Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Forty-Two: Lion's Den

Hal spent a fitful night in the attic, failing miserably to get any sleep as her mind revisited the argument with Degaré. She had witnessed the strain in his eyes, his genuine concern for Franc and for Hannac, his fear of conflict. The possibility that he could be right played on her nerves, wrung her conscience dry.

She pretended to be asleep when her father wearily made his own way up the ladder, tightly closing her eyes as he held a candle near her face to peer down at her. Another pang of remorse hit her when she heard him sigh and extinguish the flame. Perhaps he really was risking all for her now, just because he had failed to do so in the past. But it is his choice, she told herself. I would have come here alone if I had to.

Hal knew that he too had difficulty sleeping, for she could sense him wrestling with the blankets as he changed position. He rose at dawn and she remained, lying on her back and staring gloomily at the ceiling as pale streaks of morning light filtered through chinks in the ceiling, piercing the darkness.

There was no sign of Degaré downstairs. Franc was studying some documents, his face worn and haggard. He observed her without comment as she made her descent of the ladder.

"Where is he?" She yawned and slumped down in the chair opposite.

"Gone to the market. To get you a disguise."

"A disguise? You didn't tell me anything."

"No, because I knew what kind of ideas you would have." He dumped the papers on the floor and scrutinised her face. "You look tired."

"You too. What do you mean 'the kind of ideas I would have?'"

Stiffly he rose and padded into the kitchen. "We want to get you inside the fortress, right?"

"That's the plan."

"And what kind of disguise is going to make that possible?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps I could get hired as a soldier or somebody like that."

Chuckling, he poured out a glass of fruit compote, handing her a glass as he came back into the room.

"What's so funny?"

"That's exactly what I mean by 'the kind of ideas you would have.' The problem, Hal, is that going in as a guard, you'll be pretty much disguised as yourself. Besides, soldiers go where they're told, and that's either the guards' room, the courtyard, or the fortress walls as you well know. You won't have a chance of finding Meracad if you do that."

"And so what 'kind of idea' did you have, Franc?"

"Well, there are other options, you know. Scullery maids, servants ─ that kind of thing."

"What?" she yelped, horrified at the idea of entering service for the first time in her life.

"Think about it, Hal. Servants work inside the building itself. You'll have the chance to see more of the place, maybe even explore a little. A dress, something to cover your hair, a hint of northern brogue ─ you'll be transformed, my girl!"

Hal sat back in her chair, feeling as if she had just taken a blow to the stomach.

"Or do you think that, what with being an aristocrat and all, you could never sink so low?"

"I'm no snob." She downed the compote, the sweet, summery taste of strawberries mingling with the sour aftertaste of currents. Setting down the glass she rose and stepped over to the window. Outside, the street had begun to stir. Dour, head down against the cold, the inhabitants of Dal Reniac went about their business, trudging through the mud and slush of the city. No sign of Degaré, she realised, suddenly nervous.