For the first time in months, Meracad was beyond the fortress walls. She stopped to inhale the air, as if it were somehow composed of different elements.
"Keep moving," Hal urged. "Walk as calmly as you can. Then when I give the word, we're going to make up some time."
"Where are we going?"
"I told you, Franc Hannac is waiting for us. He has a safe house below the southern walls."
The boulevard was already behind them, and they were now winding their way across university green. Meracad whirled around, painfully aware of how exposed they now were. The archers posted atop the fortress walls behind them could easily pick them off against the half-deserted backdrop of The Green, their dark figures a stark contrast against the snow underfoot. She turned to see that Hal was already several feet ahead, and ran to catch up with her.
"Master Hannac? From the Eagles' Nests?" she gasped, drawing level with the duellist, attempting to catch her breath.
"Yes, that's right." They were now approaching the end of The Green and entering The Shambles. "Franc Hannac, my father."
"What?"
Meracad almost stopped, but Hal pulled her into the alley. "Now, RUN!" she yelled.
She could ask no more, for Hal was already tearing in a chaotic flight of arms and legs towards the western walls. Picking up her skirts she followed, the slushy wet ground splashing around her legs. Street vendors screamed out in anger as Hal kicked over a basket of dried plums up ahead. Meracad's lungs already felt as if they were being ripped from her body.
"Mind where you're going!" someone yelled. "Bloody thieves, like as not!"
"Hal, slow down!" Hal had reached the end of The Shambles and was about to turn left down the western walls. Dizziness gripped Meracad, the world whirled around her. She bent over and retched.
Hal skidded to a halt and ran back to her. Creased double, Meracad released the contents of her stomach into the gutter. She clung for support to the timber frame of the end cottage, her skin growing clammy and cold, sweat breaking across her brow.
"What's wrong?" Hal was stroking her hair, glancing anxiously back up the street.
"It's alright, I'll be alright. Just slow down a bit. Your legs are longer than mine." Meracad managed a wan smile.
"Are you able to carry on? We can't stay here, it's not safe."
"I know, I know. Let's move."
Hal put her arm around Meracad's shoulders, supporting her as they half-stumbled past work houses, smithies and carpenters. The Shambles had become a blur, its ramshackle wooden shelters merging into one. Her feet were now frozen, the snow soaking the soft leather of her boots. She felt her stomach heave once more, but repressed the urge to vomit. There was nothing left in her stomach anyway.
"Come on, almost there." Hal was kissing her cheek. She forced herself onwards.
They had stopped before the low, squat door of a timber-framed shack. Meracad rested against its wall, her nausea finally subsiding, her breathing now less erratic. She closed her eyes, latching onto the drift of city sounds ─ the distant calls of vendors, the crunch of cartwheels over dirty streets. Hal rapped three times on the door. For a few tense moments, it seemed as if no one would answer. The duellist looked up and down the street in desperation, and Meracad felt her stomach dip once more. Then bolts were flung back and a man's head peered out at them, his blue eyes bright with relief, his smile broad. Meracad almost sank down on the street, but he pulled her inside, Hal followed, and the door slammed shut behind them. She sat on the floor for a few moments, panting, her head buried in her hands. When she looked up, arms were reaching down, pulling her inside, into the warmth and safety of the hut. She felt Hal close, and gave in to the duellist's tight embrace. They were safe.
***
"Well done!" Franc turned to Hal as she extricated herself from Meracad's arms. "I was almost on the verge of going in there to get you out. The lad here was desperate..."
From behind him, Degaré stepped out ‒ Franc's dark shadow. "Congratulations, Hal." He patted her shoulder. "I was beginning to have my doubts."
"So this must be Meracad? Sit down, lass. You've been through a great deal today and we aren't out of the clear yet. Degaré, fetch the girl some wine. She looks as if she could do with it. I'm Franc Hannac of the Eagles' Nests."
"Thank you, Sir." Meracad looked up at him, her face pale, the head scarf now loose, half unravelled, her eyes feverish and bright. "I'd heard people speak of your good will but I never expected so much."
"All Hal's friends are my friends too ‒ apart from those two rogues she thinks I don't know about down at The Emperor." He winked.
Degaré handed her a glass of wine and she drank it, some of the colour returning to her cheeks. "The thieves have good hearts, Sir. Believe me."
"For your sake, I'll try to."
Franc turned to Hal, one eyebrow raised. "Another thing you've inherited from your father," he whispered. "Good taste. So," he continued aloud. "I take it the plan worked."
"Well, not entirely, Franc."
He looked at her sharply. "What do you mean, not entirely?"
"Well, I think we ought to get out of Dal Reniac right now."
Degaré's face clouded. "What have you done?"
"Well, it wasn't exactly our fault."
"Just tell us, Hal." Franc rounded on her. "If something has gone wrong, we need to know."
She took a deep breath and began to recall everything that had happened, from her arrival in the fortress to their mad dash through The Shambles. Franc sat down opposite Meracad, working out his exasperation on the hearth with a poker. "Have you finished?" he asked at last, in a tone of suppressed anger.
"I suppose so."
"So, the plan, Hal, if I remember well, was quite simple. You exchanged clothes and walked out of the fort. No one was to recognise you, least of all Nérac. Instead of which you actually knocked him out ─ but lest we forget, not before he'd seen your face."
"How could I know he'd be there?"
"I haven't finished. He saw you, you knocked him out, tied him to a chair and then to top it all succeeded in murdering his chef before doing a rather dubious impersonation of a page for the benefit of his kitchen staff?"
"Well, if you want to cast it in such a negative light."
"In what other way can I cast it?"
"Look, there's no point in arguing about it now." Meracad was beginning to come round. "If we don't move, he'll be searching every house in Dal Reniac. We have to go."
Degaré shook his head. "You chose a bad moment. It's the week's market. All the farmers and traders from the mountains of Ceadda to the eastern sea-board will be leaving the city. There'll be a queue stretching back from the gates. You're better off waiting until tomorrow."
"We can't do that!" Hal yelled. "By this time, Nérac could have been discovered, and he'll almost certainly have given the guards orders to watch out for us. If we don't go now, we won't get out at all!"
Franc sighed in resignation. "She's right. If we stay here, we'll be trapped like rats. Degaré, we'll have to saddle up the horses from the wagon." The young man nodded and stepped outside without another word. Franc shook his head at Hal. "Couldn't you have been more subtle?"
"No," she retorted angrily, dragging the page's tunic over her shoulders. "Could you?"
"Master Hannac, is it true that you are Hal's father?" Meracad interrupted, attempting to stave off further arguments.
Franc and Hal looked at one another. Hal shook her head. "Not now, Franc."
"Well, she's right, Meracad. I am her father, but I don't suppose we have the time to go into that now."
"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, you're an improvement on her mother."
"That's not exactly difficult is it?" Hal muttered, keen to be gone.
Franc fought back a smile. "I suppose she's right. It's not much of a compliment, but thank you anyway."
They waited with growing impatience until Degaré had returned. He refused even to look at Hal, but addressed Franc with undisguised concern. "Please, be careful."
Franc embraced the boy warmly. "I'm always careful, lad. If the guards should come, you know what to say."
"The master was here for a few days on business, but we didn't see anything."
Franc nodded. "If there's any sign that things are going to get too hot around here, get to Hannac before it's too late. I don't want you risking your own life for our sakes. And you'll keep me informed as to what you hear of Nérac's reaction? Forewarned is forearmed."
"I will do, Sir."
"Very well, let's be gone."
Degaré had saddled the horses and filled their panniers with blankets and food. Hal was grateful to find her coat in of one of the saddle-bags, while Meracad wrapped her freezing limbs in a blanket. Without hesitation, she made a confident leap into the saddle of one of the horses as Franc hauled himself astride the other.
"You can ride?" Hal asked Meracad in surprise.
"Of course. Can't you?"
She looked down at her feet. "I learned on the way here."
"In that case, you'd better get on in front of me," Meracad smirked. Hal clambered up with less grace than Meracad had displayed and they set off for the southern gates.
Degaré had been right. It was the end of the weekly market, and the queue of farmers, tenant workers and tradesmen stretched a hundred-fold back along the streets of Dal Reniac. Beneath the walls, guards inspected each cart, interrogating the owners before eventually letting them through. Hal groaned in disbelief. "It's impossible," she whispered to Franc. "Nérac must have come round by now. He'll send his guards at any minute."
"Well, what did you expect, Hal?" Franc hissed back in anger. "That we would dance out the gates with his blessing?"
"No, but I thought you said you knew the city well enough to spirit us out of it."
"And? So? Just because I know the place doesn't mean I can compensate for your mistakes!"
"Ssshhh!" Meracad urged. "Stop arguing. I have an idea. Get back off the street before they see us." She jumped down and rummaged inside a pannier, pulling out one of the blankets before disappearing down the nearest side street.
"What's she doing? Is she out of her mind?" Franc stared after her, his brow creased into an incredulous frown.
They waited for several minutes, until she returned with a sizeable bump beneath her dress. Hal looked at her and then at Franc. "It's probably our only chance," she whispered. The fastest pregnancy in history."
Something nudged at the edge of her thoughts, a sudden connection with their mad dash through the streets. She brushed the anxiety away. There was no time now. Leaping from her horse, she joined Franc who had already found himself caught up in Meracad's little drama.
"Oh by the ancestors themselves!" the girl shrieked. "It's coming!"
A few heads turned in surprise as she collapsed theatrically on the floor.
"I'll not have my child delivered on the city streets!" Franc yelled for the benefit of those who were now gathering around them. "I'll get you home, my dear. Lad, help us get her on the horse."
They hoisted her back up with some help from a few concerned bystanders, and Franc climbed on behind her as she continued to let out exaggerated groans. There were a few shouts of disapproval as they rode past those who had already been waiting in the cold for several hours, but some murmurs of sympathy for Meracad.
The guards on the gate eyed them with deep suspicion. "What's wrong with her?"
"Is it not obvious, Sir? She's having our baby." Franc's tone was as grovelling as he could muster. "We need to get her home."
"Well, now, that's not my fault, is it? You see this queue. Wait in line like the rest of them."
Meracad let out a sudden shriek.
"Please, Sir, have pity on the girl. It's her time. What if it were your wife, Sir, about to have a baby on the filthy streets of the city?"
The guard's face softened. "Where are you from?"
"We're moorlanders, Sir. Our village lies to the south."
"Got papers, have you?"
Meracad shrieked again. "It's coming, it's coming!" she yelled. The guard looked worried. Other men at arms had now gathered around him, their conversation hushed but animated, peppered with gesticulations and occasional shouts of disagreement. Finally, he turned to Franc.
"Alright," he said grudgingly. "You and the girl can go. But the boy will have to stay." He looked at Hal. Franc shook his head. "No, Sir, I need him with us at such a time."
The soldier would not budge. "Out of the question. If I let you all go now, with this crowd here, they'll lynch me. The boy will stay. Unless, of course, you'd prefer it if the girl delivers her child right now in front of the entire city."
Hal realised the futility of arguing. The guards would grow suspicious if Franc pushed this too far. She touched his shoulder. "It's alright, Sir. I'll stay behind. You can trust me."
Franc looked at her for a moment, his eyes registering her intention. "Well lad, I do trust you. Catch us up later".
"I will, Sir. I promise." She stressed the last word, willing Meracad to stifle her protests.
"Come on, lass. Let's get you out of here." Franc turned his horse towards the gates, saluted the guard and thanked him. Then they moved out, Meracad now in tears as she strained round to look at Hal.
"To the back of the queue, son!" the soldier barked. She bit her lip and turned her horse around, ignoring the jeers of those who were grateful that the guards had not been entirely persuaded by Franc.
The line seemed barely to move at all. Her horse made impatient strikes at the ground with its hooves as if sensing her fears. The minute Nérac's men appeared, her escape would be thwarted, she would be arrested. It would be the end of everything. She had every reason to believe that Nérac was a man of his word.
At least Franc and Meracad were away. If they caught her, it might distract Nérac's attention from Meracad for a while. It might give them enough time to reach Hannac, and if necessary, for the girl to set out on the run alone. She growled in frustration. The thought of Meracad alone and on the run was unbearable.
The line edged forwards a few steps. Before her, the farmers muttered amongst themselves, heads bowed into their collars, hands buried deep in pockets. She had been waiting for what seemed like hours, although she knew that her mind was playing tricks on her. For it was not the hours that counted now, but the seconds. The second at which Nérac would come round, or would be discovered, bound and stunned in Meracad's bedroom, Garth lying in a pool of his own blood at his master's feet. The moment when shouts rang around the fortress, when every last corner of the place was searched for Meracad, and the guards at the postern gate realised they had been duped. She hoped that Magda's role in all of this had gone unnoticed: that no one had thought to comment on her absence from the kitchen, that they were not now interrogating her, or worse.
As if to give form to her fears,she raised her head to witness fortress guards running down the main street, wavingtheir arms in the direction of the queue and yelling. Their colleagues on the gateslooked up in surprise, and an order was given. Slowly, the massive iron-wroughtportcullis began to seal, lowered from its cavity high in the walls. Behind it,two huge wooden gates rolled forwards. Far away in the distance a bell tolled, raisingthe alarm. She knew that there was no choice. Slamming her heels into the horse'sflanks, she rode out past the queue. Frantic, the guards called out as they sawher coming, and drew together in a defensive line. She charged at them, experiencinga sickening jolt as the horse kicked one of the men down with its hooves and carriedon relentlessly, towards the diminishing space in the walls, now barely the widthof a horse and rider, daylight vanishing out of her reach. Lowering herself downflat in the saddle, she refused to turn round to see the massive iron grid makecontact with the ground as she shot out between the gates. Behind her, she hearda call for arrows, and then the air around her was torn apart by a thousand flyingshafts.