"Then, Majesty, turn around." Captain Peshek drew his knife.

Realizing what he meant to do, Medeoan put her back to him. She heard him suck in his breath, and a moment later, she was buffeted by a series of jerks and tugs. Laces snapped, cloth ripped, and her girdle snaked off from around her waist and slithered to the floor. If Kacha came in now, Peshek would be dead before she could order him spared.

"Try now, Mistress Imperial."

Medeoan put her bundle on a nearby shelf and pushed the ruined finery from her shoulders. The cloth fell in a heap about her ankles, leaving her only her shift, stockings and shoes.

Trying not to think about the man in the room with her, Medeoan hopped over the crumpled cloth and undid the bundle she had been given. Inside was a rough woolen skirt, a gray blouse with sleeves that could be rolled up firmly past her elbows, a stained apron, and an embroidered headscarf that had seen many washings. With a start, she realized that the scarf was Eliisa's. She could not help but glance at Captain Peshek, but he had turned away from her and all she saw was his rigid back. Well, she had stolen much more from that girl than this, why should she now balk at a piece of cloth?

Nonetheless, her scalp shivered as she tied the scarf in place.

A pair of black, scratchy stockings and scuffed, badly sewn shoes completed the disguise. Medeoan caught sight of her reflection in the polished brass mirror that served the keepers and had to stand and stare. Was that her? That thin, pale, wide-eyed drab? That was a powerful sorceress, and empress of Eternal Isavalta?

"Mistress Imperial?" came Captain Peshek's urgent whisper.

Medeoan tore her eyes from her diminished reflection. "You may turn around, Captain. I'm ready."

Captain Peshek pivoted on his heel, saw her, and his eyes widened. In the next heartbeat, however, he recovered himself, and reverenced. "This way, please, Mistress Imperial."

He led her out the far door into an unadorned corridor where she, for all her life in the palace of Vyshtavos, had never walked. A skinny boy in rough, clean servant's clothes waited there, standing on one foot so that he could scratch his heel. When Peshek appeared, he lowered his foot hastily and reverenced.

"This is Sherosh," said Peshek. "He has no tongue, and cannot write, but he knows to show you out the servants' ways. I will meet you beside the stables."

Peshek did not reverence as he retreated, nor did Medeoan fail to notice that he had not used her title. The boy beside her probably did not even know who she was. He just faced her, as wide-eyed and curious as a puppy. Then he smiled, showing a row of ragged and dirty teeth, and took off running.

Suddenly a stranger in her home, Medeoan had no choice but to scurry after him. He led her down a bewildering array of windowless corridors that all seemed to be made of either aging plaster or dark wood. They passed other servants, some in livery, some in drab's clothes. No one stopped to notice her. Some cursed as she ran by, some bellowed, but no one stopped. No one knew her as their empress.

Sherosh lead her through the sculleries, where the air was thick with the stench of slops and garbage and ringing with the clash of pots and kettles. A door, black with age, stood propped open to let in what relief the summer's air could provide. Outside, it was only a little quieter, but it smelled even worse, if that were possible. This was the work yard. Sheds waited here for the tanners, the dyers, and the weavers. The smiths' great forges smoked in the shadow of the east wall. The butchers' yard and the brewers' hall stretched out along the west wall. All conceivable smells of animals, living and dead, mixed with the smells of hot metal and hot mash.

The stables waited upwind of the work yard, so the horses would not be disturbed by the smells of work and slaughter. Reaching the relatively clean scent of well-kept horses was a relief.

A man waited in the shadow of the stable's western wall holding the reins of a scrawny yellow mule. His boots were worn, but his rough pantaloons and undyed kaftan were clean, and the brown sash around his waist was broad and neat. A moment later, Medeoan realized this man was Captain Peshek. She had never seen him out of uniform, and she found him as much altered as she herself was, from imperial guardsman to peasant with a change of a costume.

"Good boy, Sherosh." Peshek flipped a copper coin into the dust at the boy's feet. Sherosh dived for the coin and scooped it up without even breaking stride. He slapped his fist against his heart in a child's imitation of the soldier's reverence and took off for the scullery again.

"Now, mistress," said Peshek hastily. "This mount is bad-tempered and inelegant, but it is inconspicuous. If you would ..." He cupped his hands for her foot.

Medeoan allowed herself to be helped onto the mule's riding blanket. Peshek handed her the bundle she had entrusted to him the previous evening. It contained some money and the girdle she had woven of her magic and Eliisa's memories. Even more importantly, it contained a plain wooden box in which she had secreted her signet ring. With that, she could still seal letters and decrees as the empress of Isavalta, no matter what clothes she wore.

The mule flapped its ears and snorted as Peshek grabbed hold of its bridle and urged it forward. Medeoan clutched the harness with one hand and her bundle with the other. The mule's backbone dug into her as the creature loped listlessly across the hardpacked yard.

The shout will go up any moment. They've seen me. The guardsmen have noticed. They'll have told Kacha. He's coming for me.

But no new voices shouted over the cacophony. The only people who came and went were the artisans and the bondsmen, and the apprentices with their baskets, bundles and barrows.

Now Medeoan could see the unadorned iron of the rear gates with their six men standing outside the guardhouse.

"Keep still and steady, mistress," murmured Peshek, halting the mule. "This will take but a moment."

He walked forward, arms outstretched, hailing the other men. They stiffened to attention, and then evidently recognized him, because they hailed him in return, slapping him on the arm and clasping his wrists. With a wave of his hand, he brought them close for some conference. Medeoan's ears rang. How much did Kacha know? How far had his search gone? What would he do when he found her? Who could she trust besides Peshek and Keeper Bakhar? Kacha would have them killed immediately, and she was not sure she could stop it. How would she keep herself whole until Iakush found Avanasy and brought him back?

The soldiers' conference continued, with several glances in her direction. Something, coins perhaps, passed between Peshek and the men on duty. Peshek then sauntered back to the mule. Behind him, the men swung the gates open.

"When you return, mistress, you may want to consider having those men taken up," he said quietly. "They are too easily bribed."

"What did you say to them?" she breathed as they passed between the gates and the soldiers. The men stared at her, measuring her with thin smiles on their faces.

"Nothing I would relish repeating to Your Reverence." Peshek ducked his head.

And they were through. No voice cried out. Kacha's shout did not drift to her through the thick, warm summer air. No column of guards came at the double to seize Captain Peshek. There was only the wide, rutted road cutting through the park and leading to the outer walls, and beyond that, the city, and beyond that the whole wide world.

In that moment, Medeoan knew there would be no pursuit. Peshek's arrangements had worked, and they would walk out of the grounds and into the city. She should have felt relief, but she felt only strangling anger. Was she worth that little? Kacha did not even consider pursuing her? He thought he ruled so completely that he did not even have to consider her presence anymore.

You will learn differently, my false husband. And that presently.

Isavalta was hers, and if she had neglected it before, she would never do so again.

"Where is my Bride Imperial?"

Keeper Bakhar blinked down at him. The man who kept house for Isavalta's little gods was barrel-like in stature, obviously fond of the good life his office afforded.

"The empress is not here, Imperial Majesty."

"I see that," said Kacha impatiently. The man was many things, but not normally stupid. Suspicion formed in Kacha's mind. "Where is she?"

The keeper reverenced, giving at least the appearance of respect. "I do not know, Imperial Majesty. She came here to await the blessing, but when you did not arrive, she left. I assumed it was to go in search of you."

So, Kacha let out a sigh. So. It has begun. The child has run away from home, thinking by her actions to leave me in disarray and confusion.

Poor child.

"Very well," said Kacha mildly. "Should the empress or any of her attendants come here, say that I will meet them in the courtyard."

Again, the barrel-shaped keeper reverenced. "As you command, Imperial Majesty."

This time, Kacha caught the cold glitter in the man's eyes. He said nothing of it, however, and simply turned away, returning to the corridor where Medeoan's men-at-arms and sole waiting lady stood, having been given, he was sure, no orders to be elsewhere. They looked uncomfortable to say the least. Doubtlessly they were wondering what was taking their mistress so long. She was a pious lady, yes, but this was excessive.

Kacha turned to his nearest man and said in the court dialect of his home, "Run to the empress's chambers and have her lady Chekhania meet me in my own apartments."

To Medeoan's servitors he said, "You may wait for your Mistress Imperial in the courtyard. We will be joining you there presently."

Medeoan had all her personal attendants very well trained. They did not question him. They only reverenced, each according to their station, and left as ordered. Kacha found himself smiling at their retreating backs. In many ways, this was going to be simplicity itself.

"Come," he said to Prithu and his men. "We will return to the private apartments."

The corridors of Vyshtavos were largely deserted now. Most of the servants and courtiers were already on their way to the summer palace. That household would be full and bustling, awaiting its imperial masters.

Well, we shall not keep you waiting long, thought Kacha with satisfaction.

As he had instructed, Chekhania waited inside his apartments, beside the empty fire pit. She reverenced as he entered, and he came forward at once to take her hand and raise her up. He saw in her eyes that the gesture had its intended effect and reminded her well of their previous night's sport.

"Now then, Chekhania," he said gravely, still holding her hand. "I must tell you, your Mistress Imperial has taken ill, but she must make the journey to Vaknevos, for there are none to care for her here. She must do so in complete quiet and seclusion. An enclosed litter, such that it can be made a bower for her on the imperial barge will be the answer, I believe. Can you arrange this?"

Chekhania did not quite lick her lips, but she wanted to, Kacha could see it in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was being asked to do, and how much it meant he trusted her. She reveled in that knowledge, and the sight of that pleased Kacha to his core. Such a one would do all he asked, and more to keep her place of power. Oh, yes, in her he had chosen well.

"All will be as his Majesty Imperial commands," said Chekhania solemnly.

"Excellent," he said, giving her hand a secret squeeze. "You may go."

She reverenced again and left him to stand and smile at the empty air.

Run away, Medeoan, he thought. Run far, run fast. When the time comes, Yamuna will find you, and I will bring you home in chains, and none will be the wiser.

"We'll spend the night in the lockhouse. The keeper knows how to keep secrets as well as his lock. Many's a man put themselves up here."

Medeoan nodded and clutched her bundle. Peshek led the skinny mule with great patience through Makashev's crowded streets. It was so strange, down here amid the jostling crowds. She had, after all, lived all her life amidst a crowd of people. She had thought traveling anonymously through the traffic of foot and cart would be liberating, or at least familiar. But the ones who had always surrounded her had been her people and there to serve her. Here, she was just another body, another obstruction. Carters hollered when Peshek could not hurry the stubborn mule along fast enough, and he shouted back. Gossiping women shouldered past her without a second glance. Herders screamed at them to make way for flocks of geese or drifts of sheep. Beggars spat and leered as she passed, holding up grubby palms. Several times, she barely escaped a deluge of filthy water dumped unceremoniously from an upper window.

So much noise and stench and mud. So many people, and not one of them knowing or caring who she was, and only Peshek to stand between her and the whole wide world of them.

I can't do this. Part of her shivered. I don't know how. She gripped the bundle tighter yet. But I will.

As bad as this was, the first part of their journey had been worse, for they had followed the imperial canal, and Medeoan had to bow her head and shut her eyes to keep from watching the barges, bright with pennants and heavy with the members and belongings of her household, row past. What if, despite all, someone recognized her? What if one of the guards Kacha had surely called out by now spied them on the bank? Fear had wrung tears from her eyes before Peshek turned them away from the canal, and Medeoan could breathe again, if only a little.

Now the sun was going down, and Medeoan was torn between exhaustion and a sort of wretched excitement.

"Here, mistress," Peshek said. "Now we shall have some relief."

He nodded indicating the way in front of them, and Medeoan looked up. At last, they had almost reached the city wall, and she could see the great gate standing open. A fresh breeze cut through the miasma of the city and Medeoan felt her heart lift a little.

It sank again instantly as she saw the ranks of the house guard standing on either side of the gate. Of course, how foolish. The guards kept an eye on everyone leaving the city, as they did on all those entering. Surely they were looking out especially for her. Medeoan bowed her head and bit her lip.

The mule, however, never slowed. A shadow passed over her, and all the noise of their fellow travelers pulled together and concentrated for a moment. Then, the shadow passed, and all the sound spread out on the wind again. Medeoan raised her head.

They had passed through the gate. Ahead of them, the road spread out and branched. The carts and riders, the men and women under their yokes, the herders with their birds and beasts sprawled out, spilling like water from a stream into a pond.

"That simple," murmured Medeoan. "How can it be this simple?"

"It isn't, mistress," replied Peshek, thumping the mule's side to urge it onward at a better pace. "The Emp ... your husband can hardly sound a general alarm to say to all the world you are missing. Any search for you will be done quietly, and it will be under the auspices of the commander of the House Guard, I promise you. We must take care to be in a safe house before dark."

"As you say." Medeoan shivered again. The sun was still high enough to give warmth, and indeed, the city streets had been stifling, but Medeoan remained cold. The countryside rolled gently away from the city walls, cut by the arrow-straight canals with their stone bridges. Suddenly profoundly tired, she longed for the comfort and ease of water travel, but she said nothing. Peshek had seen her safe so far. She must trust him just a little farther.

Only a few buildings dotted the landscape immediately beyond the city walls, so the lockkeeper's house was easy to spot. It was a two-storied, clapboard structure with a steeply pitched roof waiting beside a broad stone arch of a bridge. As they approached, Medeoan could hear the rush of the water through the lock's works.

She must have passed the place a hundred times during her life, but she did not think she had ever truly seen it before. The house and the yard around it seemed neatly kept. The pens for the chickens and goats looked sturdy, as far as she could judge such things. The whitewash on the fence and house was fresh, and the door to the home was gaily painted red with green knots and waves over all for protection and serenity.

As they approached the gate, a stout woman emerged, wiping her hands on her embroidered apron. Peshek halted the mule, and gestured for Medeoan to wait where she was. Accustomed now to doing as he said, Medeoan waited patiently while Peshek opened the gate and walked forward to greet the woman. They conversed for some minutes. Medeoan could hear none of it, but the woman's gaze kept darting from Peshek to Medeoan and back again.

At last, the stout lockkeeper's lady gave a harsh bark of laughter at something Peshek said and shouted inside the house. A little boy, as jug-shaped as his mother, came running out. She pointed him at Medeoan, and he trotted up to take the mule's reins while Peshek followed close behind and took Medeoan's hand to help her down.

"It will have to be one room, mistress," said Peshek apologetically as he accompanied her up the dirt path to the house. "They know me well here, so I cannot claim you as a sister."

"Good greeting, mistress," boomed the woman as she looked Medeoan keenly up and down. "You'll be tired after traveling all day with this ruffian, I'll be bound." She cuffed Peshek affectionately. "I've a room ready for you to take your ease, now. Come along with me."

Without waiting for reply, she led them into the dim house. Medeoan had an impression of scrubbed wood, the smell of boiled vegetables and the rush of wind and water from outside. She climbed the narrow stairway that squeaked and creaked beneath her hostess. At the top, the woman stood aside and let Medeoan, followed by Peshek, enter the first room on the right.

There was not much to see. Medeoan turned around and took in the rough, whitewashed walls, the single bed with its lumpy pallet under the rough woolen blankets, the table and chair, the hearth and the stand for the chamber pot.

Peshek nodded to the hostess, who closed the door with a look that came very close to a leer.

"I'm sorry, mistress," said Peshek quickly. "If there was anything better to be had ..."

Medeoan waved her hand to cut him off. "This will do very well, Captain," she murmured. "I owe you more than I can ever repay."

Peshek bowed, his hand over his heart. "I live to serve. We will wait here for a handful of days while I find us safe messengers to gather news and send out word to your loyal servitors."

"Yes. Thank you." Then, feeling utterly trivial and lost, she said, "Is there any chance of supper?"

There was. Turnip stew, hard bread and dark beer, but Medeoan ate gratefully while their hostess laid a fresh fire in the hearth. When they were done and the crockery cleared outside the door, Peshek laid his knife, sword and knout within easy reach, took one of the blankets from the bed and rolled himself up in it so his body blocked the threshold and he faced the wall. It was as much privacy as he could afford her. Peshek would never leave her alone, even in a house he knew.

Medeoan unwrapped her headscarf, undid her apron and took off her clumsy shoes. Except for that, she laid herself under the covers, stockings and all. She stared into the darkness, willing herself to stay awake. Despite the long, terrifying day, staying awake proved to be quite easy. All the sounds were strange; the night birds, the call of the distant watch on the city walls, the lapping water. Peshek's heavy breathing was nothing like her ladies', and even less like Kacha's. The pallet's straw bit into her skin even through her clothes, and she had an ugly suspicion that was not all that bit her. Without braziers to surround her bed, the room grew steadily colder, despite the fire, until Medeoan could see her own breath in the slices of moonlight the loose shutters allowed in.

The night deepened. Peshek's breathing grew slow and regular. The moonbeams lengthened on the floor. One by one, the birds outside silenced, and Medeoan judged her time was right.

Slowly, so as to rustle the straw as little as possible, Medeoan reached for her bundle. Pulling it toward her, she spat on her two fingers and rubbed them against the knot tying the cloth. It fell open at once. The tiny pile of belongings inside seemed pathetic. How could she get by with so little?

Medeoan did not permit herself to dwell on it. Instead she drew out the god's eye amulet she had woven against this night. It really should be tied around Peshek's neck, but she did not trust herself to be able to slip it over his head without waking him. Nearby would have to do.

Medeoan wrapped the amulet's blue thong around the bedstead. Raising her magic, she breathed across the knot as she tied it.

"Night and moon keep watch over Peshek Pachalkasyn Ursulvin and grant him sound sleep until you surrender the sky to Day and his sister Sun."

The knot finished, she spat on it to seal it shut. She paused to listen. Peshek's breathing deepened. For the first time, he began to snore.

Medeoan scrambled from her cold bed. Peshek did not stir. She took the sealed letter she had prepared for him and laid it on her pillow where he was sure to see it. Then, taking a deep breath, she lifted the gold-and-silver girdle out of the bundle.

Fixing her mind firmly on the need to reach the Heart of the World, Medeoan tied the girdle securely around her waist.

Eliisa Hahl cast a longing look around the room. It seemed a crime to abandon so stout a bed already paid for, and by a man who kept his hands to himself, of all the miracles! Still, there was no help for it. She reclaimed apron and scarf, and moved to tie up her bundle, and paused upon seeing her purse lying on the cloth. What fool had left so much money lying loose! As soon as she had time, she'd sew it into her waistband, but now there was nothing for it but to tie the purse up under her skirt and hope it would be safe enough.

The captain lay across the threshold, snoring in far too genteel a manner for a soldier. Well, he was an officer, after all. She leaned across him and pushed the door gently open. The captain did not stir. Hiking her skirts high, Eliisa stepped over him. She closed the door gently, and nimbly hurried down the stairs, making no more noise than a cat.

So far and all's well, Eliisa thought as she emerged into the night. Her gaze skimmed the length of the canal and she briefly considered making off with one of the boats, but decided against it. There was no point in theft when there was money to pay the way. So, instead, she fastened her bundle to her girdle like a peddler woman and strode back toward the town.

Peshek woke, rubbing his hand hard across his eyes and face. The first thing he noticed was that it was full light, which was strange because he was long accustomed to waking before dawn. The second thing he noticed was that the empress was not in her bed.

Peshek was beside the bed with his sword in his hand before he knew he had moved. His eye took in the tidy bedclothes, the flattened pillows, the unlatched door, the knotted amulet on the bedpost, and the folded paper, and his heart froze.

"Oh, no, Majesty. Please, no." Peshek had faced bandits, bears, and all manner of violent drunkards without fear, but now his hand shook as he picked up the folded paper and he found his mouth had gone completely dry.