Imperial Spy (11 page)

‘Stay where you are,’ she heard one of the guards call. ‘Stop, or we release the dogs.’

Femke did not hesitate. She exploded back into action, running away from the approaching guards at a full sprint. It was impossible to ignore them, but she concentrated her focus on finding a
section of the wall that she could climb. Her first instinct was that the guards were bluffing. They were unlikely to release the dogs on an Ambassador. Surely her diplomatic status would make them
think twice? Unfortunately, considerations of diplomatic immunity did not seem to be a part of the guards’ thought processes.

The pain from her fall into the tree was forgotten and Femke raced alongside the wall, mentally blessing the architect and gardeners for doing such a good job of levelling the lawns. Femke found
just the spot she was looking for. She leaped up, jammed her fingers into the first crack and then pulled herself as far above the ground as she could.

Femke had just found her first good toehold and was pushing higher up the wall when two things happened simultaneously to distract her. First there was a snarling snap as a dog raked her leg
with its teeth. A tight fiery pain erupted above her ankle, but the momentum of the dog had denied it a firm hold and carried its body on past her. It took a moment for the animal to land and turn
for another attack, during which time a newfound desperation drove Femke to pull her body even higher from the ground. At the same time as the dog made its attack, a crossbow quarrel smashed into
the wall to her right, showering her with splinters of wood and stone.

‘Don’t shoot her, you idiot!’ someone shouted. ‘The King wants to question her. It’s hard to do that if she’s dead! Quick. Catch her before she gets over the
wall.’

Femke would have grinned if she had not been gritting her teeth against the strain of the climb. Her ankle and stomach were painful. Her right eye was in spasm and watering profusely from a
flying stone chip that had struck it when the crossbow bolt shattered against the wall. However, nobody was going to catch her this side of the wall now and a fierce exultation gripped her as she
neared temporary safety.

With a last heave, Femke mounted the top of the wall and glanced back down at the guards who were now at the base of the wall.

‘Come down, Ambassador. If you leave the grounds of the Palace, I won’t be able to protect you any longer,’ shouted up the guard whom Femke identified as having ordered the
others to stop shooting. Femke reasoned he must be the senior man present.

‘Protect me? You call a dog attack and being shot at protecting me?’ Femke laughed. ‘I’ll take my chances outside, thanks.’

‘The King only wants to talk with you,’ the guard insisted. ‘Please come down from the wall. I promise I’ll escort you personally to his audience chamber.’

‘And I suppose you will then escort me from the audience chamber to your dungeon as well? I don’t think so,’ Femke added sarcastically. ‘I’ve been framed for
murder. I’m not about to stay around to see this scenario through to its logical conclusion. Give your King my regards. Tell him I intend to find out who killed the Baron. When I have that
information then I’ll come and talk to him.’

‘Don’t do it, Ambassador,’ the guard warned in a ‘Don’t push me’ singsong tone.

Femke ignored him. Lowering herself down the other side of the wall until she was hanging by her fingertips, she let go. Despite landing lightly and allowing her body to collapse, converting her
inertia into a rolling motion, the shock of hitting a stone pavement rattled through her body. More pain coursed from head to toe, but Femke knew there was no time to nurse her wounds.

Hobbling away, she could feel the trickle of blood running down her leg into her low-cut boot as she scouted the nearby streets for hide-outs. She could not remain in the open for long. The
Royal Guards would soon be out in large numbers and would purge the upper city streets in quick time. One thing in her favour was the guards did not know she was hurt, so they would expect her to
run much further than she intended.

There were fewer streets in the vicinity of the Palace in comparison with the lower reaches of Mantor, but Femke’s instincts told her the guards would expect her to run like a frightened
rabbit. They would not search the upper city with any great care. Eventually Femke wanted to blend into the masses in the lower city, but for now she would happily settle for a hidey-hole in which
to evade the initial searchers.

There were few residences to choose from, as they were all large and widely spaced. The houses were set in enormous gardens, which could work to her advantage. The deserted streets helped. And
so far Femke had not seen a soul, which meant no one to tell of her passing.

It was strange to think that the lower city would be busy now. Stallholders would already be hawking their wares on the flea markets that abounded on the streets, shouting and waving to attract
attention to their stalls. Upper city life progressed at a more sedate pace. The residents who lived nearest the Palace had secure incomes or family fortunes that did not depend on rushing around
to make ends meet. The busiest time of day here was evening, when the rich gathered to entertain one another with parties and other social gatherings. Mornings were for recovering and clearing up,
but this did not mean the rich were ignorant of what was happening around them. Femke knew that care was needed wherever she went in this city.

Breaking into a house would be fraught with more danger. Normally Femke would stake out a house for some time, preferably days, before breaking in. Patterns of behaviour of the occupants were
vital information if she were to get in and out undetected, but there was no time for such preparation now. The only option left was to hide in an outbuilding. A stable or a workshop, a shed or a
summerhouse – any would do, providing it offered a quick, easy, effective place to hide.

By instinct, Femke paused and looked around. Something prickled at her senses like watching eyes, and though she judged it to be her body’s senses working at a hyper-active rate, still
intuition sparked the feeling that more danger lurked nearby.

Whatever had triggered the sensation, Femke dismissed it for now. All danger was relative. Her priority was to stay ahead of the Royal Guards and, hobbling as she was, this would not be easy.
Anything else would have to be dealt with on the run. Risks were inevitable; this was but the first of them.

Femke found what she was looking for a few hundred yards from the Palace wall. An impressive house boasting neatly kept gardens had a small outbuilding, little more than a dozen feet long by
about eight feet wide, alongside the main house. With another swift look round to see if anyone was watching, Femke hopped over the waist-high garden wall and limped to the door of the small
building.

The door was locked, but this presented no great obstacle. It was a simple matter to pick the lock and get inside. With a silently mouthed expression of pain she slipped her knapsack from her
shoulders and rummaged until she found an appropriate lock pick. The clatter of hooves approaching from the direction of the Palace gave Femke added incentive. Time was running out fast. The Royal
Guards had mobilised more quickly than she had anticipated. The combination of time pressure and the pain of her injuries made what should have been a simple operation take an apparent
eternity.

Femke felt trickles of sweat run down her forehead as she worked the pick inside the mechanism of the lock. She knew she was applying pressure in the right place, but the lock was reluctant to
yield. The young spy suffered an agonising moment of doubt as the horses approached at pace, then the stiff mechanism of the lock finally turned with a soft grating noise. Femke swiftly drew the
door open and stepped inside. Fortunately, the hinges had been better oiled than the lock, and the door swung smoothly and silently both ways. Moments later, Femke had relocked the door from within
and she heaved a pained sigh of relief. The searchers were unlikely to open locked doors in their initial search.

‘There’s nothing worse than a dry lock to ruin your day if you’re under pressure,’ she quoted, thinking back fondly to lessons with her mentor. How right he had been!
What would Ferrand say if he could see her now? This assignment had always promised to be unusual, but Femke could not help wondering how it had gone from being straightforward to a complete
disaster so quickly. There had been no hints that anything was awry. The Thrandorians had not exactly welcomed her with open arms, but they had been civil. From what little Femke had seen of life
in the Palace there was no suggestion that murder was the norm in Thrandorian politics. Ferrand would have known what to do. He had always appeared in control, regardless of circumstance. Was that
what had caused his downfall? Femke still had no idea what had happened to her mentor. It was one of the most widely speculated mysteries in Shandar. Even the Emperor of Shandar had not known the
fate of the spymaster, but Femke felt sure her old friend must have breathed his last.

Ferrand had always been an oddball in the intelligence community. Most spies made their living by remaining grey and anonymous, silently gathering information in the background. Ferrand was
rarely out of the limelight. Being a powerful lord, he was a leading figure in Shandese high society, though few knew he was also a master of disguise. For many years he had been the
Emperor’s top spy and Femke had been lucky to be his apprentice.

She sighed aloud at her melancholy thoughts. There would be time for such reminiscence once the present danger was past. Her current hiding place represented a huge gamble. If the Royal Guards
had tracker dogs, then there would be no escape. The shed had no back door for her to flee through, which was contrary to everything she had been taught. The attack dogs that had chased her in the
Palace grounds were not of a breed known for their tracking abilities, so Femke felt safe from them. However, she did not know what other assets the guards had at their command.

It was dark in the shed, but not overly so. A small amount of light leaked in through the edges of the shuttered window. After a few minutes Femke found her eyes beginning to adapt to the low
light and she felt confident she could move around without accidentally bumping into anything. Making a noise now could prove disastrous.

From what little Femke could see, the shed was used both as a workshop and as a storage room for gardening equipment. Long-handled garden tools were neatly arranged in a rack to the right of the
door, whilst a workbench boasted a plethora of woodworking tools, all neatly arrayed on various hooks and shelves below the shuttered window to the left. At the far end of the small shed a strange,
hulking, shadowy shape lurked, like some great monster crouched ready to pounce. Femke froze for an instant before reason took hold. There was nothing to fear here other than discovery by the Royal
Guards.

Wary of making any noise, Femke stepped gingerly towards the black shape. Exploring with her hands, she realised it was a soft dark cloth wrapped over something hard. Suddenly Femke froze again.
The sound of someone knocking at the main house door was followed by the sound of approaching boots on the path outside.

‘Hello, what can I do for you?’ Femke faintly heard someone say.

‘Good morning, my Lord, we’re looking for a woman who was last seen heading in this direction. She’s slim, dark-haired . . .’

Femke held her breath. As she listened to the guard speaking to the owner of the house, there was a rattle as someone tried the handle to the door of the workshop. A loud thump sounded as he
decided to give the door a hard shove to check it was locked and not merely stiff, or barricaded from within.

Crouching down, Femke silently lifted the edge of the material in front of her and squinted into the darkness beneath. The cloth covered a stack of cut timber. To her delight there was just
enough room at the left-hand edge for her to squeeze under the cover and sit hidden from casual inspection. Hardly daring to breathe, she twisted her body into the small space. Femke had barely
settled when there was a loud cracking sound and a flood of light shone in through the side window. Whoever had tried the door was suspicious enough to wrench open the outer wooden shutters of the
workshop window. If Femke had not hidden, the guard would have caught her like a snake in a pit.

‘Hey! Be careful! There’s no need to force those shutters, they’ve got catches top and bottom. I hope you haven’t broken them.’

‘Sorry, my Lord,’ apologised a man’s voice, though his tone did not reflect the apology. ‘The outbuilding’s clear, Sergeant,’ the same voice stated. The sound
of retreating footsteps caused Femke to expel a silent sigh of relief.

‘Well, my Lord, if you do see the Ambassador, please alert the Royal Guards immediately. I strongly advise you not to approach her or restrain her, as she may be dangerous,’ the
Sergeant said respectfully.

‘Yes, of course, Sergeant, I will be sure to do that. Good luck in your search.’

Femke smiled and quietly adjusted her position until she was as comfortable as she could be in the cramped space. Her bruised body ached in many places, but as the sounds of the search quickly
faded, Femke did her best to ignore the pain, concentrating instead on planning her next move. Her initial instinct was to wait for dark. This would give the guards enough time to become
discouraged by the fruitless search and start to get lax. As to where Femke should go next, she could not decide. Her mind flitted from one idea to the next as she turned over the
possibilities.

Minutes passed silently and slowly, and Femke started to feel a sleepy lassitude overtake her. The stuffy air, combined with the darkness under the cloth, gradually worked its mind-numbing spell
and her consciousness drifted until a sudden sound caused her to start with alarm. It was the sound of a key turning in the lock of the workshop door.

Femke kept perfectly still, praying fervently that whoever was coming into the workshop would not discover her. There was a slight creak as the door opened and more light entered the room. After
a short pause the voice of the Lord who had talked to the guards spoke softly, but in clear tones.