Imperial Spy (15 page)

There was a wall to a neighbouring garden ahead under the shadows of a line of three mature trees. Femke gave silent thanks that the wall was not high. She had no problems scaling it noiselessly
without provoking much additional pain to her battered body. Her mental hourglass was trickling down the time remaining until the soldiers found the Count’s body. There was not much left, but
Femke knew that in the dark her chances of escaping undetected from the Count’s residence were much improved.

Crouching into the shadows close up against the wall, Femke moved at a silent run through the garden and up along the edge of the large neighbouring house. The curtains in the windows were all
drawn, but experience and her recent run of bad fortune made her take no chances of being seen by those inside.

Cracks of light spilled out from where the curtains in some of the rooms were not fully closed, or did not quite sit flush against the inside wall. These shafts of light were brilliant in
comparison with anything that she had seen since being locked in the Count’s cellar. Because her eyes had now adapted to the dark Femke avoided the temptation to look at them for fear of
losing her night vision. The starlight felt bright and she could see clearly without the aid of artificial light.

Femke moved quickly around to the other side of the house and was rounding the corner when she heard the commotion that signalled the discovery of the Count’s body. There would be a few
more minutes now whilst the soldiers searched the house and generally discussed what to do next, she decided. Then they would send for more men. It would depend on who led the party that had called
at the house as to how quickly the inevitable chain of events would progress. Again logic told her the lowest ranking person likely to lead a party to a count’s property would be a sergeant.
If it were a sergeant, her luck would be running particularly badly. Officers tended to think they should do more themselves before calling for help. Sergeants often applied more common sense to
situations and organised things more quickly. Silently, Femke sent up a prayer for someone with no common sense to be leading these men. Any edge now would help.

Femke raced along the side of the building to the front corner of the house, where she paused, still shrouded in shadow. Nobody was visible in the street, but the curtains would soon start
twitching. The initial commotion Femke had heard from Count Dreban’s house had sounded loud to her, but was unlikely to be heard inside other houses along the street. If she had been leading
the patrol that had discovered the body, Femke would have been quick to send men to every neighbouring house to check for more surprises. She would also have warned people to lock their doors and
be alert for possible intruders.

There was no choice. Cover from here to the corner of the street was sparse. The streetlamps were bright, lighting everything in a way that accentuated any sudden movement. She would have to run
for it and hope for the best. So, not allowing time for nervous thoughts, Femke made a break for the nearest deep shadow at the end of the street.

The end of the street was further than it looked from the corner of the house. Femke expected to hear shouts and sounds of pursuit with every pounding step she took, but they never came. When
she lunged gratefully into the shadow again, she paused for a moment. Her chest heaved painfully against the earlier scrapes and bruising, and her leg ached madly where the attack dog had raked her
with its teeth.

Femke looked around. Something was not right. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling as some sixth sense warned her that despite the lack of outcry and obvious pursuit, someone was
watching her. It was a skin-crawling feeling, but no matter how hard she looked, Femke could see no sign that her senses were not overreacting to the extreme circumstances. If there were someone
out there, then he was not doing anything to impede her escape. It remained, therefore, to ensure her watcher did not manage to follow her to wherever she decided to spend the night.

Judging by the position of the constellations, Femke assessed the time to be before midnight, so there would likely be a number of people still abroad in the lower city. As most professional
villains went about their work at night – or at least they did in Shandrim, and there was no reason for Femke to believe Mantor was any different – care was needed if she were not to
blunder blindly into more trouble.

If you’re out there, you’re going to have to work hard to follow me, Femke vowed silently to her imagined watcher, and with that she set off down the hill towards the lower city.

Femke took all precautions as she moved. The young spy moved silently from shadow to shadow, taking a random selection of turnings to avoid falling into any pattern, but constantly seeking to
work her way towards the lower city. On many occasions she stopped suddenly in deep shadow and paused, sometimes for several minutes, to see if she could detect anyone following her. Nothing
appeared to move. Strangely, rather than relaxing, her tension increased. The feeling of being watched heightened until she became convinced that somehow, someone was following her. It was most
unnerving.

Femke tried every trick she knew to catch her imagined shadow. Altering speed, hiding behind corners, doubling back on her tracks – but none yielded results.

As she descended to the lower streets of the city, more and more people were abroad. Catching her tail, therefore, became more difficult. Keeping to the shadows prevented most people from seeing
what a state she was in, but she knew there would come a time shortly when someone would notice the dried blood on her face and in her matted hair. Questions would inevitably follow –
questions that could lead to trouble.

Although the feeling that she was being shadowed had not abated, there was still no obvious pursuit by the Royal Guards. However, there were no guarantees that the guards were not closing in on
her. The need to get cleaned up and into a disguise that would fool her pursuers grew stronger with every step. Once in disguise, Femke knew she would gain thinking time, which in turn would allow
her to formulate her next series of steps.

From what Femke had learned of Mantor over the last few days, there was a natural spring somewhere within the walls of the city that produced a supply of water in the event of a siege.
Unfortunately, Femke only knew it was somewhere in the northwest quarter of the city, and she did not want to spend all night looking for it. Ideally she hoped to find either a dimly-lit tavern
where she could use a washroom before anyone noticed anything wrong, or to break into an empty residence. The second option, although illegal, made more sense under the circumstances, as that way
nobody would have a chance to witness her transformation.

Breaking in anywhere this early at night carried risks, but no more so than being seen as she was. Femke could not afford to spend all night staking out a house, so she decided to gamble.

The houses here were nothing like the Count’s extensive residence. They were basic, terraced rows that belonged to the lesser merchants, the middle ranks of the military, or the better
tradesmen. The trick was not to work out to whom the houses belonged, but rather to decide if anyone was at home. There were plenty of clues aside from the obvious ones of lights shining between
the cracks of closed shutters, or wisps of smoke emanating from chimneys. The custom of most hereabouts was to leave their boots in the porch on entering the house. If there were no boots on the
doorstep, then there was likely to be nobody at home.

Femke had also noticed that many in Mantor preferred to attach washed clothing to lines of cord strung across garden areas in order to let the clothes dry in the open air rather than hang
clothes over wooden frames and place them in front of the fireplace to dry. This was supposed to make clothes smell fresher, but Femke doubted the practice would ever catch on with the Nobility.
Because clothing was likely to become damp again if left out after dark, it stood to reason that people would bring their washing in from the garden area before night fell. Therefore, houses where
there was still washing out on the line had a good chance of being empty.

Femke realised this would not always hold true, but it helped to build a picture of whether the house was empty and how long it would be before the occupants returned. There was little point in
breaking into an empty house if the owner was going to return imminently. What Femke needed was a bit of breathing space and a chance to regroup.

It did not take her long to identify a likely property. It took even less time to break into it. Once inside, Femke decided to take a chance and light one small lamp. All the shutters were
closed and there was little chance that anyone passing by on the street would consider it strange to see one steady light. What she knew to avoid was moving her light around, as it would look
suspicious. The trick was to make it seem as if the occupant were involved in something in one room of the house, or as if a light had been left on as a deterrent to anyone considering breaking
in.

Femke decided the best place to light the lamp would be in the kitchen. She wanted to get cleaned up, but also wanted to be able to spread her things out on the kitchen table and give time to
changing her appearance sufficiently for her to roam Mantor without fear of discovery.

With the light on, it did not take Femke long to find the water butt outside the back door and a child’s mirror that was fine for her purposes. Using a square of cloth she found in the
kitchen, together with a bowl of cold water, Femke proceeded to wash her hair and clean up her face. The dried blood was difficult to shift at first and the cut on her head began to weep despite
her care in washing around her scalp. With gritted teeth, Femke applied some table salt to the wound in an attempt to help close it. The pain was instant and sharp as the salt entered the cut, but
it was short-lived, reducing to a throbbing ache within a minute or two.

Femke treated her leg as best she could. There was always the chance of infection from an animal bite and Femke took no chances. Most households in Shandar would have kept a jar of liquefied
brimmel root, which was known for its disinfectant properties. If the owner of this house had anything like this, it did not turn up in Femke’s search of the likely cupboards, so she was
forced to concentrate on cleaning out the long line of torn flesh as thoroughly as she could with cold water.

As the young spy finished her first-aid efforts and was tying off a self-styled bandage made from a strip of material torn from her dress, a hand clamped over her mouth from behind and she felt
the telltale prick of a knife point at her throat.

‘Hello, Femke! Fancy meeting you here. Don’t even think about shouting out or I’ll cut the voice from your throat.’

The whispering tones of Shalidar were unmistakable. Femke’s heart leaped with shock and then froze in her chest with the cold, paralysing fear that the assassin’s voice brought. Her
mind, wearied though it was from the traumas of the day, instantly raced through a welter of possible actions, as Femke realised she could be dead or dying within the next few seconds unless she
did something spectacular. The knife-point did not waver at her throat as Shalidar removed the hand from her mouth to allow her to speak.

‘Hello, Shalidar. Did you enjoy the evening stroll through Mantor? You should have joined me earlier and we could have enjoyed the sights together.’

It was impossible to keep the strain completely from her voice, but Femke was pleased that even to her own ears she remained calm and confident. If she could keep him talking for a while, Femke
knew there was a small chance she could get Shalidar to relax enough to make a mistake.

‘Ah, but then I may have been seen conspiring with a murderer. I wouldn’t want to stain my reputation by being linked with a dangerous criminal,’ Shalidar responded, almost
gleeful. ‘The authorities here are most keen to lay their hands on you, Femke. It’s said you’re here posing as some sort of bogus Ambassador for the Emperor of Shandar in order to
get inside the Royal Palace and kill the King. Speculation is running wild that the Emperor sent you as an assassin to bring chaos to Mantor before sending his next wave of soldiers across the
border into Thrandor.’

‘What rubbish!’ Femke spat scornfully. ‘I doubt the King believes this pack of lies.’

‘You would be surprised at what King Malo is willing to believe, Femke. He has recently come to terms with the fact that magic is real, making him the first Thrandorian monarch in several
generations to do so. I agree that you’re implausible as an assassin. A real professional would not have made anywhere near as many basic errors as you have, but then Malo doesn’t have
any assassins of his own, so he has nothing to compare you with. All he knows is two of his Noblemen are dead, including his best friend of many years. He’s not thinking as rationally as he
normally does.’

‘Why this visit, Shalidar? Are you planning to kill me here after framing me so neatly? What’s the point in that? Or are you worried I’ll prove capable enough to get back to
Shandar and escape the King’s gallows?’ Femke asked, deliberately goading her captor.

It had become clear to Femke that Shalidar was not about to use his knife, or he would have done so by now. Femke got the impression that the assassin was here to gloat. The Emperor had warned
her that Shalidar would want revenge, but had assumed he would take it by attempting to kill her. Femke doubted that anyone could have predicted Shalidar would go to these lengths to exact a simple
act of vengeance.

‘Oh, no, my young spy friend. Nothing like that, I assure you. You see the gallows await you in Shandar as well. I’ve sent messengers to the Emperor with the tale of your treachery
here. I’m sure they will find it easy enough to convince Surabar that the Thrandorians are preparing to launch a military strike in response to the murders you’ve committed. If you
consider the Thrandorians have now seen both an invasion and an assassin sent by the Emperor, why should they not respond with force? If I read Surabar correctly, then he’ll mass a defensive
force at the border, which will be seen in turn by the Thrandorians as another invasion force. It should not take much of a spark to set off full-scale war from there.’