Leda

Chapter Seventeen: In Harm's Way

Life stirred in the prison with groans and sighs, whispers and mutterings. Hal raised her head from her arms. Whether she'd slept or not she couldn't tell, although the crick in her neck suggested that she had. But she was still sitting on the lowest rung of the stairs enveloped in her great coat, her hair loose and covering her face. And when she put a hand to her cheek, she felt Meracad's slap and the previous night scrolled out before her once again: Leda's flight, the duel, Meracad leaving the carriage, Castor's weaslish face as he sentenced her to death. But now that all her tears were spent she felt empty, numbed and drained. The Debt had seen thousands of tragedies pass through its doors ˗ it was a place which consumed misery and spat it out again. There was a strange consolation in knowing that she was not alone in her suffering.

Vaguely, she wondered what time it was, but then realised that such details no longer meant anything. Light pushed at the thin bars of the windows, however, indicating that it might already be midmorning. Which meant there was little time left. And her only hope lay in the belief that Meracad had escaped ˗ and that Leda was as far from Castor's insanity as possible.

She rose, her cramped limbs screaming, and peered into the gloom. Perhaps a hundred people lay, sat or shuffled their way across the prison floor, heads bowed and arms folded against the cold. Men and women, some of them young and in the prime of life; others so old they could barely rise, blinking into the stream of weak sunlight as the door was suddenly flung open and guards emerged at the top of the stairs. Throats were cleared, the seal on a crumpled parchment broken, and the names read out: "Senator Tobiac Treniac, Lord Leon Roc, Halanya Hannac, Brice the Smith, Salvesté of Riverside, and Lauré Vérec the maid."

Five prisoners picked their way towards the steps, two of whom she recognised ˗ Treniac was an acquaintance of Marc's, as grave and cautious a senator as Marc was flamboyant. Lord Roc she remembered from Castor's coronation ˗ thick set with a beard of fox red curls and wayward hair. Clearly the worse for drink, he rubbed at the shadows beneath his eyes ˗ hungover for his own hanging. The next prisoner could only have been the smith; his arms the size of anvils and a square, blonde block of a head. He was followed by a slim wire of a man with a liberal dose of stubble sprayed over gaunt cheeks, his green eyes haunted. And at last, most curiously of all, came a young woman ˗ still almost a girl ˗ trembling with fear and grief, her long, light-brown hair tumbling loose from its plait, her grey maid's smock torn and filthy.

So these were to be her companions in death. She watched them approach and found herself instinctively wrapping an arm around the maid's shoulders. The girl sank her head against Hal's side and they stumbled up the stairs together, blinking into the wan light of day.

"Come on now. Quick," a guard urged. "Quite the crowd forming."

"These two are nobility." His companion leered at Hal and Roc. "Bind them tight."

The girl was plucked from her grasp, their arms were braced behind their backs. She winced as rope bit into her flesh. And then there was nothing but confusion as they were led out amongst the jeering, cheering morass of crowd, the rooftops spinning dizzily overhead, hands steering them towards a low- backed cart in the centre of the street. The two drays to which it was connected hooved impatiently at the ground as if they, too, had better places to be than ferrying prisoners to their deaths.

She found herself hoisted upwards between the smith and the senator, barely able to breathe. Lauré the maid was already a weeping wreck. What, Hal wondered, could she possibly be guilty of? Roc had stooped to retch noisily into the gutter, mocked by the crowd before they forced him up into the cart, his beard flecked with vomit. He staggered against the side before sinking to his knees. And finally came Salvesté who seemed, Hal thought, to be almost enjoying the spectacle now: his eyes bright with hard, bitter humour. He offered the mob an ironic bow, eliciting catcalls, hoots of laughter and even a few cheers.

"Friends of yours?" she asked him.

Salvesté threw her a pained smirk. "And yours too, I'll warrant."

She had no time to reply for they were pulling away, hemmed in on both sides by leering, screaming, spitting faces, by shaking fists and insults hurled like rocks.

"Get out." She whispered the words over and over like a prayer. "Get out, get out, get out." And in her mind's eye it worked. She imagined Leda and Meracad both free and safe at Hannac.

The road from The Debt was winding and narrow, slipping beneath the overhanging rooftops of workshops, houses and stables, funnelling into wider avenues which ran to the main square. Lauré had collapsed in a miserable heap on the floor of the cart, her head buried in her knees. Hal crouched beside her, struggling to maintain her balance.

"I'm here, Lauré. I'm with you."

She couldn't quite understand what had prompted the words ˗ but the girl sighed and sank against Hal's shoulder, sending her sprawling sideways. And at that very moment, screams issued ˗ not from within the cart, but from outside it ˗ the rush of running feet, confused shouts and cries for help.

The vehicle halted. She struggled to her feet; caught the nasal whine of a terrified horse, and witnessed...shaking her head, she stared. A rider was charging the length of the street, galloping straight at them astride a coal black destrier. And as the mount drew close, she saw that it was Magda who stood high in its saddle.

Hal whisked around as the mob folded in on itself: some running, others wrestling, while arrows broke the air, slamming into the chests of the accompanying guards. Just before Magda collided with the cart she jumped. Free of its rider, her horse careered into the chests of the drays, which reared up on their hind legs, screaming. The wooden floor on which Hal stood so precariously tipped backwards, and she hurtled down into the street together with the other prisoners, in a chaotic ball of arms, legs and heads. Lying half dazed on the cobbles of Colvé, she rose and stared up in stunned surprise at a faint chink of light as it filtered down, distant clouds racing freely far above. Then she was in shadow once again as someone leant over her ˗ someone who seemed familiar, with dark glittering eyes and an impish face. And as Hal was pulled to her feet amidst the chaos of street fights, of guards injured and slain, of garbled protests and shrieks of alarm, a voice yelled into her ear: "Just couldn't keep out of harm's way, could you Hal?"