There was another way out of the Sanctuary, a side door leading from the stables – for the use of officers only. Nel Macy’s roan mare was standing ready saddled and bridled in the stalls; Acir made a swift adjustment to the stirrups and led her out through the side door. Once on the heath, he climbed up into the saddle and set off in pursuit of the fiacre.

As he rode, he heard the bell began to clang.

He should have known he could not outwit Fiammis.

CHAPTER 24

The roan mare soon caught up with the fiacre as it bumped across the heath road.

Acir reined the mare to a trot, bringing her alongside the carriage window, matching her pace to the vehicle’s slow progress.

The window flap opened and a head sporting an outrageously red wig appeared. Acir almost laughed aloud; the danger of the situation and the incongruity of this ludicrous perruque gave him a sudden wild surge of elation.

‘What in hell’s name are you doing?’ demanded Khassian. Beneath the wig, his eyes burned.

‘Escorting you.’

‘Won’t that draw attention to us?’

‘There have been rumours of brigands on the heath.’

‘So they’re after us already?’ Khassian was obviously not to be fobbed off with so lame an excuse.

‘Maybe.’ Acir pulled the mare’s head to one side and scanned the heath. Clouds were scudding up fast, dark, boiling clouds, threatening a storm. Sunlight glittered on the towers and cupolas of Bel’Esstar, unnaturally bright.

If he was leading the pursuit, what would he do?

Simple. He would cut them off at the river.

The only way to cross the wide Dniera in a carriage was by the New Bridge. The old bridges still bristled with ramshackle houses, too narrow for a modern carriage to pass across unimpeded.

A turbulence of dust darkened the heath behind them. Horses. Skirting to the west – but also heading towards the river.

Could he get them to the bridge before their pursuers?

Orial gripped the leather strap tightly as the fiacre wheels juddered over another pothole.

Little stars of sound kept bursting in her mind, like exploding rockets on the Day of the Dead. The slightest noise, the slightest jolt, was a torment to her aching head.

‘Are you all right?’ Khassian was staring at her from beneath Cramoisy’s wig. She so wanted to lean across and touch him to make sure he was really there. ‘You look as if you’re going to faint.’

‘I never faint,’ Orial snapped back. ‘I have a slight headache. That’s all.’

This was no megrim or fainting fit. It was the chaos of the Accidie. Her mind was beginning to disintegrate as splinters of sound flew from the star-explosions.