Whoever had climbed the stairs to investigate managed to avoid knocking into the bell, but Eleanor heard the door open and froze. If anyone came onto the ledge, her only escape was downwards.

  She heard the door close a moment later, and after waiting a while to be sure no-one was coming Eleanor edged back round to the doorway. She turned the handle, but the door wouldn't open. There was no keyhole – presumably there were some bolts on the other side that she'd simply failed to notice, and she was furious at herself for the elementary mistake.

  Since there seemed to be no other options, she sat down and began to lower herself over the edge, searching for any plausible footholds. With a little difficulty she managed to make her way down from the tower onto the steeply pitched roof of the hall, which she slid down faster than she would have chosen, alarmed at how much noise the slates made as they rattled under her movement. She reached the edge of the roof without stopping and tumbled down into the street, much to the surprise of a beggar who was crouched in a nearby doorway.

  As she dusted herself off and checked for broken bones, he hissed and spat at her from his doorstep. Still feeling generally annoyed, Eleanor spat back before running as quickly as she could back to the boat for the night.

  Her second day in Taraska passed as quickly as the first, in a blur of dry heat and colourful stalls. She tried a different shop for lunch and managed to find herself something a little more palatable, but she still longed for a hearty Charanthe meal. Everything here seemed to come smothered in a thick sauce which made it hard to know what you were getting and less pleasant once you got it.

  As she walked back through the darkened streets that evening, her attention was drawn by strains of music coming from a small tavern. Intrigued by the unfamiliar sounds – it was nothing like the music she'd learnt at school – she pushed the door open. The room was packed, and she found herself unable to move more than two steps inside. A group of four musicians played from a gallery above the throng; the drummer beat out an energetic, erratic rhythm while the others provided the melody on two pipes and a large stringed instrument.

  In the centre of the floor a small space had opened up around a dark-skinned woman with long black hair which whipped behind her as she moved. Eleanor had to stand on tip-toes to see what was happening, and she still only caught glimpses of the woman's movements. From what she could see, the dance was a mixture of fluid swaying movements and occasional acrobatic leaps; as the music sped up, so did the dancer.

  A few moments later, a second woman cartwheeled into the circle. She was shorter than the first and more voluptuous, with short blonde hair spiked up into peaks.

  The onlookers stepped back to make more space for the dance, and Eleanor found herself pushed backwards, crushed up against the people behind her. She strained to see what was going on as the two dancers slowly circled.

  “Vashta! Vashta! Vashta!” the crowd chanted, clapping furiously.

  The blonde woman did an impressive backflip then launched into a series of stamping movements, using her feet to play out a rhythm to rival the drummer.

  The black-haired woman just watched, swaying gently where she stood, until the stamping subsided – then she in turn began to move furiously, tapping with her feet and swirling her arms in a complex pattern.

  Eleanor began to work her way around the edge of the room, trying to get a better view. Another sudden surge of excitement in the crowd pushed her into a young man.

  “Sorry!” she said quickly.

  He looked curiously at her. “Ven Magrad,” he muttered, as much to himself as to her, shaking his head. “Ven Darasgad. Valisgad? Gharanded?”

  She guessed he must be wondering about her nationality, so she said, “I'm from the Charanthe Empire.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the frenzied music.

  “See not vashta before,” he said. It was barely a question.

  Eleanor shook her head. “What's happening?” she asked.

  “Vashta. Is woman-fight here in Darasga.”

  “A fight?” Eleanor asked. It didn't look like any kind of fighting she'd ever seen; the two women weren't even touching.

  “Fight,” he confirmed. “Winner take everything.”

  Another surge of the crowd separated them again, and Eleanor turned her attention back to the dance. The women took turns at dancing a short sequence each, getting more and more complex turn by turn, until suddenly the crowd stopped chanting and cheering, and began hissing as the blonde woman danced. She redoubled her efforts with extra acrobatics, but the onlookers were unimpressed and eventually she stopped, threw a handful of coins at the floor, and made her way out of the bar.

  The black-haired woman stood smugly with her hands on her hips, still swaying to the music, until another challenger stepped forwards and the whole cycle began again.

  About twenty women had danced by the time the contest came to an end, leaving the final victor to gather up her winnings from the tavern floor – with plenty of help from admiring men in the crowd.

  Eleanor left the tavern in a daze, still humming under her breath, and turned back towards the harbour. She wanted to dance like the women in the circle; every muscle in her body wanted to react to the music. Before she and her classmates had been old enough to begin combat training, dance had been Eleanor's strongest subject and she'd once hoped to work in the theatres. Her childhood joy rekindled by the display she'd just witnessed, she skipped a little as she walked down the street.

  She was just about to emerge from the alley onto the seafront when a heavy object connected with the back of her head and the world faded into blackness.

  Chapter 7

  Eleanor regained consciousness to the sound of hushed voices talking a harsh, guttural language that she recognised as Magrad, though she couldn't understand what they were saying. There was an unbearable pain somewhere behind her left ear – unable to remember what had happened to bring her here, she turned her concentration to working out what was going on around her. She could feel the rough stone floor under her body, her back was pressed uncomfortably against a wall, and her left leg was folded painfully under her.

  She opened her eyes and glanced around; in the flickering torchlight she could make out five figures – the two familiar shapes of Anvil and Misty, and three dark-skinned strangers. Though she couldn't make sense of what they were saying, they were clearly engaged in very urgent discussions with little attention to spare for her; she hoped her friends were negotiating her release. One muscle at a time, she tested her movements – though she still felt groggy and sick with concussion, and her whole body ached with fresh bruises, nothing seemed to be seriously damaged. And, she noted with a moment's relief, whoever had brought her here hadn't even bothered to tie her hands.

  She didn't have time to investigate further before a cry came from one of the foreign men; suddenly he was on his feet, pointing at her and shouting in alarm. Before she could react Misty and Anvil were beside her, hauling her to her feet and pinning her to the wall in one movement. They lifted her clean off her feet, banging her head on the base of one of the torches as they held her up against the wall.

  “What's going on?” she asked, realising then that something was very wrong.

  “You're worth ten thousan' Magrad dollars,” Anvil said, his voice coloured with half-hearted apology. “Nothin' personal.”

  “What?!” Eleanor struggled against the two men, trying to break free, but the arms gripping her shoulders were strong and unforgiving.

  “Nothin' pers'nal,” Misty repeated, leering stupidly at her. “You're gonna make us rich, assassin-girl.”

  “How?” Eleanor demanded, her mind unwittingly going back to the pathetic, shackled creatures at the market. As she spoke, she found a foothold in the wall; a crack between two stones where she could safely lodge her heel. They held too tightly for her to make much movement, but she launched herself upwards – the direction, she suspected, that they were least expecting – and there was a sickening thud as her head connected with the base of the torch.

  The pain was nothing compared to the blow which had knocked her out, but she knew she'd succeeded; the force was enough to dislodge the torch from its bracket. A moment's pause to see which way the flames fell, then she took full advantage of Anvil's horror and surprise as the burning torch dropped towards his face – he loosed his grip on her arm, and without hesitation she seized her knife from her belt and plunged it deep into his chest.

  Misty fled the room at once, not waiting to see what would happen, not even for the chance of ten thousand dollars. Warm blood flowed over Eleanor's hand as she shook the dead weight from her blade, and her concussion sickness was overwhelmed by a different kind of nausea as she realised what she'd done. She hesitated a moment too long; before she had chance to run the three foreign men were upon her, knocking her to the ground and taking the knife from her hand. Taking no chances this time, they bound her thoroughly with strong hessian rope to hold her hands behind her back, her arms to her sides and her legs together. One of the men tore the name bangle from her wrist and pocketed it.

  Eleanor lay still, trying not to react as one of the men patted her down, his hands roaming roughly across her body as he searched for weapons – he pulled the two school daggers from her belt and tucked them under his own clothes, and scattered the other contents of her pockets on the floor. She silently willed him to ignore the pins in her hair but she was not so lucky and even those were confiscated. Once he'd finished searching her the man kicked Eleanor halfheartedly in the back before going to join his two companions, who were talking in angry whispers.

  Eleanor's fingers were resting against something hard; after a moment's fumbling she identified the jar of jelly which she'd bought at the market. Deciding that it might come in useful, she struggled to work it under her clothes and out of sight at her waist.

  Eventually the men seemed to reach an agreement and one of them came over to Eleanor, picked her up by the ropes that now bound her, and hauled her from the room. He carried her up a long flight of stairs – she counted a hundred and sixteen steps – and then dropped her to the floor again outside a heavily-bolted door.

  The man pulled back the bolts then took a key from a chain around his neck and unlocked the door. He took out a knife, slashed carelessly at Eleanor's bonds, and pushed her hard into the cell. She stumbled and fell, managing to look round just in time to see the door shut heavily behind her. She heard the key turn in the lock, and the sound of thick bolts sliding home.

  She stretched her arms and legs, glad that she could move again, and looked around the room. It was a cold, stone-walled cell, with only one tiny window set high in one corner. Enough to let in a faint glimmer of moonlight, but too small to offer any chance of escape. There was no furniture.

  The sound of ragged, uneven breathing drew her attention to a small shape huddled in one corner. She didn't think she would have noticed him if she hadn't heard him. “Ghiida,” she said in what she hoped was passable Magrad. That seemed to be the language everyone understood.

  “Don't... speak...” the boy said, his voice strained as if he was struggling for every word.

  “Me neither,” Eleanor said, moving closer. Now she could see that his face was gashed, and swollen with bruising. “Are you from the Empire too, then?”

  He gave a small nod.

  “I'm Eleanor.”

  “Raf.”

  They sat for a moment in silence; Eleanor's mind wandered back to Misty, who would surely be back at the boat by now. She could imagine how much his story would have changed by the time he told them what had happened – and she found herself hoping against the odds that John wouldn't believe the lies. She hated the idea that, after he and Mary had been so kind to her, he could possibly think she might have killed one of his crew out of malice.

  “What school are you from?” she asked Raf, more to distract herself than out of any real desire to know the answer.

  “Venncastle,” he said. “You?”

  “Mersioc Regional School for Girls – it's near Port Just. But you shouldn't try to talk,” Eleanor said hurriedly, feeling guilty that she'd even tried to make conversation when every word caused his face to contract with pain. Suddenly, she remembered the jelly which she'd managed to lodge under her belt. “Don't move,” she said, struggling to pull out the jar. “I'll try not to hurt you.”

  He looked curiously at her but didn't speak. She scooped out a little cold jelly and reached out to him, gently smoothing the gel into one of the cuts on his cheek. He flinched beneath her fingers, but still said nothing so she continued to tend his wounds, working her way around his face and neck, pushing his scruffy black hair out of the way to reach the gashes on his forehead.

  “Thank you,” he said as she finished and pushed the lid back onto the jar. She shrugged, embarrassed by his gratitude, and tucked the jar out of sight beneath her clothes again.

  They sat in silence for some time, until their captors brought some water and a little dry bread to the cell. Eleanor insisted that Raf should eat it all – he was worryingly thin, and it had clearly been much longer since he'd had a proper meal. Though he tried to refuse, she was stronger. Eleanor allowed herself only a couple of sips of water to ease her thirst.

  Once the food was gone Raf fell asleep quickly, curled on the floor, and Eleanor pulled the ragged blanket over him. She didn't think she'd be able to sleep while her head was still throbbing from the earlier blow but she stretched out on the cold stones anyway, and eventually pain faded into sleep.

  She was woken the next morning by bright sunlight streaming through the high window. She stood up, intending to climb the wall and look out – but the moment she got to her feet she was overcome with nausea and sank back to her knees almost immediately.

  “Are you okay?” Raf asked her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He winced as his fingernail caught one of the cuts on his cheek.

  “A bit faint,” she admitted. “But much better than you. Don't try to talk.”

  “Me? I'm fine.” He gave her a brave smile. “I'm getting used to all this.”

  Another wave of nausea washed over her and she retched.

  “If you're going to be sick, try over there,” Raf suggested, pointing towards the corner of the cell.

  She crawled in the direction he'd indicated and found a small hole between two stone slabs where a narrow shaft ran straight down through the floor. The stench of urine overwhelmed her as she leaned over the opening and vomited into the darkness.

  “So how long have you been here?” she asked once she was sure she'd finished throwing up.

  “Oh, aeons. I'm not sure exactly – it was twelve days past the solstice when they caught me. How long are we from the equinox?”

  Eleanor counted on her fingers, working through the time she'd spent aboard John's boat. “About a month away,” she concluded, though it was hard to be certain when she'd spent so much time at sea. The boat had seemed a harsh enough prison, but her rough calculations suggested that Raf had spent as much time locked up here as she'd spent sailing.

  They were interrupted by the door being unbolted and unlocked. Two guards waited stiffly by the door as a third came in to the cell, lifted Raf by his collar and hauled him to his feet. Eleanor stood up as well, but Raf shot her a warning glance that she could only understand to mean that he didn't want her to get involved. Seeing how heavily armed the three men were, she thought he was probably right – even if both of them were up to fighting, they couldn't overpower three armed guards with their bare hands.

  The guards took Raf from the room and locked Eleanor alone inside, leaving her only a small cup of water for breakfast. Still feeling somewhat nauseous, she decided to take advantage of her solitude to examine the cell. She pressed her eye to the keyhole and peered out into the corridor beyond, watching as Raf was led round a corner and out of sight. They were going in a different direction to the way that she'd been carried up the stairs the previous night, but apart from gathering that small snippet of information, she saw nothing of interest.

  Turning her attention to the lock itself, Eleanor wished again that the guards hadn't thought to take her hair pins from her. Without anything more delicate than her smallest finger to poke inside the lock she could tell only that the iron mechanism was very solidly built, and that it would probably take more force than a hair pin to spring open the lock in any case. Besides, she reminded herself, the bolts on the other side of the door were more than enough to keep her imprisoned.

  If she was going to get out of here, it was going to take a lot of planning.

  She moved on next to examine the walls of the cell. Unlike the crumbly, sandy stone she'd seen outside, the walls around her were built of large blocks of a glossy grey rock which was cold and hard to the touch. The blocks fitted together almost seamlessly, reminding her of the wall she'd had to climb in Dashfort – only this time she didn't have any knives to force between the blocks. She made a futile attempt at getting up to the window, but the lack of footholds combined with Eleanor's residual nausea to make any progress impossible. She resolved to try again once she was fully recovered, and sat down to have a sip of water.

  As soon as the first drop of liquid passed her lips she realised just how thirsty she was, and gulped down two large mouthfuls before it occurred to her that she should probably save some for Raf, who hadn't had chance to drink anything before he'd been taken from the cell. She set the cup down on the floor – which was made from identical stones to those in the wall – feeling rather forlorn. She had no idea why she was here, except that two people she'd thought were her friends had spotted some opportunity to make a quick profit. Why anyone had wanted to buy her, she had no idea.

 

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