The second cargo basket was approaching the end of the gantry, falling slowly beneath its deck, and Tahlia ran towards it, her ears straining for the sounds of angry shouting from above. No sounds came, and she concentrated on running, focussing on the basket in front of her. Each basket was wide and flat, almost the width of the carriage, and half its length. They were secured at each corner by wood and metal gimbals, so they could not tilt and spill their precious loads. She aimed for the gap at the side of the rear most basket, between the gantry and the bottom of the carriage, but it was shrinking too quickly as the carriage started its downward journey. That left the back of the basket, which was not impeded by the gantry's edge, but to get over to it she would have to jump out across open space.

Fortunately, she did not have time to think about this as she hurtled across the dock and leapt head first across the gap. The carriage had been moving faster than she had expected, the basket was further away than she thought, and the wind was knocked painfully out of her as her stomach hit its edge. She kicked her legs instinctively, but there was no purchase for them, and the momentum of their kicking tipped her backwards over the basket's lip. She lunged forward into the darkness under the carriage and felt her fingers brush the thick weave of the basket's bottom. They slid over its surface as her weight pulled her backwards, but then she clenched her fists, pushing her fingers into the basket's weave. She lay there with her eyes tight shut, the weight of her body hanging over the drop pulling painfully at her fingers. Her collision had caused the basket to rock back and forth, but the gimbals at each of its corners kept it mercifully level. Only once the rocking had slowed, did she dare to pull her leg up and over the basket's side, and roll herself into the darkness beneath the carriage. She lay still, panting to get her breath back. When a few seconds had passed, she eased herself towards the back of the basket, just enough to allow her to see up towards the slowly dwindling station. The two platforms, and the loading docks beneath, were all brightly lit. She could see the figures of soldiers there, but none of them were running to raise an alarm, or pointing at her and shouting, which was normally what happened when she was seen doing something that she should not have been doing.

She gave a deep sigh. She had escaped from the fortress. Now all she had to do was to find her father.

* * * * *

When Grifford left the carriage with Master Tzarren, the battle-grounds appeared to be in complete chaos. The scene was lit by the glow-lights from the chain-carriage station and the oservation-tower's terrace, and by the countless small lights carried by the squads and units of soldiers being assembled in the arena-field.

The place was also filled with madriel as the Enclosure's Masters, Mistresses and Field-hands, brought them in from the great-bailey. Some of the males were being led through to the tents of the knights where squires waited to saddle them. Those already prepared were gathered in a mass around the Arbiter's tent. The beasts gave deep throated growls, and struck the ground with their horns to vent their annoyance at being woken in the dark, and at the close proximity of their pride rivals. The females, already fitted with their light hunting saddles, were being assembled on the far side of the station to the arena-field. Though they made less commotion, some of the younger ones were clearly agitated by the scent of the males, and their own loud growls added to the noise, their breath clouding with the morning mist.

Lady Mandassa and the other ladies left the carriage first and went swiftly down the station steps to the terrace, whose tables, not long since cleared of the previous night's feast, had been pushed hastily aside. Field-hands waited at the terrace's steps to guide the ladies to their waiting steeds.

As Grifford left the station, a group of females and their riders detached themselves from the larger group and sped away across the fortress hub, skirting the tents of the Encampment before plunging into the moonlit grass of the territories. Their departure revealed three mounted Madriel-mistresses, dressed in riding gear, though Grifford thought the tall lady in the centre of the group looked a little old to be riding a madriel.

"High Hunt-mistress Lucina seems to have things well organised," said Master Tzarren, having to lean down to Grifford's ear and raise his voice to make himself heard over the noise around them.

"Will she know where my mother has gone?" Grifford shouted back.

"Doubtless she will, but we will have to ask her later when she is less occupied. Come on."

Master Tzarren guided Grifford by the shoulder and led him into the battle-grounds' chaos. As they wove between the creatures of the Pride, he could feel the angry tension running through the place, in both people and beasts. The Madriel-masters were having to work hard to keep order.

Before they reached his pavilion, Grifford knew his father was not there. His banner stood planted by the door, lit by a single glow-light hanging from its pole. There was light within the tent, but there was no buzz of activity surrounding it. Two of his father's soldiers stood on either side of the door, and they pulled themselves to sharp attention as Master Tzarren strode past them and into the tent.

"Zemrossa!" he shouted. "Zemrossa, where are you, boy?"

Zemrossa was in the tent's outer chamber, polishing the dark looming shape of Hakansa's jousting armour, though it already gleamed darkly in the rippling glow light hanging from the tent's roof. Grifford looked around to see his father's armour standing opposite, and it had been as equally well polished as his steed's. His father's sword and rail-shield were missing.

"Where is Commander Kralaford?" demanded Master Tzarren as Zemrossa looked up from his work, his face remaining unsurprised at the sudden intrusion.

"He has gone."

"Where?"

"North. A merchant's wagon left the Enclosures early this morning. Sir Kralaford has ridden in pursuit."

"So who is coordinating the search? I trust the Order is not simply riding haphazardly around the place."

"High Madriel-mistress Lucina has the ladies."

"Yes, we've seen her."

"The Commanders have taken charge of their own divides beyond the great-bailey, except..." Zemrossa gave a fraction of a pause before finishing. "Sir Galder has declined to ride out. He believes there might be an attack on Klinberg."

Grifford gave a low growl, but he was stilled by Master Tzarren's hand on his shoulder.

"Sir Galder does have a just point, especially with our knights scattered across the province looking for your brother."

"Sir Galder has given the other Commander's leave to search his divide, and allowed them the use of his scouts."

"That is something," said Master Tzarren.

"He has taken charge of searching the Encampment, but he has refused to leave the precincts of the fortress."

High Lance-master Tzarren nodded.

"He has his engagement in the jousting ring at noon. He will have no wish to miss it."

Grifford spat a curse. With everything else going on, he had forgotten about his father's contest.

"Will father return in time?"

Master Tzarren regarded him with grave eyes.

"I could not say." He looked out of the tent's open door as another group of lower echelon knights rode past, then he turned back to Grifford. "You stay here."

"But, I thought..."

"You will be quite safe. I'll summon more guards. I need to go and see that Sir Galder isn't making a total dung heap of the search, and I can't nursemaid you at the same time. Now stay here."

With no further word, he strode back out of the tent.

"Nursemaid!" growled Grifford, then remembered that Zemrossa was still watching him.

"You can rest in the sleeping chamber if you like," said the older boy, indicating the half drawn curtain. "There is food and water in there as well. You can help yourself." Grifford looked at the curtain doubtfully. "Your brother will be found. There is little that either of us can do to help your father right now, but everyone else is doing all that they can."

"They had better be," replied Grifford, and stalked through the door with no further response.

He sat on his father's bed, which had already been neatly made. He stared out passed the curtain and through the tent's door, into the lightening night where the occasional knight would ride by on his madriel to join in the search. After a while he heard the faint noises of Zemrossa polishing Hakansa's armour.

He sighed violently.

How had this happened? How had someone got into the fortress and taken his brother? How could they dare?

He was startled from his thoughts by a scraping sound on the tent wall at the end of the chamber. The space was lit by another glow-light, and he could see by the shadows it cast that the tent's wall was bulging inwards, as if something were pushing against it.

Grifford jumped to his feet and looked around the room for a weapon. There was little that would serve, except for a small garrola knife, its blade barely four centimetres long, which sat beside a fruit bowl. He snatched the knife up, turned to face the wall of the tent, and had no sooner raised the weapon in front of him when something sharp, at the level of his eye, tore through the tent's fabric. The thing was drawn swiftly downwards, slitting the material with barely a sound, leaving a breach through which, against the greyness of early morning, he could see a dark shape as it crouched outside, and he imagined that it was peering back at him.

Grifford's Sword-master had taught him that indecision could lead to his death, so he made a decision and made it swiftly. He jumped forward, a snarl on his lips, and the knife in his hand.