like a circus boy than a prince of the realm, but she'd used the distraction to slip into the wood.

Unfortunately, she'd not got far before Gordoc noticed she was gone. Recalling how she had

scaled trees to get away from trouble as a child, she had tried climbing one of the pines by the

roadside. She'd seen Ramil ride by without so much as a look behind him and realized that he

had a much better chance of success than she had.

Still, she had managed to lodge herself up in the branches, hoping it would not occur to the

circus people that a princess would climb trees. But her white dress had given her away. She was

seen almost immediately by the 90

acrobats. They had jumped onto each other's shoulders and pulled her down as easily as

harvesters picking an apple. Then Orboyd had stormed over and started beating her; he

appeared in his anger to have lost all self-control. She thought he was going to kill her. He had

dragged her back to the meadow on her knees, shouted to the Prince to return, then--

Then what?

Tashi touched the bandage on her head. She must have been knocked out.

She didn't know if the Prince had escaped or not. Had he come back or had he ridden on? He'd

probably have gone on, got out of this madness and be well on his way to the border by now.

She wished him luck.

In the grip of a low fever, Tashi lay on the pile of furs. As the miles rumbled by, she watched the

accoutrements of the fortune teller's art sway around her--a glittering ball, a dried snake skin,

hanks of unidentified hair, a string of bones. To her eyes, it seemed barbaric, like something

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from a winter fireside story of witchcraft and evil spirits. Had she fallen into one of these tales?

Had the Mother abandoned her to the evil ones?

Tears leaked from the corners of Tashi's eyes as she tried to remember her prayers. Too weak to

do the ritual properly, she cried her prayer silently as she had done as a child when she'd woken

from a nightmare. But it was no use. The Mother had never felt more distant, more unloving.

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For the next few days the circus wound its way down to the plains of Brigard.

Ramil was exhausted with walking, almost asleep on his feet for much of the time. Orboyd had

stopped speaking to him, appearing to regard the escape as a personal slight on his hospitality.

Mountain scenery gave way to craggy hills, rough grass, and poor pasture. They passed more

people: shepherds with faces tanned like old leather, messengers on fleet-footed horses,

farmers travelling to local markets. Ramil found it odd to see life going on as normal for all these

Brigardians. The locals spared a puzzled glance for the dusty young man stumbling on behind

the lead wagon, but were really more interested in catching a glimpse of the tiger, or seeing the

acrobats limber up. Living in a land under occupation by Fergox Spearthrower's armies, it was

usually best not to ask too many questions.

Ramil noticed that the number of soldiers on the roads increased the further into Brigard they

travelled. He racked his brains to remember the detailed maps he'd seen of this part of the

world. The nearest town of any

significance was Felixholt, a semi-fortified settlement commanding the head of the valley. In

friendlier times, it had been a frequent destination for Gerfalian merchants, but since the

occupation, Brigard no longer welcomed traders from outside Spearthrower's empire. Stuck out

on the northernmost edge of the warlord's lands, Felixholt must be suffering; market days would

now be sad affairs.

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The cart rose to the top of the last hill before the

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valley and Ramil received an unpleasant shock. The pastures around Felixholt were covered with

tents-- a canvas city to house an army. He had little experience of warfare but he could tell that

this wasn't just a contingent to maintain the occupation; this was an invasion force. Gerfal must

be next on Fergox's list of targets. Ramil cursed his evil fortune. He now had an even more

pressing duty than escape: he had to get a message to his father--his country had to be warned.

The circus was waved through all checkpoints on the way to the town. It was no comfort to find

that they were expected. As Ramil stumbled nearer, he saw the high stone wall that enclosed

the holt. On the peak stood a nobleman's modest castle overlooking the brick and thatched

dwellings of the townsfolk. Not a grand place, but today a vast imperial flag flapped over the

tallest tower. Staring at the banner with sinking heart, Ramil realized that his assumptions about

the abduction were all wrong. If the flag meant what he thought, the motivation had been

political, not greed for a ransom.

When the caravan approached within a bowshot of the walls, the big wooden gates of Felixholt

opened and a party of some sixty cavalrymen on tough shaggy horses clattered out, forming two

rows on either side of the road. All the soldiers looked battle-hardened, stern-faced, and few

were unscarred. They wore red leather armor and carried round shields and short spears. Many

had long plaited beards threaded with scarlet cord--the sign among Fergox Spearthrower's

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elite troops of the number of heads they had collected in the Empire's wars.

Ramil began to have a clearer idea as to who might be commanding this army. Though his

despair deepened with the knowledge, he stood up

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straighter as became a prince of Gerfal, even a captive one.

The wagons stopped. Orboyd got down and stood bareheaded before the gates, evidently

waiting for a sign before continuing into the town. Then the riders began to thump their spears

on their shields in a steady beat. A single horseman on a magnificent blue roan stallion trotted

down the steep road from the citadel. He was in no hurry, raising a hand to the people hanging

out of the windows to watch, then resettling his gold-trimmed purple cloak over his shining mail

shirt. There was no haste for Fergox Spearthrower because he knew the world would wait for

him.

Orboyd knelt in the dirt of the highway, as did all the circus folk. Only Ramil was left standing.

Fergox reined in his horse ten paces from the wagons and dismounted. He had a sturdy frame,

short grizzled grey hair, and a fighter's face: crooked nose and hard blue eyes. He was clean

shaven, needing no beard with scarlet threads, for everyone knew how many men he had killed

over the years.

"Report, Orboyd. I understand you were successful." Fergox's voice was harsh but penetrating.

Even the soldiers at the back of the guard of honor could hear every word.

"Yes, master. Your spies were able to tell me exactly

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when and where to find them and Gerfalian security was weak."

Fergox smiled, a chilling expression from him. "They have become complacent, thinking that no

one dare strike at the heart of their kingdom.

They will not be so lax again. You've done well." He offered Orboyd his hand to kiss. "The

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spymaster will pay you double for your service to the Empire. But first you must present me to

our guests."

Orboyd bowed himself backwards from Fergox to reach Ramil. He untied the Prince and led him

forwards. Ramil did not resist, preferring to walk with dignity to being dragged before his

enemy.

Fergox shook his head and tutted. "What's this, Orboyd? Why is Prince Ramil ac Burinholt

tethered like a bullock to your wagon? That is no way to treat royal blood."

"But, your lordship, he tried to escape--"