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.