The wind whipped up a fine white dust from the well-trodden ground. No plants grew in the loading arena at the northern edge of Treydolain, where caravan convoys prepared for their dispersed journeys to the outer edges of the valley. Each day long lines of caravans arrived, offloaded their goods and then took on new cargo, an endless procession of wheeled vehicles, mostly horse-drawn, continuing on their cycle to feed, clothe and power the capital of Lagonia and farther flung settlements.

It used to be a real arena, centuries ago, where the wild animals of the valley were brought to fight against the bravest warriors - or the strongest slaves, whichever could draw the biggest crowds. Even the warped, mutated beasts of the mountains were captured and brought in cages to be unleashed for the entertainment of the crowds. Such practises had fallen away over the years, the traditions preserved only on the northring. Treydolain thought itself too civilised for such barbarism.

There were at least seven convoys lined up in various states of readiness, from the old, ruined walls of the arena to the middle where Fenris Silt found himself standing in the baking morning sun, negotiating for passage out of the city. The caravans were always in motion: as one convoy left, another would be arriving, and thus they were the perfect way to smuggle things - or people - in and out. He had known this for years; had, in fact, tried to clamp down on the transfer of prohibited goods through various schemes and policies, before submitting to the unassailable fact that it was not possible to check every crate that moved through the city. He had never liked that uncertainty, but now found himself relying upon it.

"We're pretty much loaded and ready to roll," the leader of the convoy, one Zindell Hirsch, confirmed. "Not much space, though. Gonna cost you."

"We need passage out of the city," Fenris said again. "We don't need luxury: give us the cheapest, smallest hole you can find and we'll keep out of you way. And no questions asked."

Zindell smiled the gap-toothed grin of a seasoned trader. "Well, that's the real trick, ain't it?"

Returning the smile, Fenris leaned closer. "Let's just say that we would appreciate avoiding any official entanglements."

The trader's eyes narrowed. "I'm not partial to that kind of encounter myself," he said, "but that kind of quiet will cost you a pretty penny, too."

"I'll need to pay you to say nothing?"

Swinging his arms out wide in mock apology, Zindell laughed. "Folk round here, they've got big mouths, you know?"

"I have some coin," Fenris said, "and we can provide assistance on the road, also."

Zindell looked Fenris up and down with some scepticism. "You planning on reading some stories to the children, granddad?"

"I am more than capable," Fenris said, locking the other man with a cold glare.

The sound of running footsteps distracted them both. Fenris turned to see Tarn stumbling his way towards them, kicking up plumes of dust in his wake. Fenris braced himself: this was exactly the kind of profile he was trying to avoid.

"What is it?" he snapped.

Tarn looked between the two men, seemingly trying to formulate his thoughts, or at least his words. "She's in trouble," he said, finally, clearly doing his utmost to avoid saying Kirya's name, as instructed, "she's fallen over."

Knowing immediately what he meant, even though Tarn himself barely understood his own words, Fenris moved off with haste towards the line of caravans, where he had left his two young companions to shelter in the shade between vehicles. He could see Kirya's legs sticking out from behind a wooden wheel.

She lay in the dust, twitching, foam pooling in one side of her mouth. He knelt down beside her, lifting her up and shifting her into a position where she would be able to breathe. And she was still breathing, which was a very good sign. The doctor had reported that her previous attack had been far more serious, averted only by Tranton Seldon's quick thinking. The outsider had a remarkable knowledge of advanced medicine.

The princess was limp and unconscious.

"She's a pretty one," said Zindell, rounding the corner of the caravan. He leaned against it and crossed his arms. "What's the matter with her?"

"We need to get her inside and out of the sun," Fenris said.

Zindell looked down at them, then over at Tarn. He shrugged noncommittally, then banged a hand against the side of the caravan, prompting its rear gate to swing down with a crash. "Be my guest," he said, "but it's going to cost you more."

"Do you charge for everything you do?" Fenris said, putting his arms under Kirya and raising her up.

"I'm a businessman," Zindell said, grinning. "And this ain't a hospital."

With Tarn's assistance Fenris lifted Kirya into the back of the caravan, which was covered with a thick tarpaulin. Pushing several crates to one side, they made a space to lie Kirya down. The base of the caravan was lined with old straw, which was dirty but soft. Zindell noted with interest Fenris' surprisingly spry nature.

"Why did she fall over?" Tarn asked. He reached out and touched a tentative finger to her twitching ankle. The erratic movement stopped as he came into contact, then resumed as he lifted his hand away. "And why is she moving so much?"

"She's having a fit," Fenris said, taking a blanket from his bag and positioning it beneath Kirya's head.

Zindell stood outside the caravan, bright in the sunlight, looking quizzically in at the scene. "She do this a lot?"

Fenris ignored their questions and instead felt for her pulse, which was regular and strong. She was breathing. Kirya Tellador had been sensitive to such fits as a baby and child but had seemingly outgrown them once she became a woman - until the incident on the mesa. That had incapacitated her for days, which was an inconvenience they could not afford. He had no way of knowing whether it would be a momentary lapse or something more prolonged.

Clenching his fists at his inability to do anything useful and wishing he was a trained doctor, Fenris cursed again the bad luck which had caused him to encounter his ward during his escape from the palace. He had not wanted her drawn into any of this madness.

Then again, she was the princess of Lagonia. She had been drawn in from the moment of her birth, regardless of her actions or wishes. And, truthfully, he knew that the chances of his escaping the mesa plateau with Tarn had been minuscule until she had suggested her alternate route. Taking Tranton's pre-planned, but never executed, route from the edge of the gardens, down to a lower outcropping which led along to one of the cargo lines had been audacious but far more discrete. Hitching rides on the delivery buckets had been precarious but foolproof, depositing them neatly inside the unmanned factory at the mesa's base. Fenris had been somewhat embarrassed by the security implications.

And now here he was, not knowing whether his ward would wake, or when. He was glad she was there, despite it all, and could not imagine the journey without her, though he knew that she was still far from being an assured ally.

"She looks awful familiar," Zindell noted, squinting at Kirya. "Can't place it. Feel like I've met her before."

"A lot of people say that," Fenris deflected, considering his choices. He needed to secure passage, especially now that Kirya was unable to make it back to a safehouse.

Tarn ventured back outside, dropping out the back of the caravan without a word, his previous concern for Kirya's welfare apparently vanishing.

"Looks to me like you need a doctor," Zindell noted, "yet you're not seeming in a hurry to go find one."

"Do you have a medic in your party?"

"I might do, but he's a very busy man. And if you're wanting to hire these salubrious quarters," he gestured at the crates and brown, thinly scattered straw, "then I think we should discuss pay before you get access to our services."

Before Fenris could speak, Tarn reappeared, hopping in a single motion into the back of the caravan. "They're here!" he exclaimed, clearly distressed.

Struggling to disguise his exasperation at being interrupted once more, Fenris placed a calming hand on Tarn's shoulder. "Who is here?"

"The bad girl and the bad man. The ones who killed my family."

Zindell frowned and turned away from the caravan, scouring the arena floor. "Well, this is no good," he said, and vanished from sight, walking off into the sunlight.

Tarn was fretting, darting about hunched over in the low-ceilinged caravan. He was muttering something incoherent below his breath.

Moving away from Kirya, Fenris pushed Tarn aside and leaned out of the caravan, his eyes slowly adjusting to the bright light. At the far end of the line he could see a troop of city guard, accompanied by two King's Eyes. Even at this distance he knew the silhouettes of Roldan Stryke and Pienya Martoc. He felt his hopes wither away to nothing and his shoulders sagged as he realised that his mission would not even make it past the city limits. He watched as the guards fanned out, several moving towards each caravan line across the width of the arena. It made no sense that they had found them so quickly, even factoring in that the trade convoys were an obvious route to leaving the city.

"Be fast, please" Tarn urged. He was pushing the crates around, forming a wall across the inside of the caravan. He grabbed Kirya by the arms and dragged her awkwardly and without much care into the rear of the caravan, where he pushed her up against the back wall.

Understanding, Fenris abandoned his stupor and provided assistance, shifting and lifting and repositioning the caravan's contents until only a tiny sliver of a gap remained. He edged through it, then lowered the final crates into place. The three of them were wedged in tightly at the back, Fenris and Tarn positioned at either end of Kirya's prone body. Around the edges of the wall of crates the sun burned a bright halo, but they were entirely hidden in shadow.

They waited in silence. When Kirya moved involuntarily, they would put a gentle hand to her head, or shoulder, or ankle, which seemed to calm her.

There was movement outside, then the caravan rocked on its axles as someone climbed inside. There were muttered, muffled voices, then the caravan shifted again as the voices departed.

Minutes passed.

More noise, then one of the crates was suddenly removed, blasting sunlight into their hiding place. Fenris tensed, then saw the smiling face of Zindell Hirsch.

"Still here, then?" he said. "Thought you might be back here. Oldest trick in the book. Good job those guards weren't the brightest." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Those King's Eyes, though. They make me shiver all over, like someone just dug up my grave."

"Are they gone?" Fenris whispered.

Zindell leaned in. "Yes, they're gone," he whispered back, mockingly.

"Why help us?" Fenris asked. "Why did you not tell them we were here?"

Shrugging, Zindell, leaned against a crate. "If they'd found you using their own nous, then they'd have been welcome to you," he said. "But I'm not in the habit of helping city guard, much less King's Eyes. Let's just say you're not the only things here I don't want them finding." He smiled crookedly. "And besides, if they had found you, I'd just have denied all knowledge, and that would've been the end of it." Leaning in, he deposited a stack of papers on top of the crate. Each bore a likeness of Tarn, Fenris or Tranton Seldon. "But given that they didn't, you owe me. And seeing as how they seem very keen to find you, I'm thinking I now own you and your two young friends here."