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.