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“His mother should have taught him to choose his friends more wisely.” Weaver dumped the body inside with the other two, throwing straw over them before securing the door. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.”

Alwenna failed to respond so he took her by the elbow. She snatched her arm from his grip. “We should tell Tresilian about Stanton.”

He could take her back up to the keep now, let her take her chance with the rest of them in the siege. And he could get on with the work he was fitted for. But he’d given his word. “He’ll find out soon enough. We have to push on – there may be others on the prowl.”

“Others?”

“A man as influential as Stanton won’t have been working alone.” Still she hesitated. “My lady, we must hurry.”

“You just butchered three men. Were their lives of no consequence?” She gripped her fallen hood with one hand, as if she’d forgotten what she meant to do with it.

“They were your enemies. Now pull up that hood. We must go.”

Wynne stepped forward, setting an arm about Alwenna’s shoulders. “Come, my lady. Weaver knows what he’s about. Right now we must put your safety first.” She whispered something in a low voice that Weaver couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it had the desired effect.

The younger woman drew up her hood. “Of course, you are both right. We must go.” Her voice might have lacked conviction, but she stepped alongside Weaver, and when he took hold of her arm to guide her she didn’t shake off his grip.

CHAPTER FIVE

Alwenna soon lost her sense of direction as Weaver led them through side streets and alleyways. She wanted to break away from him, run in the opposite direction and keep running until she reached the safety of the keep. What if another faction had already offered him more than Stanton? “Why are we going uphill? You’re taking us further and further from the main gate.”

“We’re using a gate no one will be watching, my lady.”

They emerged from another narrow alley into an open space where she could hear running water. The moonlight revealed the washing green at the foot of the citadel walls, fed by the spring for which Highkell was named. They kept to the shadows of the buildings alongside the green, stopping at the base of the city wall. There Weaver unfastened his cloak and lifted a bundle from his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“This is the key to our gate.” The bundle was a coil of rope which he looped over one arm before refastening his cloak. He began to unwind one end of the rope.

“I don’t see how this will help.”

Weaver leaned forward to pass the rope about her waist, and the copper tang of blood mingled with sweat and wet wool enveloped her. He knotted the rope, adjusting it so it was a snug fit. “I’ll lower you down first.” Weaver secured the rope about his own waist, leaving several yards between them which he carried in a loose coil. “Then Wynne. I’ll follow behind.”

The citadel tower rose sheer above one side of the green while the curving city wall closed off the other. Buildings enclosed the space between them. “Down where? We’re hemmed in here.”

“This way.” He led them across the washing green, alongside the curtain wall, and stepped down into the stream, pushing aside a clump of willow stems. There was an opening at the base of the wall, no more than shoulder height, through which the stream flowed. The opening was impossibly small, impossibly dark.

Alwenna froze. “You expect me to go in there?”

“The water’s not deep.” Weaver held out his hand to assist her.

She remained where she was. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can.” He reached up and caught hold of her hand. “I’ve got you. Nothing can go wrong.”

“No.” She snatched her hand away but the bank crumbled beneath her foot and she slithered down, landing with a jolt against Weaver in the knee-deep water. The current tugged at her skirts. Weaver held the willow stems back so she could squeeze past.

“I can’t. I mean it.” She planted her feet, bracing one arm against the wall. “It’s too narrow.” Even the thought of stepping inside that constricted space was enough to make the breath fail in her lungs. The pounding of her blood filled her ears. She couldn’t do it. She was dimly aware of Wynne’s voice.

“Is there no other way? My lady can’t bear small spaces.”

“What? No.” Weaver sounded exasperated. “It’s only a short distance.”

Alwenna drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself, to ease the trembling that had overcome her limbs. She could master her fear. She had to. She set her hand on the inner wall of the culvert. The stone was clammy, covered in slimy growth from the lack of light. She snatched her hand back. Nearby, a man’s voice shouted.

Weaver grabbed Alwenna bodily and shoved her inside the culvert, branches scraping across her face as he pressed her head down clear of the low ceiling. He clamped his hand over her mouth, stifling any protest. Instinct took over and she closed her teeth on the gloved hand, biting hard. The leather tasted rank, but she hung on until, with a muffled curse, Weaver twisted his hand free.

“Stay quiet,” he hissed.

Splashing sounds announced Wynne had joined them in the culvert a split second before she bumped into them. The sound of the running water echoed off the curved ceiling and rebounded, filling Alwenna’s head with noise, drowning out all but the faintest hint of voices from the green. Her limbs continued to shake, out of control.

Weaver began to edge his way through the culvert away from their pursuers, and Alwenna had no option but to go with him. One step, then another, the current tugging at her skirts, threatening to drag her feet out from under her, her senses bludgeoned by the noise of rushing water, the darkness, her fear. Then the echoing ceased and clear air caressed her face as she was able to stand up straight. She could have sobbed with relief – except Weaver still pinned her arms against her sides in a death grip. From close behind, Wynne exclaimed in horror and when Alwenna opened her eyes – she couldn’t recall having shut them – she saw why.

CHAPTER SIX

They were poised on a ledge above the gorge. Moon shadows hid the depths, but many feet below them were the tops of tall trees. The stream cascaded out over a man-made ledge, falling in an arc clear of the sheer wall beneath them. The clouds shifted and the shadows below deepened, but Alwenna had seen enough. The remains of a watergate tilted out over the precipice, pushed by the flow of water fed by several days’ rainfall. Weaver tied off the rope to one of the metal supports for the watergate before he eased his grip about Alwenna’s waist and released her, watching her warily.

The air seemed able to fill her lungs once more and the shaking of her limbs was beginning to subside when Weaver gestured for silence. He twisted around to watch the mouth of the culvert, one hand resting on his sword hilt. They remained frozen there straining to hear any sound of pursuit over the rush of the water. Finally Weaver’s shoulders eased and he turned to face the gorge once more. “We go on. You first, my lady.”

Alwenna peered into the shadows at the foot of the cliff. “Are you sure that rope will reach the ground?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Anything would be better than going back through that accursed tunnel. “How do I know you won’t leave me dangling halfway down?”

“I gave the king my word I’d see you safe to Vorrahan.” Weaver anchored himself to the metal loop, then checked the knot was still secure about Alwenna’s waist. “Turn round to face the rock and try to keep your feet against it, as if you’re walking down. Don’t move suddenly or you’ll twist around.”

“And if I do?”

“Hope you twist back again. And keep quiet.” He fed the rope through so he was holding the end closest to her, then wrapped it over his shoulder and took a twist about his arm.

“Lean out over the drop. You won’t fall. Try to keep your weight on your feet. And untie the rope once you’re on the ground.”

The tug of the rope about her waist was reassuringly firm. Alwenna leaned out over the drop, unsure what to expect. Her sodden skirts dragged down, obscuring her view of the rock face where she needed to plant her feet. A few hours ago she’d been dozing before a warm fire as the rain sheeted down the window. Now… It was better not to think too hard about it. Obey Weaver’s instructions.

“I’m going to start lowering you. Just walk your feet down, keep them wide apart.” He let the rope out a little and she lurched downwards, her feet suddenly uncomfortably high. She shuffled them down until she reached a balanced position, then he let more rope out. This time she kept pace with the motion. She proceeded for several feet in relative comfort, until the rock wall steepened and her foot met empty space beneath a small overhang. Her body weight swung sideways, the rope loop digging into her ribs. Her foot contacted rock again, but she’d swung too far off balance and didn’t stop until her elbow crashed against the cliff. Cursing her clumsiness, she pushed herself away and managed to scramble her feet beneath her but before she could regain her balance, Weaver paid out more rope and she lost her footing entirely, spinning out of control.

Her stupid oversized hood slipped back and a squall of rain hit her full in the face. No, not rain, she’d swung towards the falling stream water. Unable to check the motion, she pitched into the waterfall. It bombarded the top of her head and ran down her neck, drenching her from head to foot. Too late she ducked, spitting out a mouthful of water as she hunched her shoulders against it. Her sodden garments grew rapidly heavier and dragged downwards, digging into her shoulders, while the rope about her waist dug ever tighter into her ribs, making it hard to draw breath. Her skirts tangled about her legs and she scrabbled for a foothold, swinging out of the downspout for a moment of blessed relief.

Weaver kept lowering the rope and she bumped and slithered her way for several feet before regaining her footing and pushing herself away from the cascading water. Then something beneath her hampered her skirts and her feet became tangled in branches. Goddess, was she stuck in a tree? She risked a look down and discovered she was close enough to set her feet on the ground, if only they weren’t entangled in a scrubby thorn. Above her Weaver paid out more rope and she landed bruisingly on her back, the rope going slack and bumping across her face as the pressure on her ribs eased. She floundered for a moment, then managed to kick her feet clear of the bush and clambered onto her knees.

The ground she knelt on was perilously steep. They had to be some forty or fifty feet below the citadel walls now. The rope dangling down the rock face above her twitched and she peered upwards, just in time to get a faceful of grit. Here in the shade of the trees it was difficult to make out what was going on, but when the rope tugged sharply at her waist she remembered she was supposed to untie it. The knot had pulled tight. She dug her fingernails into it, hands so numb with cold she could hardly tell when at last the knot loosened. She worried the loops apart, heedless of the grit that bit into her fingertips as she finally drew the end of the rope free. She tugged twice on the rope and was rewarded by another shower of grit and small pebbles from above as it snaked back up the cliff.

Then there was nothing. No movement, no sound from above. The knuckles of one hand began to sting and she discovered she’d bloodied them at some point during the descent. It crossed her mind that Weaver could just leave her down there. She would make an easy target for Tresilian’s enemies. Then she glimpsed movement above: a bulky figure was being lowered down the rock face, a few feet at a time. She gathered her wits together in time to spare Wynne the ignominy of getting entangled in the same small thorn, and the pair of them began to fight with the knot about the servant’s waist as the end of a wet rope slapped down against them.

A few moments later Weaver slithered down beside them. He unwrapped the rope from about his shoulder then undid the knot at Wynne’s waist without any apparent effort. “Step over by that tree, so the rope won’t hit you.” He began pulling one end of the rope and the other vanished back up the cliff, disappearing from sight. He kept pulling it through until a skittering sound from above and another shower of pebbles heralded the arrival of the rope on the ground.

Alwenna’s clothing dragged as she moved over to the tree, weighed down from her soaking. Shivering, she perched on the steep bank and began wringing out the water. It pattered down onto the leaf mould at her feet. “W-what now?” Her fingers burned as the life returned to them.

Weaver coiled the rope hastily and draped it over one shoulder. “We get our horses.”

Horses. Of course, he’d mentioned them earlier. Thank the Goddess she was not expected to walk all the way to Vorrahan.

“This way, my lady.” Weaver took her elbow. “You’re drenched.”

This surprised him? “You just lowered me down a waterfall.” It was an effort to force the words out through chattering teeth. She stood up, only to find her skirts weighed her down as heavily as before and she stooped to wring them out again.

“Let me, my lady.” Wynne hurried over to help and Weaver stepped away, fixing all his attention on the gorge below them as if he expected pursuers to spring out of the river.

“That’s the best I can do for now, my lady.” Wynne straightened up, stretching her back.

“Thank you, Wynne.” Alwenna knew a pang of guilt. The servant had agreed to accompany her on this adventure after only a moment’s hesitation. At least she’d avoided a soaking as Weaver had lowered her down the cliff. He was still watching the gorge, his shoulders tight. He probably disapproved of the delay. “Well, Weaver, where are these horses?”

“This way, my lady.” He supported her weight as they scrambled over the steep ground beneath the citadel. “The walk will help you warm up. It’s not–”

Weaver froze, listening. Alwenna halted, mid-stride, holding her breath. There were voices behind them – several. Had they been followed after all? Then the jingle of harness and the braying of a mule. A burst of laughter.

Weaver relaxed. “Merchants. On the road on the far side of the gorge.”

They clambered out of the steep-sided gully without further incident. A few minutes’ easier walking through forest brought them to the place above the citadel where two horses were tethered. Weaver tightened the girths and led one forward.