Imperial Spy (10 page)

‘Gone? Gone where?’

Lord Danar was infuriated by the placid face of Versande Matthiason. The innkeeper appeared imperturbable in the face of Danar’s anger. Like a rock on a stormy seashore, he let the waves
of emotion wash over him, and if there was any wear from the pounding action of that crashing surf, then it merely served to make his surface smoother.

‘I’m not sure where Lady Alyssa went, my Lord. It’s not my place to question guests on their movements, but I did notice her saddlebags were full. If I were to hazard a guess,
then I would say she has left the city and is riding home,’ Versande answered in a calm voice.

‘Left the city!’ Danar exclaimed. His eyebrows rose so high they were nearly lost in his hairline and every crease of his expressive face showed disbelief. ‘When did she
leave?’

‘This morning. Early. I’m sorry Lord Danar.’

Alyssa had eluded him again. First she had evaded his efforts to see her after the coronation. Now she had made him look a fool in front of Versande. As an added insult, the humiliation would
cost him ten gold sen when his friends discovered she had left. ‘Have you any idea when she’ll be back?’ he asked, with little hope in his voice.

Versande shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, my Lord. When Lady Alyssa left, she gave no indication of when she might return.’

‘That seems to be one of Alyssa’s more consistent tendencies,’ Danar muttered. ‘She left this morning, you say? Well maybe I can catch up with her,’ he added, more
to himself than the innkeeper. ‘Thank you, Versande. If you hear anything more from Lady Alyssa, I’ll be grateful for news of her.’

‘I understand, my Lord. If I hear anything of the Lady’s whereabouts, I’ll send word. If it helps, Alyssa and her servants turned down the Eastern Avenue.’

Danar nodded, then turned and walked slowly out of the inn, his face thoughtful. Was he deluding himself? Had he really made a connection with Alyssa, or was it his imagination? He was used to
women falling in a swoon at his feet the moment he showed interest in them. It was irritating yet strangely refreshing that Alyssa was not so easily won. Should he follow her? He did not even know
her home city, but surely there could be few women who fitted Alyssa’s description and status in the coastal cities. He could try to follow her trail. If he lost it he could enquire at the
next coastal city. Would Alyssa be impressed by his persistence if he followed her, or would he brand himself a nuisance to be avoided? It was a difficult dilemma. Danar did not yet know Alyssa
well enough to make a balanced assessment.

‘Whatever I do, I must decide now. If I leave it any longer, her trail will go cold,’ he muttered. He stopped and stared silently into space for a moment. ‘It’s no use. I
must do something. If I let her go, then I may never see her again. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering. Right or wrong, I must go after her.’

The streets were busy. It was nearly time for the midday bell. Soon it would get busier as folk took time out from their jobs to seek food during the lunchtime period. People strode along with
an air of purpose. There was no time for chatting, and those who did engage in conversation spoke in brief staccato sentences. Everyone was in a hurry to do something. With his mind made up, Danar
launched into the bustling crowd and set to work.

He left messages for his friends and family that he would be out of the city for a while, and then gathered some travelling gear. Danar was not well travelled and had never been on the road
alone. He had no real experience of camping, or knowledge of the roads he intended to take. When he set off from his father’s residence along the Eastern Avenue later that afternoon, he did
so with poorly-packed saddlebags, ill-chosen equipment and the flimsiest of plans. He was blinkered – unaware of his shortcomings and totally focused on his goal.

The weather was fine as he left Shandrim, adding to his illusion that the journey would be a wonderful adventure. He had a good horse from his father’s stable, a fine sword, and plenty of
money. He felt prepared to face anything. It was ironic that as he left the city heading east, Femke re-entered the city from the south.

Femke had been at the Thrandorian Palace for two days before the luxuriant spell was rudely broken.

‘My Lady, my Lady,’ panted Kalheen as he burst into her suite without warning.

‘Manners, Kalheen!’ Femke snapped, her voice hard with reprimand. ‘You’ve been in service long enough to know you never enter a room without knocking – especially
the room of a lady.’

Femke was amazed Kalheen had broken such basic protocol. If the servant thought he could be familiar with her because they had travelled together for three weeks, then Femke was ready to stamp
on him hard to eliminate such misconceptions immediately.

‘I’m sorry, my Lady,’ he gasped, quite obviously struggling to recover from having run to her room. It was difficult for Femke to imagine how far Kalheen had run, as she did
not yet know the full layout of the Palace. He was not fit, so she suspected he had not run far. ‘I promise I’ll observe due manners in future, but this is too important to wait on
politeness. There’s been a murder, my Lady – here in the Palace.’

‘A murder, Kalheen? Who?’ Femke asked. Hairs prickled at the back of her neck. Instinct told her she would not like Kalheen’s news.

‘Baron Anton, my Lady. He was found dead in his room this morning, but that isn’t the worst of it . . .’

‘Spit it out, Kalheen, what is it?’

‘Everyone thinks
you
killed him,’ Kalheen wheezed. ‘Well – when I say “everyone”, I exclude myself, of course. Phagen, Sidis and Reynik won’t
believe it either, but the Thrandorians believe you killed him. There’s a party of guards on their way here to arrest you. That’s why I ran. You have to get away, my Lady. Now. You have
to run. If they catch you, who knows what they’ll do?’

The words came tumbling in a panicked rush, made less intelligible by his thick chest heaving from recent exertions.

Femke did not panic. She took a deep breath and counted slowly to five in her mind. The discipline worked. ‘Thank you, Kalheen, but I’m not ready to run yet,’ she said calmly.
‘I’ve committed no crime, and certainly not murder. I’ve been here in my room all night, so why do they think I’m responsible?’

‘They found your brooch clutched in the Baron’s dead hand and a Shandese-style knife in his chest. It was the brooch you wore yesterday on your green dress.’

‘Did they indeed,’ she stated more than asked. ‘Let’s see about that, shall we?’

Femke strode through to her bedroom and over to the large, walk-in wardrobe where she had hung her clothes. The green dress was on the front hanger where she had put it the night before, but
there was no sign of the brooch and the dress was ripped slightly where the piece of decorative jewellery had been pinned through the material. Someone had torn the brooch from the dress, but Femke
doubted it was Baron Anton. Whoever had stolen the brooch was out to frame her. Worse, when she checked her knife belt, a blade was missing. The matching hilts had a distinctive Shandese styling
that would be hard to mistake. A few moments before the idea of running away had seemed foolish – suddenly it appeared to be a much better idea.

Femke knew she could never prove her innocence from the inside of a dungeon, or worse, dangling from a gibbet. Running would make her appear guilty, but at least it would give her the freedom to
seek out her unknown adversary and try to discover his motive. Femke had little knowledge of the Thrandorian justice system, and less of how they would deal with a foreign diplomat charged with
killing an eminent Nobleman and friend of the King. With a shudder at the wave of possibilities that assailed her, Femke decided not to wait around to find out.

‘Bar the door, Kalheen,’ she ordered. ‘I’ve been set up. You’re right – I have to get out of here, and I don’t think I’ll get far through the
corridors.’

Femke ran into the living room and over to the window. Throwing the larger section open, she leaned outside for a moment and studied the escape route she had in mind. It was a dangerous one. She
had not expected to have to leave the Thrandorian Palace in a hurry, yet force of habit had led her to search out all exit options. This was the best shot she had. It was not the first time her
preplanning had proved useful.

Rather than climb straight out of the window, Femke ran back to the bedroom and rifled quickly through her things. Grabbing a small knapsack she threw a variety of items into it. Thrandorian
money, a couple of changes of clothes, her small collection of knives and lock-picks, along with the small wooden jewellery box containing her store of poisons in tightly-corked tiny metal phials
concealed under the false bottom. A loud knock at the door to the living room made Femke’s heart leap in her chest. Time was up. She had to leave.

Femke slung the knapsack over her shoulders, swapped her court shoes for short slip-on boots and ran to the open window. A dress was hardly suitable clothing for this sort of activity, but there
was no help for it now. As she climbed out onto the ledge, Kalheen helped her maintain her balance. Femke turned back for a moment. She noted the burly servant had already thrown the bolts on the
door.

‘Try to delay them as long as you can. I’ll be grateful for any time you can buy me,’ she whispered.

‘I’ll do my best. Good luck, my Lady,’ he replied.

The ledge was narrow. The knapsack sticking out from Femke’s back prevented her from facing out from the wall, so she was forced to sidestep along, face to the wall and almost blind. The
hem of her dress flapped around her thighs, an added distraction as the breeze plucked at the material with invisible fingers. There were four large window ledges to traverse before she reached her
path to the ground. Femke was concerned about being spotted from within as she crossed these, but luck was with her. The rooms she passed were all empty, and as she reached her descent point there
was no sign that whoever had knocked at her door was looking outside for her yet.

Femke craned her neck to look over her shoulder. The nearby tree had seemed much closer to the wall when she had viewed it from the window of her suite. Now the distance between her ledge and
the nearest branch made her feel as if she needed to grow wings to successfully negotiate the gulf of air between them.

Femke paused to consider her options, but they were limited. Although she was only one storey up, the West Wing had been constructed on a grand scale, with all the rooms having high ceilings. If
she were to lower herself until she was hanging by her fingertips from the ledge, Femke would still have to drop some twenty feet to the ground below. Dropping that far would risk breaking limbs.
At best it would result in bruising and pain that she could ill afford.

There was the option of continuing around the ledge, breaking in through a window and hoping to avoid discovery within the corridors of the Palace for long enough to get down a stairwell to the
ground floor. But with people actively looking for her the risks involved in this were unacceptable.

Femke was left once more to face the leap into the nearby tree. Her mind baulked at the thought of it. Could she jump that far? If she missed the catch, would the lower branches give her a
second chance, or would she have too much momentum to arrest her fall?

Femke had never feared death and on occasion her bravery tended towards recklessness. This was one of those occasions. Closing her eyes she drew in her focus. For one heart-stopping moment, time
appeared to slow and her heart threatened to climb up into her throat as Femke bunched her legs into a crouch. Adrenalin coursed through her veins as her body overbalanced, committing her to the
jump. As her body began to topple, Femke exploded out of her crouch and propelled herself backwards into space with every ounce of strength she possessed. Twisting mid-flight, Femke stretched out
like a trapeze artist, reaching for the rapidly approaching bar.

The jump was perfect; Femke’s hands finding the branch that she had aimed for – but to her horror the branch was too thick for her fingers to grip properly. As her body swung past
the vertical under the branch, her grip failed and she flipped feet first into the tree. Twisting a second time mid-flight, like a cat righting itself before impact, Femke managed to turn face down
in time for her body to smash into a lower branch. The branch caught her full across the stomach with an abruptness that drove the wind from her lungs. Her eyes watered as the initial wave of pain
blasted through her body.

Draped over the branch, Femke did not have time to find her balance. Before she could recover from the impact, she started to tip over, feet first. A frantic scrabble of hands and feet followed
before she managed to secure footholds and restore her equilibrium. Temporary safety was restored, but if she remained exposed in the leafless tree for long, someone would spot her. Femke had to
get over the outer Palace wall and into the city if she were to stay free long enough to prove her innocence.

The muscles in Femke’s bruised stomach protested as she climbed limb by limb down the tree, but there was to be no respite. As she dropped from the lowest branch a shout sounded out from
the first-floor window of her suite. The chase was on. She launched into a run towards the outer wall, vaguely aware of answering shouts coming from the grounds somewhere to her right.

The wall towered above her as she reached its base. At first glance the entire face of it looked smooth, but from a previous walk in the grounds of the Palace, Femke knew that this was not
universally the case. There were many places along the wall with enough cracks in the stone-work to allow an agile climber sufficient holds to scale it with ease. She simply had to find one of
those points, and quickly.

A new sound brought another lurch of fear that gripped her insides and twisted them mercilessly. Femke turned and for an instant she froze. Royal Guards were running towards her, still some
distance away, but closing fast. The sound that chilled her did not come from the guards, though, but from the huge, brutish-looking dogs that loped alongside them.