained himself with difficulty. The porridge would have to be saved for his puppy.
The puppy! Was it all right after his fall? With shaking hands Grince opened his shirt and checked on the little creature, facing into the faint glimmer of light that came through the window above and squinting his eyes in an attempt to pierce the shadowy gloom that filled the interior of the building. The little dog whimpered plaintively as it felt the cold air against its body, but apart from that, it seemed fine. Grince was willing to bet that it was hungry, too. He must find somewhere safe for the two of them to hide…
The boy had already heard the small rustlings and scrabblings in the straw that betrayed the presence of lurking rats. Grince could imagine their shiny little eyes in the darkness, watching him. He was not afraid of them, he told himself stoutly. After all, there had always been rats at home. But the puppy was in deadly danger, and they would make short work of his meager supply of food. Grince abandoned his plan to leave the porridge pot in a corner while he explored.
Awkward as it was, he would have to take it with him. What he really needed, to start with, would be a stub of candle—and a good, stout stick wouldn’t go amiss either! “Come on, puppy,” the boy told his small companion. Taking a firm grip on the handle of the porridge pot, he set off into the darkness.
The inside of the building was too dark for exploring. Grince had not taken three steps before he ran bang up against a wooden wall. Moving to his left, he came near to tripping over the pile of casks and crates that had been stored beneath. Grince bit down on a curse, then suddenly brightened, as an idea came to him. Stooping, he began to burrow his way into the haphazard pile. And mere, right in the center, he found his lair at last—in an old flour barrel where the rats could come at him from only one direction, and be deterred by a slat of wood that he had pulled from a broken crate. For the first time in ages, Grince had a shelter in which he could almost feel safe and secure—somewhere from which he could begin to make his plans for survival.
“Don’t be scared, little one. I’ll look after you.” Though Grince’s words had been addressed to the tiny puppy tucked snugly into the rags of his shirt, the child had spoken in a desperate attempt to comfort himself. Once his initial relief had worn off, the boy’s newfound feeling of security had not lasted long. He was exhausted and hungry; he was all alone in the cold and dark of this enormous, creepy building, and there was no one left in the whole of his small world that he could turn to for help.
They were all dead. Grince closed his eyes and shuddered. His mind still tried to writhe away from the brutal truth. Once more, he wanted to run—to run as he had been running ever since his young life had fallen apart in blood and flames. But the boy had already been running from the truth too long. He had found a good hiding place now, and he had enough sense to know he ought to stay there. The arcade was a haven away from the dangers and violence of the squalid dockside area. It would shield him from the weather and hide him from the brutal guardsmen whose swords had drunk the blood of his only protectors. Here, with luck, there might be a little food to scavenge, and comparative peace in which to take care of his only companion.