Hal finished her training late that evening. The hall was deserted by the time she finally racked up her swords, splashed water across her face and changed into a fresh shirt and trousers. There was clearly no point in returning home, she realised. She knew Marc would take her lateness for a snub, and she certainly had no desire to give him further cause for offence.
Locking the main doors, she descended to the streets below, wrestling with forces which seemed to drag her in so many directions. If Meracad had sufficient courage, then these could be the last days she ever spent at Beric's academy, amongst people who had given her the support and respect she had so badly lacked at court. How would they interpret her decision to leave? As an act of love, or one of betrayal?
She stopped for a moment. Grasping the rail of the stairs, she clenched her teeth, dragging the back of her sleeve across her eyes. Would she now give then genuine cause to rue the chances they had given her? Courtiers would snicker behind their peacock feather fans and bejewelled masks, jibing Marc with reminders of her selfishness. We always knew that she had no one's interests at heart but her own. She had no place at the court or outside it. She does nothing but hurt those around her. She would explain everything to Marc before she left. She owed him that much. She knew how disappointed it would make him, but at least she could pay him the respect of honesty.
The summer heat was gradually losing its intensity as the sun wound its way down behind the city roof-tops. Yet as always, crowds still thronged the streets. This was all she had ever known, she realised, as she stepped out into the heady maelstrom of Colvé once more. The flow and flux of the metropolis: a place where nothing could remain still for more than a few moments. Constant movement, conversation, sounds of laughter, shouts of anger, the intense stink of the city: a melting pot in which society came together and produced its own rich impressions.
The weather would soon break. Something had to give. Her thoughts turned once again to the journey that lay ahead. For all that she loved this life, she knew in her heart that if she stayed it would become a burden. Her training, her duelling, the double existence, moving amongst thieves and senators: the appeal of it all would begin to fade. Instead, she would be constantly looking for someone and never finding her, always painfully aware of the distance between herself and Meracad. The best she could hope for would be an even more dangerous game of covert meetings ‒ of attempts to evade Léac and Meracad's husband. No, she told herself, as she cut across the city square. However painful it would be, they had to leave. There was no other way.
She looked around, such thoughts making her nervous, noticing a well-dressed, almost dandyish figure lounging against the central fountain. People hurried by in front of him, yet he seemed to observe her intently, and when she stared at him, he doffed his feathered cap, bowing with a flourish. She picked up her speed and continued.
Cara's spy, perhaps? But Cara was extremely subtle in placing tails on Hal. Well, she thought sourly, at least if she were to leave, she would no longer have to worry about that particular menace. Her mother would be more than relieved to hear that she had left the city for good.
She turned again. Nobody there. How stupid she had been. Or perhaps nerves were making her imagine things. She headed down an alley that led from the square: a more direct route to Marc's town house than the main road. It was not far now, a matter of minutes. She felt tempted to break into a run, but reasoned with herself. There was nobody to fear. Who could know where she was headed, or why?
That was when she felt the cold steel of a knife's blade levelled against her waist. Her heart kicked and she twisted around to witness her assailant grin down at her, a mouthful of black, rotten teeth set in a tanned, weather-beaten face. She made for her sword but he grasped her arm in pretence of a friendly embrace and pressed the blade more firmly to her skin. Someone was following: she heard the clip of boots on the cobbles behind. Turning her head, she caught sight of the man from the fountain. This time, he doffed his hat in irony.
"Move." She was pushed to her left. They were forcing her into a backstreet. She reached for her sword once again, this time with her left hand, but the dandy grabbed her arm, deftly pulling the weapon from her belt and flinging it away. Helpless now, she struggled as they forced her further down a winding little passage which ran between high-roofed shops and houses, the light pushed out, darkness encroaching. The place seemed deserted. If only she had taken the main street. She yelled out in fear, but the scream was stifled by a dirty, garlic-scented hand pressed over her lips.
Then they stopped. She kicked out with her legs and was met with a blow to her stomach, causing her to double over in agony. They pulled her to her feet. In the half-light she could make out two more figures up ahead. The first ‒ stocky and well-built ‒ stood, impassive, arms folded. The other was shorter, wirier, with a long beard and wild gingerish hair. Her heart sank. Four men, no weapon. She was finished.
"Got a message for you." The wiry man brought his face close to her own. His breath was hot and foul.
"Really? From who?"
"You'll understand who the message is from once you've received it."
She reeled from the first blow as he struck her across the cheek. And as the fists flew down into her face, her back, her stomach and chest, the light faded and her last thoughts were of Meracad.
***
Meracad gnawed on her nails, pushing away another nauseous wave of fear. Her father had returned several days earlier than she had expected. Not only that, but he had requested her presence at dinner: a rare occurrence. They only ate together if Léac was receiving guests and needed her to play the role of hostess. It could mean but one thing: he wished to tell her about his dealings in the North, and the marriage contract which would have sealed them. She must get a message to Hal ─ to warn her to stay away for a few days. And for the time being, it would be best to humour her father, to make him believe that she was delighted at the news. Her only hope now was that Hal would not lose her nerve. Everything had seemed so much easier with Léac out of the city.
Trembling, she made her way downstairs to the dining room. In spite of the summer twilight, he had drawn the curtains. The room was dark, the air close. Léac sat in his shirtsleeves at the far end of the table, drinking wine and staring morosely into his glass.
"Daughter," he acknowledged her as she entered. "Sit!"
She noted with unease that no place had been prepared for her, and took a chair at the opposite end, as far from him as she could.
"And how was your trip to Dal Reniac, father?"
Léac snorted. "We might better ask how you spent your time in Colvé, daughter."
She understood his meaning instantly but knew better than to show her fear, lowering her shaking hands beneath the table. If she were to save herself and Hal from harm, time meant everything, she realised.
"What do you mean, Sir?" The words came out strained, forced. She bit her lip and clasped her hands together, digging her nails into the soft skin so hard it hurt.
"You know very well what I mean." His voice was a low growl. "Let us not play games, Meracad. I have no patience for them, as you well know. You have been seen in the company of that freakish boy-girl. And you, it seems, made no attempt to consider what that might do to your reputation. Or above all, to mine, while I was out of this city, negotiating the most important deal of my life, and the security of your future happiness ─ your marriage."
His temper rising, Léac hurled his glass at the wall before pulling himself to his feet. Horrified now, she began to panic.
"I would like to know who has fed you these stories, father." She caught the edge of hysteria in her own voice. "Surely someone who hates us both ─ who wants to ruin me."
"Do not make me suspect you a liar now as well as an ingrate." He moved round the table, and before she could do anything, he had seized her hair.
"You're hurting me, Sir!" She could no longer disguise her alarm.
"You asked about my dealings in the North," he continued, unconcerned, pressing his lips to her ear. "I succeeded. I made a deal with Nérac, and its final clause was you."
It was true, then. She was to be handed over to this aristocrat, this lord, to be treated as a bargaining chip – insurance against the breaking of the contract.
He pulled her roughly from the chair and glared into her face. "And I will honour that deal. You are to leave. Now. The carriage is waiting. It's packed. In three days' time you will reach Dal Reniac and there you will marry. You will not return to Colvé. And I pray to the souls of my ancestors, I will never set eyes on you again once you are married."
Now desperate, Meracad twisted from his grasp, attempting to run for the door but Léac caught her and forced her against the wall, his hand around her neck. "Just before you leave, you might like to know that the bitch will share in your suffering."
"What have you done?" She shook uncontrollably, faced with the helplessness of her situation, as if peering into a chasm or mine shaft with no hope but to jump.
"I sent her a message," Léac sneered. "I don't expect her to come looking for you once she's received it."
With a howl of misery, Meracad sank to the ground. Snorting once more in contempt, Léac hauled her from the room, placing her in the hands of guards he had hired to escort her to Dal Reniac. And as they led her away, she heard him turn over the dining room table in his fury, caught the splintering crash of his chair as he hurled it against a wall, and then came the sound of a door slamming shut.
They pulled her out into the fetid, steamy summer evening, pushed her into the carriage and got in beside her. And as they sped out through the gates she screamed until they seized hold of her and forced sleeping spirit down her throat. The world swirled, the air seemed to close in and she sank against the carriage seats, clinging to her last shreds of consciousness until they too were shed.
***
It was the early hours. A few straggling guests made their unsteady exit down the steps of Marc's grand residence and out across the garden as he bid them goodnight. Then, overcome by bitterness and exhaustion, he headed wearily back into the hall.
So, she had decided not to come. After their many years of friendship ─ his support, the money, the protection ─ she had thrown that all back in his face.
It would not have taken much, he told himself, for Hal to have come to that party: to have torn herself away from her new object of devotion. Especially after the promise she had made. He had long accepted that she was stubborn, difficult: in some ways, he feared, a lost cause. But such a blatant display of disregard? It cut him to the quick.
Taking up a candle, he trudged downstairs. Marc often chose to sit before the glowing embers of the kitchen hearth following the exertions of his parties. After all the wildness, the excitement, the drunkenness, it was the unpretentious, quiet company of his servants that he craved.
But they had all gone to bed. Only Lira the maid was still at work, clearing up after the evening's excesses, her dark eyes haggard with tiredness, a few stray wisps of brown hair hanging loose from beneath her head scarf. She drew a chair up by the fire, gesturing for him to sit down. "Tired are we, Sir?"
He sank down, stifling a yawn. "Something like that." Marc pulled off his boots, stretching stockinged feet out towards the glowing embers in the grate. For some reason he found the heat soothing.
"I'll make you a cup of hot wine. That'll warm your spirits."
"Thank you. That's kind of you."
He leant back, eyes half closed. The party was already a stale memory, but his anger over Hal's absence refused to abate. Lira bustled about the kitchen, hanging a copper pan above the hearth and rattling through cupboards for glasses.
He must have drifted off, for a sudden noise caused him to jerk upright, almost tipping from the chair as he did so. A faint, muffled knocking came from behind the door. Had he dreamed that? No. There it was again. Raising one eyebrow, Marc threw the maid a sly glance. "Expecting someone, Lira? Some night-time visitor, perhaps?"
She looked appalled. "I don't know what you mean, Sir. I don't take visitors at this time of the night."
Marc laughed. "Alright, alright, I know. I'm only teasing. Anyway, get the door, girl. Might be some poor beggar after the scraps."
Still ruffled, her worn features creased into a scowl, Lira wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door. The chill evening air caused him to shiver, and he twisted around just in time to see someone stumble into the kitchen, to catch their groan as they slumped face forward onto the floor, to hear Lira's sharp shriek.
Springing upwards in horror, Marc clung onto the backrest of the chair as if for support. Lira had backed away, putting the kitchen table between herself and the body which lay, crumpled and still, arms splayed, one leg still resting out in the street. Summoning all his courage, he edged across the kitchen, taking in the ripped, blood-stained shirt, the dark hair matted and wet. And then, in one appalling, sickening instant, he knew.
Marc knelt and gently turned over the body, peering down into Hal's beaten, disfigured face, her left eye sealed in a mass of bruises, dried blood congealed and crusted around her mouth and nose. Her street-soiled shirt, torn to the waist, revealed fresh gashes still bleeding, her chest mottled with bruises. Pressing his fingers to her neck he sighed with relief. The pulse was faint, irregular, but it was there. He felt Lira pressing against his back, peering over his shoulder.
A cold, hard sense of urgency replaced his initial shock. "Fetch the doctor," he told her gravely. "Tell her it's urgent."
She grabbed her coat from its peg, jumping over Hal's outstretched legs as she fled from the kitchen. His mood now grim, Marc hauled his friend inside, closing the door against the city and its dangers. Then, ignoring the girl's quiet moans, he picked her up and carried her upstairs to safety.