Hal spent a fitful night in the attic, failing miserably to get any sleep as her mind revisited the argument with Degaré. She had witnessed the strain in his eyes, his genuine concern for Franc and for Hannac, his fear of conflict. The possibility that he could be right played on her nerves, wrung her conscience dry.
She pretended to be asleep when her father wearily made his own way up the ladder, tightly closing her eyes as he held a candle near her face to peer down at her. Another pang of remorse hit her when she heard him sigh and extinguish the flame. Perhaps he really was risking all for her now, just because he had failed to do so in the past. But it is his choice, she told herself. I would have come here alone if I had to.
Hal knew that he too had difficulty sleeping, for she could sense him wrestling with the blankets as he changed position. He rose at dawn and she remained, lying on her back and staring gloomily at the ceiling as pale streaks of morning light filtered through chinks in the ceiling, piercing the darkness.
There was no sign of Degaré downstairs. Franc was studying some documents, his face worn and haggard. He observed her without comment as she made her descent of the ladder.
"Where is he?" She yawned and slumped down in the chair opposite.
"Gone to the market. To get you a disguise."
"A disguise? You didn't tell me anything."
"No, because I knew what kind of ideas you would have." He dumped the papers on the floor and scrutinised her face. "You look tired."
"You too. What do you mean 'the kind of ideas I would have?'"
Stiffly he rose and padded into the kitchen. "We want to get you inside the fortress, right?"
"That's the plan."
"And what kind of disguise is going to make that possible?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps I could get hired as a soldier or somebody like that."
Chuckling, he poured out a glass of fruit compote, handing her a glass as he came back into the room.
"What's so funny?"
"That's exactly what I mean by 'the kind of ideas you would have.' The problem, Hal, is that going in as a guard, you'll be pretty much disguised as yourself. Besides, soldiers go where they're told, and that's either the guards' room, the courtyard, or the fortress walls as you well know. You won't have a chance of finding Meracad if you do that."
"And so what 'kind of idea' did you have, Franc?"
"Well, there are other options, you know. Scullery maids, servants ─ that kind of thing."
"What?" she yelped, horrified at the idea of entering service for the first time in her life.
"Think about it, Hal. Servants work inside the building itself. You'll have the chance to see more of the place, maybe even explore a little. A dress, something to cover your hair, a hint of northern brogue ─ you'll be transformed, my girl!"
Hal sat back in her chair, feeling as if she had just taken a blow to the stomach.
"Or do you think that, what with being an aristocrat and all, you could never sink so low?"
"I'm no snob." She downed the compote, the sweet, summery taste of strawberries mingling with the sour aftertaste of currents. Setting down the glass she rose and stepped over to the window. Outside, the street had begun to stir. Dour, head down against the cold, the inhabitants of Dal Reniac went about their business, trudging through the mud and slush of the city. No sign of Degaré, she realised, suddenly nervous.
"Look, Hal, Nérac certainly doesn't make petty decisions about who works in his kitchens. He won't pay you a second glance. And you'll be able to move about with relative ease before you manage to get her out of there."
"And would you happen to have given any thought as to how that might be achieved?"
His eyes took on a self-satisfied cast. Leaning back in his chair, he placed the palms of his hands together, resting his chin on top of them and beamed across at her. "Well as a matter of fact, I have. And that, my girl, is the best part!"
***
Degaré returned from the market later that morning. His mood still apparently sour, he continued to eye Hal with suspicion. In turn, she kept her distance.
"Well," Franc asked him, "have you got them?"
"Franc, this is a really bad idea."
Franc's face clouded. "We've already spoken enough of this, Degaré. Anyway, it's Hal who's taking on most of the risk. We just sit here and wait until the girls are out. Then we'll be gone. No one need know of your involvement. But I need you to stay here and keep me informed of Nérac's reaction."
Degaré sighed, holding up a cloth bag. "Just don't ask where I got them from," he pleaded. "I'd not do this for another soul. You know that Franc, don't you?"
For a reason she couldn't quite understand, Degaré's words reverberated to the core of Hal's very being. He handed her the bag. "Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome." His voice was flat, inexpressive. And yet there was something about the way he looked at her then, as if he were trying to express something, something that she felt she should understand but couldn't quite grasp.
"I'm sorry for my surliness last night," she found herself saying. "I realise that you only want the best for Franc and for Hannac,"
This time he shook her hand with something like genuine regard. "Just get out of there alive."
"Let's get this over with." She emptied the contents of the bag onto the floor. At first she thought that Degaré had simply returned with a pile of rags, but poking through the heap of tattered material, she identified a grey, home spun dress and a faded white headscarf. "Oh, in the Emperor's own holy name!" She backed away as if she'd just stumbled across a wasps' nest.
"Just do it, Hal!" Franc snapped. "We've no time to be wasting on your fads, girl!"
"Fads?" she muttered, holding the headscarf at arms' length. "It looks like it's already been worn by half of Dal Reniac."
"All the better. You're supposed to be half-starved and desperate to find work. No one else would be mad enough to seek employment in Nérac's fortress."
Grimacing, Hal pulled the dress on over her trousers and shirt. Franc looked her up and down, failing to suppress a smile. "And the scarf, Hal!"
"Oh, come on Franc ─ is it really necessary?"
"How many serving wenches have you seen with cropped hair? Don't ever take it off ─ just tell them you've got lice or something."
"Well I probably will have after wearing that." Screwing tight her eyes, she wound it about her head, convinced that she could feel her scalp already itching.
"Oh, put it on properly for the spirits' sake!" Franc moaned in exasperation. "Anyone would think you'd been living wild on the moors looking at the state of you." He adjusted it and took a step back. "There. That's it. Degaré, what do you think?"
Degaré slunk his head round the kitchen door and stared at her in amusement. "She'll pass," he said. "At least they're not too choosy up at Dal Reniac Fort."
"Thanks," she returned drily.
Franc appraised her once more. "Ready, lass?" he asked at last.
"More than ready." She hoped he did not hear the feigned strain of bravado.
"You remember what I told you? Observe the route I'm about to show you and memorise it. You'll follow it back when you make your escape from the fort. We'll be waiting for you here, the lad and I. And remember this above all else, Hal...you don't have to do this. If you change your mind when we're outside the walls of the fortress...if your courage fails you and you turn back, I'll understand. What we're planning here is..." he turned to Degaré "well, it's madness."
She noticed Degaré pale, his eyes lingered on Franc before he drew back into the kitchen. Hal bit her lip, aware of the strange weight of the dress hanging on her lanky frame, a nauseous excitement spreading through her entire body. "I love her, Franc," she whispered. "I have to try."
Franc nodded. "Very well. But be aware of this: If you've not made it back in three days, I'm going in there to get you out."
***
Franc and Hal set off at midday, picking their way through the slushy streets, the hem of her dress becoming soaked and heavy. Flurries of snow now danced on the wind, coating the rooftops and cobbles white.
"Make sure you remember the route we're taking," he warned her. "If you have to get out of the fort in a hurry, you're better sticking to these smaller streets."
They skirted beneath the western walls, passing a series of low-roofed shacks and cottages which resembled Franc's own safe-house. In some of them she made out craftsmen at work, smiths ringing down blows onto anvils or the sound of saws screeching back and forth through planks of wood.
"Turn right now." He indicated a street so narrow that there was barely passing room. "The Shambles," he explained. "One of the poorest districts of the city. A good place to get lost in."
Beggars squatted on doorsteps, their arms outstretched in positions of pathetic appeal. Some of them even grabbed at her dress as she walked past. She shuddered, noticing that many were missing limbs or had bandages wrapped across their eyes. A foul smell emanated from the gutters and they dodged just in time as a bucket was emptied from an upstairs window.
"Charming," she muttered nervously.
"It's how the other half lives, Hal. Look and learn. Alright, now this is where things start to get dangerous."
They had reached an open lawn, its grass vanishing beneath the snow, a boundary between the poverty-stricken Shambles and the rest of the city. Long-robed figures huddled together in small groups, engaged in earnest conversation. Others meandered alone, their brows furrowed in concentration or, in a few bizarre cases, talking openly to themselves.
"Are they mad?" she whispered.
"No, they're students," he grinned back. "This is the university green. And you'll notice that we're almost at our destination." A wide boulevard ran along the top end of the green, framed on its northern side by the outer walls of Nérac's fortress. Behind those walls stood the keep which overshadowed everything: a massive, stone hewn monolith.
She cursed, gazing up at the fort as they approached, noting the rows of archers pacing their battlements, the angry, iron shape of the portcullis. "I might get in, but how are we going to get out?"
"I told you Hal, you don't have to do this. You can..."
"Don't, Franc. Please?" She turned to him, catching his sleeve, aware that her hands were shaking. She put it down to the cold. "I've come this far. It's my only chance."
"You don't know that."
"I've waited...we've waited for so long. I'm not turning back."
He looked at her for a long time then, snowflakes settling amongst the black curls of his hair, his breath carried away as small clouds on the freezing air. At last he nodded. "I've no right to hold you back, Hal. And even if I tried, it wouldn't make any difference." He dragged frozen fingers through his wet locks. "But please, do what it takes to come out of there alive. Would you promise me that?"
"I promise."
"Well then," he breathed. "Let's get going." They followed a diagonal path which led straight across the green up to a postern gate in the fortress walls. Many of the students were so lost in their own thoughts that they almost ran into them. As they made their way up to the sentry post to the right of the postern, her heart thumped like a caged beast against her ribs and she found herself painfully conscious of the ridiculous headscarf and poor, snow-sodden dress.
The guard's bored expression tinged with contempt when he noticed Hal. "What do you want?" he asked, his lips hardening into a sneer.
"The lass's looking for work." Franc was a confident liar. "I'm her only family here in the city but I can't offer her a penny. I have trouble enough putting food in my own mouth."
"Really? And what do you expect me to do about that?"
"I heard the master was taking on servants."
The guard stared at them both in silence for a while. "The master's always taking on servants," he said at last. "Although what he'd be wanting with a scarecrow like that I can't imagine."
Hal bit her tongue. At least the disguise was effective.
"Alright." The soldier's tone was grudging. "I'll take her through to see if Garth wants any help. But you," he turned to Hal, "you look like the light-fingered type to me. Don't even think about taking what isn't yours or I'll see to it both your hands are broken."
"I wouldn't dream of such a thing, Sir, after you'd shown so much consideration," she replied, in a poor imitation of northern brogue.
"Good luck, lass!" Franc called after her. She didn't look back.