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"One of the merchant families come to bargain, I expect," Ramil said with a groan. He had
suffered these embassies repeatedly over the past week. "I swear they are trying to wear me
down so 1 drop my price."
"That's merchants for you," said Gordoc with a shrug.
"He's not a merchant; he's--" Jules began.
"Let me through, let me through!" Professor Norling forced his way past the guard and marched into the shed. "Ah, it is you! I thought as much when I heard the rumors of a dark prince being in residence. What
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foolishness made you a slave, eh? See what happens when I leave you children to your own
devices!"
"Professor!" Ramil leapt up and embraced the doctor. Then Gordoc thumped him on the back,
Melletin shook his hand vigorously, and Yelena planted a kiss on his blushing cheek.
Smiling at this welcome, Norling looked round the room. "And where's our little princess?"
Melletin shook his head, trying to warn him off the subject. Ramil closed his eyes; in the tumult
of the past days, he'd managed not to dwell too much on Tashi's fate. Yelena whispered in the
old man's ear.
"I see." Norling coughed awkwardly. "I'm more sorry than I can say."
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Ramil braced himself; he could not slide back into paralyzing grief again. If Tashi were dead, he
would soon be joining her if he didn't focus on the task at hand, and she would never forgive
him.
"I take it, Professor, this is not only a social visit?" he asked, his voice almost normal.
"No, of course not. I've come to ask why on earth you haven't called on me before now?"
Ramil took a step back. "Er . . . well, we've been a bit busy, Professor."
"I can see that for myself. I had a terrible job getting here: they've ringed you off with troops five men deep. I had to crawl through the tunnels and some of them are in a disgusting state."
Norling sniffed his robe with a doubtful look.
"But why you did not
think to ask the
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resistance for aid is beyond me. We can be immensely helpful to you."
Ramil struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Stupid! I should have been drowned at
birth," he muttered.
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," said Norling generously. "I don't think it's too late.
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In fact, I'd say that you've managed very well without me."
"So, what can you do?" asked Melletin, pulling up a barrel for him to sit on.
"Firstly, I can move your men around the city for you undetected--that's if you don't want to
fight your way out of here."
"I'd prefer not to," admitted Ramil.
"Then my people can show you the tunnels under the city. The resistance have been using them
for years to pass unnoticed and to smuggle people in and out."
"Thank you, that is most timely."
"And there's more. I bring news that is both good and bad."
"Yes?" Ramil looked puzzled.
"Fergox is on his way back."
Ramil slapped his thigh. "Brilliant!"
"For Gerfal perhaps, Prince, but not for us," Norling said soberly. "He's pulled back two thousand men and is making for us at high speed. And you can bet that he will not be in a very loving
mood when he gets here. It's not just you slaves that need to be worried: it's every man,
woman, and child in Tigral now. You can expect him within a fortnight, maybe earlier."
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"Then we'll be ready for him. He won't recognize his capital when he gets back." Ramil stood up and shook each of his commanders by the hand.
"There's no time to lose. We're moving headquarters. Take your men out of here under the
cover of darkness--the professor will show you the way. We attack at dawn. I'll see you all in the
palace tomorrow night. Don't be late to the party or I'll have to start without you."
Ramil watched his men file out, wondering just how many of them he would see again.
At dawn, bells began to ring all over Tigral. The meat market was on fire, the smell of frying pork
wafting enticingly over the lower city. Traders shut up shop and kept their families inside as the
streets descended into an anarchy of looting and burning. The Guild Hall went up in flames. Next
came the news that the fort was under attack; the Shoemakers' Street was reported to be a
running battle between the watch and rebels, animals released from their pens adding to the
confusion.
The officer in command of the troops surrounding the slave market waited for orders from the
City Guild. In contrast to the rest of the capital, the market was eerily calm. Eventually, a
messenger arrived from the city authorities.
"You're to take your men to restore order in the Cloth Market!" the man gasped. He'd run all the way from the burning Guild Hall and inhaled far too much smoke.
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"But what about the slaves?" the officer asked, gesturing towards the barricaded market. "You won't want them escaping and adding to the riots."
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The messenger shook his head in disbelief. "They're already out. Surely, you realize you're
guarding an empty cel ?"
The officer gulped, anticipating the court martial already. Knowing he would be blamed if this
was a ruse to let the slaves escape, he decided quickly that he was not going anywhere until he
had seen the evidence with his own eyes. He gestured roughly to his lieutenant.
"We're taking the slave market back and then proceeding to the Cloth Market," he announced,
sounding more confident than he felt.
With a heroic cry, he led his men over the barricades, bringing much noise and swinging of
weapons, only to be met with stony silence.
"You and you, search the buildings!" he barked, pointing at two of his most reliable officers. He could feel his authority ebbing away in the scornful looks of his men. "The rest of you, form up.
We are going to teach those filthy slaves a lesson."
Yelena, lying on a roof top of a nearby house, grinned as the merchants were led out of their
cage, blinking as they stepped into the sunlight. She blew a farewell kiss to her pet, then
slithered out of sight.
The resistance network had a back door into the palace, thanks to the offices of a sympathetic
cook in
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the massive kitchen complex. So many people came and went to supply the appetite of the
court that an extra delivery was not likely to raise suspicions.
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Ramil, Gordoc, and two men waited outside the walls, sides of stolen meat on their shoulders,
their weapons hidden in the carcasses. A guard came to check them over.
"Delivery for kitchen, sir," said the cook, a little man prone to sweating when nervous, as he was now. Ramil wished the man would stop wringing his hands; he would give them away if he
carried on like that. "I'm making the First Wife's favorite for a dinner party. She's particular
about wanting it fresh."
The guard body-searched the butcher's boys before waving them through.
"Don't expect her party will be going ahead," the guard grumbled, "not with all that trouble down in the city."
"In that case, sir, I'll bring it to your mess," babbled the cook, rather too keen to please. "Must hurry. Lots to do."
He ushered the four rebels into a pantry and waited while they pulled out their swords.
"Thanks, my friend," said Ramil, shaking his hand. "Keep your head down.
It's going to get interesting in here."