The moment Fort Lasthall finally appeared at the far end of the dirt road, Jak halted with his barrow full of books.

For all his childhood, Jak had drifted from village to village. He’d slept beneath trees or in haylofts or sheltered ditches. He’d been a helper to a bootblack, a fetcher, and a costermonger, and all that before he was ten winters. He’d stayed in so many places, but he’d never thought them as home. His books were his only possessions, and with them he’d wandered.<. .>