something heavy falling to the ground, past the piles of refuse and crates that lay to the side of the path. He slowed his pace and crept forward, waiting to react to any attack that may come. His heart pounded, the sound of the blood pumping in his ears, and he remembered his training, ''Forward, or back,'' the drill Sergeants had said, ''but don't stand still''. He had no choice, he knew, but to keep moving.
A cat sprung out from behind a barrel, hissing at him. It arched his back, trying to make itself bigger, warning him to keep away, before turning and running off up the alleyway as quickly as it could. The stress of the moment had made his head pound, and he rubbed his forehead with his hand. He puffed out his cheeks, trying to relieve some of his tension, but the intensity of the moment had made him shake. He glanced behind him. The main street was some way back, and up ahead more passages and nooks were laid out to provide more hiding places for him to check. Far away in the distance, he could see the end of the alleyway, inviting him forward. He pressed on, not knowing which way to turn, for any would do.
The darkness was stifling and the shadows provided a thousand places to lurk, but he kept moving anyway. A scuttering noise in the dark found its way to his ears. It was not loud, but it reminded him of a stone being kicked along the street, such as a child might do while playing. His senses, acute again, after his brush with the cat, strained for any clues. There it was again, in the shadow, up ahead to his left. He edged forward. If it was the Chamberlain, then he would need to be ready. He gripped his knife and held it out in front of him. True, it was not much protection, but he was trained in combat, so that must count for something. He took another step and looked around the corner, but there was nothing, and he relaxed again.
He lifted his gaze, and in the tension of the moment, he had failed to realise that he had reached the end of the alleyway, and the junction with North Street. He had made it to the far end. He sighed in relief and walked out onto the edge of the street looking around him, to the left and the right, but there was no sign of Courtenay. Looking down at his blade he slipped it back into its sheath.
oOo
Courtenay stepped silently out of the shadow and looked over at the guard. The man had passed him by, no more than a foot or so away, completely oblivious to the fact that he could have reached out and touched his prey. The old ruse of a couple of thrown stones had easily distracted the man.
He edged forward until he was directly behind the soldier, and when he was close enough, he reached around and covered the man's mouth pulling him backward with his left hand. With his right, he plunged his knife into the man's back.
The guard's hands instinctively rose to the place where the blood pumped from his body, but it was over quickly, and he fell, crumpled in a heap at Courtenay's feet. He looked down at the body of the man, still twitching in the darkness of the alleyway as his life-blood flowed, the last of his seconds ticking away.
Courtenay looked at his blade in the murk. It was dirty, and he despised dirt. He knelt beside the body to wipe the blood on the man's tunic, then raised the knife to check the blade again. A glint of light flashed on the edge. That's much better, he thought. His attention then returned to the man laying on the floor of the alley. It was a pity the guard had to die, though, he thought. He felt sure that he must have deserved a more noble death.
oOo
Winterburne reached West Street soon enough and was surprised to find that it was much quieter than he had expected. Usually, the evening of the Emperor’s Feast Ball was a night on which the people took the chance to revel in the festivities at the Palace, promenading the streets and taking the air. Not tonight, though, it seemed.
He jogged across the road and into the shadows of the houses on the far side, his boots tapping a steady rhythm as he ran. Courtenay may have already reached the harbour, but if not and he could get himself between him and the ship, then perhaps he could catch him after all. It was not far to the dock and he made his way to the steps that ran down to the walkway and along the waterfront. The sound of his feet changed as he tripped down the steps and onto the planks, a contrast to the sound his boots had made on the cobbles.
His hope was that Courtenay would not be able to see me him on the lower level, if indeed he had arrived here first, so he ran on, past the lobster pots and nets that had been hung up to dry over night. The smell of the fish and the salt rose to meet him as he passed. He felt more at home here that anywhere in the city, so if he could choose anywhere for a confrontation then it must surely be here.
The ship was sitting in the deeper water on the far side of the harbour and the boarding plank had been left in place to provide a conduit for people to cross as they needed to. Winterburne assumed that Courtenay would try to make his way here and then hide on board until the ship could raise anchor and leave on the next tide. There were no signs of activity on the deck, but he could see the light from a lantern through the misted windows of the Master’s quarters in the stern. He slowed his pace and crouched as he crept forward hoping to find some cover behind the pots and barrels that lined the walkway.
The wooden flight of stairs that climbed up to the warehouses overlooking this end of the harbour loomed above him and he headed in its direction. Winterburne looked up as he reached the bottom of the construction. The last thing he wanted was to run directly into Courtenay's path as he came the other way. The man had already proven himself to be dangerous and he couldn't afford to take any unnecessary risks. He climbed, taking care not to make a sound as his feet met the wooden planks. He reached the top and peeped over the wall; the way was clear.
Along the side of the upper level, fishermen had hung out their nets to dry overnight. They were made from strings of hemp, and brown cork floats had been tied around the outside edge. The nets had been stretched across the purpose-built frames that stood six or seven feet high, and next to them loomed one of the high loading booms, built here so that heavy loads could be raised to the top of the dock before finding storage in the warehouses. If Courtenay was going to come this way then this was as good a place to wait for him as any. The man would have to leave his back unguarded to climb down to the ship, although should he still come along the walkway then Winterburne would have the advantage of the higher ground. He looked around him, searching for somewhere to hide in wait. Loading crates had been left on the top level, one piled on top of two, as if a giant's child had left his toy blocks stacked in his nursery. Winterburne hid behind them and waited.
It seemed ages that he crouched behind the boxes, so long in fact that one of his legs had cramped. He stretched it out, extending his toes, trying to rid himself of the muscle spasm. Thankfully, within moments the pain faded away. He couldn't believe that Courtenay had already reached the ship, that would have been a super-human effort, but if he had then the guards would soon be arriving and they could all investigate that possibility together. But there was still no sign of the man, and as his focus came back to the task in front of him Winterburne wondered whether perhaps he had slipped away, escaping through either the North or the East Gate. Even though that would take him through the encampments of the Governors' men, an alarm may not yet have reached that far. If he was careful, Courtenay may have been able to slip past.
Then, just as he was beginning to despair, out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement near the houses on the other side of the street, away in the darkness. As he watched, the figure of a man crossed from the far side of the road. It was Courtenay, his torn left sleeve stained with the blood from the cut he had suffered in the Emperor's office. Winterburne realised that he must have doubled back and instead of coming down North Street as he had expected, he had also crossed West Street and made his way through the South Quarter. The buildings and houses would certainly have provided him with plenty of cover, and with the exception of the cut, his clothing would not have looked so out of place in that district.
Courtenay looked both ways and increased his speed as he approached the upper level of the harbour. Winterbur
ne stepped out as the Chamberlain neared the stairs, blocking his path.
'Captain!' Courtney said, stepping backwards in surprise. He smiled as he composed himself, looking around at the surroundings. 'How good to see you again.'
'I see that you managed to slip away from the guards.' Winterburne placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and drew the blade as he walked forward into the space between the warehouse and the steps.
'Not exactly,' Courtenay replied, a grin spreading across his face. 'One of them found me. It was most unfortunate...for him.'
Winterburne's heart sank. He had never felt comfortable with giving orders that put his men in mortal danger and, in truth, he had never lost a man in the line of duty. This was his first and he was saddened by it.
He edged towards Courtenay, holding his weapon in front of him. The man had already shown that he was resourceful as well as quick thinking and Winterburne could not be sure that he had not already planned a surprise for him.
The Chamberlain still carried his dagger in his right hand. He looked down at it, and then across to the sword that Winterburne held tightly in his hand. 'Hardly a fair fight, Captain,' he said, the grin still on his face.
'I'm sure you can cope,' Winterburne replied. Courtenay was certainly the most dangerous adversary that he had ever been pitched against, and from the look on his face the man knew it too.
The walkway was narrower here than most other parts of the harbour, and the warehouses served to cramp the dockside even more. Winterburne looked around him, surveying the battleground. If Courtenay ran now, then he had a good chance of catching him, but with the ship waiting for his arrival down below he suspected that he would not, trying to press any advantage he could find so that he could slip aboard.
Courtenay stepped forward and jumped onto the net which hung on the nearest drying frame. The construction was not as heavy as Winterburne had assumed and it toppled. The top of the assembly fell over him and he was pulled to the floor, trapped inside the net.
Winterburne could hear Courtenay laughing as he lay there but he had been pinned face down and could not see him through the strands of the net. This was not how he had planned for it to end, caught like a rat in a trap.
'It seems that your time is almost up, Captain,' Courtenay said, mocking.
Courtenay's voice was drawing nearer and Winterburne sensed that he was almost within striking distance. 'You can't escape,' he replied. 'The tide won't be full until morning, and by then this place will be crawling with troops.'
'I'll take my chances.'
Winterburne knew that all he could do was to try to play for time, which as far as he could tell, seemed to be running out fast. 'Give yourself up,' he said. 'You will be given a fair trial.'
'I don't think that's going to happen, do you?' came Courtenay's reply. 'We both know how fair trials end. Especially in the Empire.'
Courtenay was now very close. Winterburne waited for what seemed like long moments, bracing himself for the killing blow. It didn’t come. Instead, he heard a crash away to his right, and a voice shouted out to his left. A moment later, a blade was stabbed through the holes of the net, sawing through the rope and it was lifted clear of him. He looked up into the eyes of the Corporal.
'He’s gone in there, Sir,' the soldier said, helping Winterburne to his feet. The man pointed to the large, two-storey timber warehouse behind them. It stretched back for some way and ran almost the whole length of the dock. The double doors had been broken