Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Seventeen - Punishment

Hal finished her training late that evening. The hall was deserted by the time she finally racked up her swords, splashed water across her face and changed into a fresh shirt and trousers. There was clearly no point in returning home, she realised. She knew Marc would take her lateness for a snub, and she certainly had no desire to give him further cause for offence.

Locking the main doors, she descended to the streets below, wrestling with forces which seemed to drag her in so many directions. If Meracad had sufficient courage, then these could be the last days she ever spent at Beric's academy, amongst people who had given her the support and respect she had so badly lacked at court. How would they interpret her decision to leave? As an act of love, or one of betrayal?

She stopped for a moment. Grasping the rail of the stairs, she clenched her teeth, dragging the back of her sleeve across her eyes. Would she now give then genuine cause to rue the chances they had given her? Courtiers would snicker behind their peacock feather fans and bejewelled masks, jibing Marc with reminders of her selfishness. We always knew that she had no one's interests at heart but her own. She had no place at the court or outside it. She does nothing but hurt those around her. She would explain everything to Marc before she left. She owed him that much. She knew how disappointed it would make him, but at least she could pay him the respect of honesty.

The summer heat was gradually losing its intensity as the sun wound its way down behind the city roof-tops. Yet as always, crowds still thronged the streets. This was all she had ever known, she realised, as she stepped out into the heady maelstrom of Colvé once more. The flow and flux of the metropolis: a place where nothing could remain still for more than a few moments. Constant movement, conversation, sounds of laughter, shouts of anger, the intense stink of the city: a melting pot in which society came together and produced its own rich impressions.

The weather would soon break. Something had to give. Her thoughts turned once again to the journey that lay ahead. For all that she loved this life, she knew in her heart that if she stayed it would become a burden. Her training, her duelling, the double existence, moving amongst thieves and senators: the appeal of it all would begin to fade. Instead, she would be constantly looking for someone and never finding her, always painfully aware of the distance between herself and Meracad. The best she could hope for would be an even more dangerous game of covert meetings ‒ of attempts to evade Léac and Meracad's husband. No, she told herself, as she cut across the city square. However painful it would be, they had to leave. There was no other way.

She looked around, such thoughts making her nervous, noticing a well-dressed, almost dandyish figure lounging against the central fountain. People hurried by in front of him, yet he seemed to observe her intently, and when she stared at him, he doffed his feathered cap, bowing with a flourish. She picked up her speed and continued.

Cara's spy, perhaps? But Cara was extremely subtle in placing tails on Hal. Well, she thought sourly, at least if she were to leave, she would no longer have to worry about that particular menace. Her mother would be more than relieved to hear that she had left the city for good.

She turned again. Nobody there. How stupid she had been. Or perhaps nerves were making her imagine things. She headed down an alley that led from the square: a more direct route to Marc's town house than the main road. It was not far now, a matter of minutes. She felt tempted to break into a run, but reasoned with herself. There was nobody to fear. Who could know where she was headed, or why?

That was when she felt the cold steel of a knife's blade levelled against her waist. Her heart kicked and she twisted around to witness her assailant grin down at her, a mouthful of black, rotten teeth set in a tanned, weather-beaten face. She made for her sword but he grasped her arm in pretence of a friendly embrace and pressed the blade more firmly to her skin. Someone was following: she heard the clip of boots on the cobbles behind. Turning her head, she caught sight of the man from the fountain. This time, he doffed his hat in irony.