Stardogs (56 page)

Where to then? There seemed no answer, except
away
from here. Shael was not a likable person, but as she lay there, with the evening wind blowing cold, it would have been easy to feel sorry for her. With goosebumps on her bare arms and tear streaks in her makeup, she looked far more like a miserable sixteen-year-old than a twenty-four-carat bitch of a princess.

She rationalized that it would be better to wait for the conquerors to get drunk beyond competence before she tried to escape from her hiding place. In reality, which she could not truly hide from herself, she was simply too scared to move from that little patch of safety. She hugged herself and pulled her knees up under her chin. She wished she’d worn something less flimsy and revealing that morning. It was only as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep that the thought slipped into her tired mind: who or what had killed that
animal
Blis? She vaguely tried to focus on this thought spark, but her brain was too soggy to fire up a logical train of thought. Sleep came mercifully.

She awoke cold. Teeth-chatteringly cold. She’d never been this cold in her life. She would
die
for something warm. She was about to call out to her maids when awareness of where she was came flooding back. If she called out now she might really die. Hugging herself and rubbing her bare arms she looked out over the dark city. There were no more burning buildings. There were no sounds of drunken revelry. She could see squads with torches patrolling the streets below in a systematic fashion. These were the zombielike warriors of the Morkth hives. Human bodies without human passions. Soulless, near mindless, killing machines. She watched the regular pattern weaving through the streets, like a formal dance outlined by their torches. Eventually the cold forced her to turn her attention away from the hypnotic ebb and flow of lights. She must get off this roof, out of this cold wind. Could she face going over the edge with that drop reaching for her?

The height had been hard enough to face in the heat of the moment, but now in the dark, and in cold blood, the very idea filled her with terror. But if she stayed . . . she might die of cold. Her stomach growled at her. It reminded her that it had been a good many hours since she had emptied it onto the marble floor of her room. There must be some other way off the roof. She decided to stand up, and explore the icy refuge in which she’d interned herself. Standing next to the gargoyle, with it as a support, was not too bad. She took the step beyond it on the steeply sloping slate roof . . . no! The Princess settled for crawling, with a hand on the gutter. At least that was flat. Even that small comfort was denied her when it creaked, and dropped several inches. She pulled away in fear, the seven stories of darkness dragging at her. Holding her quivering lip between her perfect white teeth, she moved on, only on the slippery slates now, edging her way round. A slate beneath her knee cracked, a sudden, sharp sound in the silence. She stayed as still as fear would let her, tasting the warm saltiness in her mouth.

When no reaction came after a few cold minutes, she began to move again, but in reality it was a pointless exercise. She was no longer looking for a way out, just moving. Soon even that stopped.

It came on silent wings, with a terrible screeching cry. Her own scream was a feeble, ratlike squeak in comparison. The feathery soft touch just brushed her shoulder. She scrambled, almost fell over the edge, her sweaty hands slipping as her toes felt frantically for some purchase.

And found it. She was no longer above the drop, but rather just off the edge of the ridge line of the roof of the south wing of the palace. With immense relief she dropped and scrambled along the ledge. She covered several hundred yards before she dared to stop and look behind her. She could find no sign of pursuit. Shael would never acknowledge that it could just have been a hunting owl.

Below her was the great balcony, from which it had been the tradition of the Grand Dukes of Shapstone to address their subjects on feast days. It was here that the assassins dispatched by her father had relieved the last of that line of his life, by means of four well-directed crossbow bolts. As the Tyrant had dryly commented afterwards, “height alone is no defense.” Right now it was her only defense. But she knew she couldn’t stay there forever. At least the balcony would provide a safe place to get off the roof, without too long a fall below her. Perhaps there would be a drainpipe or something to climb down. She left the ridgeline and began her cautious descent.

Which rapidly became an uncontrolled high-speed descent. With two or three loose slates for company she flew clear over the edge, to crash onto the balcony. Half stunned, it took her a moment or two to come to her senses. There was a sound of running feet. She scrambled off her knees, and darted to hide behind some curtains just inside the doorway.

The feet thudded past, through the open door and out onto the balcony. “The sounds came from here.” The voice was wooden, with no trace of emotion.

The reply was different. She could hear distaste in the coarse tones. “Slates fallin’. Do whenever th’ wind blows.” One traitor guardsman, and one Morkth hiver. Her stomach was a knot of fear, but there was a blossoming of hatred, too. The Morkth-man, he was the enemy, but the other was something worse, far more detestable. She could do little to him if they caught her, but at least she would spit in his face. She began working her dry mouth for the material to carry out her resolve.

“We will search anyway.” The Morkth-man did not make it a matter of debate.

“Waste o’ time. Only the curtains to hide behind here. I’ll take t’ left side.” That was the side she was on. She’d been trained to listen for nuances of voice. He had spoken just a shade faster than natural. Did he know she was there?

She desperately tried to gather spittle for her last act of defiance. She
would
die like Cru, even if all she wanted to do was to burst into tears.

He pulled aside the curtain in front of her. And put his finger to his lips. Then he stepped calmly away, as if he had seen nothing. She had but seconds to look at the heavy, brutish face in the lamplight, but it etched onto her memory. She would never forget that face. . . . Her knees felt as if they might give way any moment.

“Nothin’ my side.” His voice might have betrayed him to his fellows, but the other guard was unaccustomed to any form of duplicity.

“We must search the other passages.” The Morkth-man was not going to give up easily.

“Aw, come on. The doors are all guarded. Nothin’s gonna get out’v here. Let’s go back to our post at the stairwell.” He was telling her where the guards were stationed. Which stairwell?

“We search.” Their footsteps went away up the east passage.

It was at least warmer here, but she knew it was no permanent refuge. She had to get out of the palace, out of Shapstone, somehow. There
was
one way out of the palace that might not be guarded . . . and her father’s rooms were close. Holding her arms so that the bangles could not tinkle she fled down the passage toward the great doors that led into his palatial apartments. She peered forward. A guard in Shapstone livery was snoring peacefully to the side of the doors. She sneaked past him, and cautiously tried the handle. It was locked, but the valet’s door ten yards further on was not. She slipped inside.

The sounds coming from the great bed indicated that there was an occupant in the room. In fact there was little doubt that at least two people were present, perhaps more. On the other hand, by the moaning and panting they were otherwise engrossed right now.

Shael moved to leave the walk-in cupboard that was the valet’s domain and her bracelets tinkled. Instantly she froze. Obviously the bed’s occupants were too busy to notice. Hastily taking a beautifully ironed shirt from one of the shelves she wrapped it around and tucked it under her bracelets. Pleased with the result she did the same on the other side with another shirt. She began her crawl. She had to reach the far room while the bed’s occupants were still absorbed. The bedchamber was a substantial room, but well lit, with two small chandeliers on either side. If they looked away from each other they would almost certainly see her. Concentrating on her goal she ignored the panting, urging and pleading from the bed. It was only when she’d reached the far chamber that she risked a look at the huge mirror on the ceiling.

She swallowed a gasp, and quickly moved around the corner. No wonder the tall Count Deshin had hated her power games. They had always included a certain amount of sexual coquetry. It was not the frustration of desire which had angered him, but rather that Deshin really preferred boys. A specific boy, it seemed: a dashing and handsome young captain . . . of her father’s secret police. That was the foundation of his successful coup.

The Grand Dukes of Shapstone had not always been satisfied with their wives. Many of them had married for political reasons. Others had been unable to part with their wild days, before assuming the throne, as mere viscounts free to exercise
droit du seigneur
. But bringing one’s paramours past the Duchess’s chambers was sometimes a risky pastime. Therefore it was necessary to have another route to the Duke’s chambers. She knew that many a blindfolded girl had walked that passage, and up the hidden stair. One of her instructors had told her about it in some detail. The captain on that bed
would
know of the passage. But had he been too occupied with arranging his lace suspender belt to seal it?

It was dim here. It took her a few steps to ascertain that not only had he not sealed it, he’d left the hidden door open. His fallen clothes had plainly been stripped off in haste and on the way. She slipped off into the welcome darkness and felt her way along. In a few minutes she was opening the outer concealed door, and darting away into the gardens, towards the wicket gate so artfully hidden in the rhododendrons.

She’d won free to the streets. Now, could she get through the city without being caught? It proved easier than she’d thought possible. She’d watched the pattern of patrols from the roof. Their movements were no more difficult to predict than the steps of her favorite dances, and thus easy to evade. But the gates . . .

… were thoroughly locked and barred. With distinctly wakeful Morkth-men guards patrolling them. Could she get over the walls? Unlikely. She knew that fear had helped her to climb before, but she certainly didn’t feel up to it now. Still, she’d better try to find a way up onto them. Then she saw her salvation. Outside the city granaries heavy wagons were being loaded in the silent, mechanical fashion of the Morkth-men. Already most of them were piled high with sacks. She sneaked closer, stumbling over an empty sack. She picked it up and ran to the last wagon in the row. The deity who watches over fools and amateurs must have been working overtime for her that night. The guard had just stepped over to an alley to relieve himself, a thing even Morkth-men must do, as she scrabbled and scrambled her way up the cargo net to the top. She burrowed into the sack and lay still, holding onto the net and hoping they’d not notice that the one lumpy sack was outside the net.

A few minutes later she heard the crack of whips, and then, with a jerk, the steel-cased wheels started to rumble their way over the cobblestones. Never had the movement of one of her feather-sprung carriages felt as lovely as that slow, rough, bouncing progress. She lay dead still as the wagons rolled away under the gate arch, past the flaring torches, and out into the welcome darkness.

How long could her soft hands survive this? The ropes cut at them, but if she let go on this uneven road she would almost certainly slide and fall. By the paling sky, dawn would be here soon. They’d see her for sure then. Perhaps she should try to get off now? There was a patrol marching behind them. How could she get clear? The train halted abruptly. She risked a peep to see the patrol leader moving past, leaving his men waiting with swords at the ready.

A few moments later he came back. “Sheath swords. One of the wagons has broken a wheel. Come. We must move it from the road.”

As soon as they’d filed past, Shael slid out of her sack, scrambled down the netting and ran into the dark shadows among the trees of a small dell. Her protective deity must have gone to answer a call of nature himself just then, because there was a shout behind her.

She ran.

Tripping and falling, tearing through brambles, stumbling down a steep bank and into the stream, up the muddy bank opposite and out into the heather and broken heathlands.

In the woods she’d heard them behind her. Now, although her heart was hammering like a drum in her ears, the sounds seemed further away. It didn’t matter any more. They might as well catch her. She simply couldn’t run another step. She collapsed into the bushes, and waited, panting.

No sane fugitive would leave the shelter of the woods for open ground. Thus it was that the Morkth-men were peering up every vast-boled tree and sapling instead of following the simple, straight course to their quarry. After a short while Shael realized they were still searching amongst the trees. She got onto hands and knees and crawled away, towards the lip of the dell and over, onto the hillside. Once she was beyond the line of sight she got up and began to walk, painfully. Her feet were unused to such punishment, but she forced herself to go on. She was heading for no specific place, just
away
.

Her lack of decision was probably just as well. She had no real idea where she was. She had always been escorted and taken to places. She had no real notion of distance or direction, for someone else had always taken care of this. She only knew that she was tired and sore, her feet and legs bleeding from a myriad of small cuts and scratches. On top of this she was also hungry, thirsty and cold. The sky was pale now, but the dawn breeze still sliced at her dew-wet legs. If only she’d kept the sack, she thought, she could at least have wrapped it around herself. Then it occurred to her that she did have two large shirts and, once unwrapped from her arms, they made reasonable short dresses on her small frame.