Secret Assault
Chapter 1
Alanna slowly jogged up the steep hill of the Palace Way. Her mind raced as her legs pumped: George was worried. But George was never worried. And this paradox worried her. In the three years that she had known the thief, he had always been in control; no matter how great an insurgency, whether from within or, more commonly, from the Harts, there was never any doubt that he would come out on top.
But today he had explained to Alanna the situation at hand with white tinged lips and a speech too fast to be his.
"Carthak," he had explained in nervous tones. "Probably the most powerful country this side of the world, and they tap the Harts." He then slammed his hand on the table but, noticing Alanna's startled look, drummed the table-top with his fingers instead.
Although she thought the situation was serious – after all, she had an imagination, and could see a Carthaki-Tortallan war break out – she was convinced that George would be able to stop any dire plots in time. After all, he was the King of the Rogues: he had the quickest of wits, and sharpest of knives. Alanna had nothing to worry about… did she?
George had given her a small smile, as if he could hear her thoughts.
"What does this mean?" Alanna asked.
"I don't know, lass. Worst-case scenario dictates for utter chaos, but I suppose I can't really tell for sure until I know exactly what Carthak had asked of the Harts. For all I know, it's an invitation to a fancy dinner party." But George's humor had been half-hearted. He had seen the Carthaki spies himself, and they were much too heavily armed to warrant the heavy document they carried – dripping with seals and ribbons – to be trivial. But he would not tell this to Alanna. She seemed scared enough by his tone of voice.
"Well, go on with you," George had said in a cheerful voice that was obviously forced. "I know you have archery practice in half a bell."
Alanna took this as her cue to leave, but as she left she turned around to see George staring out the window, hand to chin, and worried. This was why Alanna, too, was thinking hard as she tried not to be late for practice. Last time she was, she had been made to fletch a whole dozen arrows.
Alanna didn't care to repeat the experience.
Practice had commenced as a chill fall breeze started up, for which Alanna and the other squires were eternally grateful. The falling leaves, though beautiful, would mean for a slippery step when dueling later in the day, but for now they were just happy that the summer's sweltering heat had finally broken. Alanna barely saw the target as she fired arrow after arrow, and she knew that the Practice Master's tutelage on preserving the life of bow-strings was promptly forgotten, but she managed to scrape by without anyone's notice that she was a bit off her feed.
Most squires complained that these daily exercises were an antiquity; that, as the kingdom was not at war, there was no need to work themselves to death. But the King had more sense than fifteen-year-old boys, thankfully, and had firmly kept the practices in place. Usually Alanna thought them a great way to keep herself in shape, but today she found herself also wishing she was somewhere cool, drinking something cold, and thinking without the constant "thwack" of arrow-hitting-target and bellows of the Practice Master.
By the time the afternoon's round of exercises were over, she was ready for a bath, and convinced of a course of action. Because she was Alanna, of course it was brash. But hopefully, her good luck with all things illegal (this included filching from the cook's pastries, secret visits to the city, and of course, her friendship to the infamous Rogue himself) would hold and she wouldn't get caught.
She didn't want to think of what would happen if she did.