them.
Femke found what she was looking for a few hundred yards from the Palace wall. An impressive house boasting neatly kept gardens had a small outbuilding, little more than a dozen feet long by
about eight feet wide, alongside the main house. With another swift look round to see if anyone was watching, Femke hopped over the waist-high garden wall and limped to the door of the small
building.
The door was locked, but this presented no great obstacle. It was a simple matter to pick the lock and get inside. With a silently mouthed expression of pain she slipped her knapsack from her
shoulders and rummaged until she found an appropriate lock pick. The clatter of hooves approaching from the direction of the Palace gave Femke added incentive. Time was running out fast. The Royal
Guards had mobilised more quickly than she had anticipated. The combination of time pressure and the pain of her injuries made what should have been a simple operation take an apparent
eternity.
Femke felt trickles of sweat run down her forehead as she worked the pick inside the mechanism of the lock. She knew she was applying pressure in the right place, but the lock was reluctant to
yield. The young spy suffered an agonising moment of doubt as the horses approached at pace, then the stiff mechanism of the lock finally turned with a soft grating noise. Femke swiftly drew the
door open and stepped inside. Fortunately, the hinges had been better oiled than the lock, and the door swung smoothly and silently both ways. Moments later, Femke had relocked the door from within
and she heaved a pained sigh of relief. The searchers were unlikely to open locked doors in their initial search.
‘There’s nothing worse than a dry lock to ruin your day if you’re under pressure,’ she quoted, thinking back fondly to lessons with her mentor. How right he had been!
What would Ferrand say if he could see her now? This assignment had always promised to be unusual, but Femke could not help wondering how it had gone from being straightforward to a complete
disaster so quickly. There had been no hints that anything was awry. The Thrandorians had not exactly welcomed her with open arms, but they had been civil. From what little Femke had seen of life
in the Palace there was no suggestion that murder was the norm in Thrandorian politics. Ferrand would have known what to do. He had always appeared in control, regardless of circumstance. Was that
what had caused his downfall? Femke still had no idea what had happened to her mentor. It was one of the most widely speculated mysteries in Shandar. Even the Emperor of Shandar had not known the
fate of the spymaster, but Femke felt sure her old friend must have breathed his last.
Ferrand had always been an oddball in the intelligence community. Most spies made their living by remaining grey and anonymous, silently gathering information in the background. Ferrand was
rarely out of the limelight. Being a powerful lord, he was a leading figure in Shandese high society, though few knew he was also a master of disguise. For many years he had been the
Emperor’s top spy and Femke had been lucky to be his apprentice.
She sighed aloud at her melancholy thoughts. There would be time for such reminiscence once the present danger was past. Her current hiding place represented a huge gamble. If the Royal Guards
had tracker dogs, then there would be no escape. The shed had no back door for her to flee through, which was contrary to everything she had been taught. The attack dogs that had chased her in the
Palace grounds were not of a breed known for their tracking abilities, so Femke felt safe from them. However, she did not know what other assets the guards had at their command.
It was dark in the shed, but not overly so. A small amount of light leaked in through the edges of the shuttered window. After a few minutes Femke found her eyes beginning to adapt to the low
light and she felt confident she could move around
Femke found what she was looking for a few hundred yards from the Palace wall. An impressive house boasting neatly kept gardens had a small outbuilding, little more than a dozen feet long by
about eight feet wide, alongside the main house. With another swift look round to see if anyone was watching, Femke hopped over the waist-high garden wall and limped to the door of the small
building.
The door was locked, but this presented no great obstacle. It was a simple matter to pick the lock and get inside. With a silently mouthed expression of pain she slipped her knapsack from her
shoulders and rummaged until she found an appropriate lock pick. The clatter of hooves approaching from the direction of the Palace gave Femke added incentive. Time was running out fast. The Royal
Guards had mobilised more quickly than she had anticipated. The combination of time pressure and the pain of her injuries made what should have been a simple operation take an apparent
eternity.
Femke felt trickles of sweat run down her forehead as she worked the pick inside the mechanism of the lock. She knew she was applying pressure in the right place, but the lock was reluctant to
yield. The young spy suffered an agonising moment of doubt as the horses approached at pace, then the stiff mechanism of the lock finally turned with a soft grating noise. Femke swiftly drew the
door open and stepped inside. Fortunately, the hinges had been better oiled than the lock, and the door swung smoothly and silently both ways. Moments later, Femke had relocked the door from within
and she heaved a pained sigh of relief. The searchers were unlikely to open locked doors in their initial search.
‘There’s nothing worse than a dry lock to ruin your day if you’re under pressure,’ she quoted, thinking back fondly to lessons with her mentor. How right he had been!
What would Ferrand say if he could see her now? This assignment had always promised to be unusual, but Femke could not help wondering how it had gone from being straightforward to a complete
disaster so quickly. There had been no hints that anything was awry. The Thrandorians had not exactly welcomed her with open arms, but they had been civil. From what little Femke had seen of life
in the Palace there was no suggestion that murder was the norm in Thrandorian politics. Ferrand would have known what to do. He had always appeared in control, regardless of circumstance. Was that
what had caused his downfall? Femke still had no idea what had happened to her mentor. It was one of the most widely speculated mysteries in Shandar. Even the Emperor of Shandar had not known the
fate of the spymaster, but Femke felt sure her old friend must have breathed his last.
Ferrand had always been an oddball in the intelligence community. Most spies made their living by remaining grey and anonymous, silently gathering information in the background. Ferrand was
rarely out of the limelight. Being a powerful lord, he was a leading figure in Shandese high society, though few knew he was also a master of disguise. For many years he had been the
Emperor’s top spy and Femke had been lucky to be his apprentice.
She sighed aloud at her melancholy thoughts. There would be time for such reminiscence once the present danger was past. Her current hiding place represented a huge gamble. If the Royal Guards
had tracker dogs, then there would be no escape. The shed had no back door for her to flee through, which was contrary to everything she had been taught. The attack dogs that had chased her in the
Palace grounds were not of a breed known for their tracking abilities, so Femke felt safe from them. However, she did not know what other assets the guards had at their command.
It was dark in the shed, but not overly so. A small amount of light leaked in through the edges of the shuttered window. After a few minutes Femke found her eyes beginning to adapt to the low
light and she felt confident she could move around
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