3 3

Illyasha winced and hissed, as she pulled her horse up short, to avoid trampling the child that darted in front of her. Sara had taken her down through the secret route, in the back of her wardrobe, which ended up in Sara's small room in the servant quarters. Sara had more than half carried her down the stairs, and Illy was sitting sidesaddle now, in an old, ragged cloak of Sara's. The trip down the stairs had been painful, but Illy had only cried a little.

They were half way down Main Street, just passing Smithy Avenue, and Illy could feel the tears of pain building up behind her eyes. She clenched her jaw, and directed her horse around the group of small children, Sara following closely behind her. It had taken over half of an hour to get out of the palace, and frankly, it was a miracle that they had been able to at all, the security was so high. They had been riding through the city for almost 20 minutes, what with all the foot traffic, but as they went around a cart that had a broken axle being worked on, Illy could see the opening to the city square ahead at the end of Main. Soon, she and Sara came into the open area, riding past vendors selling nick-knacks on the left, and the upper working class homes on the right.

But Illy didn't see any of that. Her attention was riveted in the middle of the square, on the platform , at the foot of the fountain, and the small figures on it. A man with an executioner's hood on, manning the gallows, and another hunched in on himself, with a sack covering his head. A royal scribe was writing on a small, portable desk, with a herald standing behind his shoulder. Illy tilted her head back and glanced at the position of the sun, instead of the clock that was on display on a storefront. She had found that her judgment was usually better than that of shop owners. They had 10 minutes, plenty of time. Illy was walking the horse over to the platform, to halt the proceedings, when she felt a sharp pull on her leg.

She gasped in pain and swung her head, one hand automatically going to a dagger that wasn't there, looking for who had caused her pain. And there, standing right next to her horse, a scowl on his face like she had seen many a time, was Dyrclen. He had been the stable boy for the inn Illy had worked in, and he had taught her the use of her daggers. This was why everyone called him Dirk, for the weapon he favored, and woe be to anyone who used his full name, knowing the shorter one he preferred. She suppressed the uneasy feeling, of not having any weapons, of missing her own, now gone daggers.

Dirk looked as if he had seen sixteen summers or so, small, and slight. He acted older, but his face looked younger. He had a tendency to play with all the little kids in the neighborhood, over in the side streets, watching them for their parents, while they were at work, keeping all the kids out of trouble. And their parents, in turn, would feed him, when they could, and if he needed a place to crash for the night, any one of them were always willing to open their doors. Of course, he augmented those earnings with the less than legal profits that he earned at night, with the help of Bob.

Illy's eyes automatically scanned the crowd, looking for patrol men, before she bent down and hissed in her friend's ear, "Later, I need to take care of something first, we can talk later!" She knew that she would owe Dirk an explanation, especially after he found out who she was. She was about to put a royal show on, for sure. He nodded his head sharply, and took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, to wait.

Illy sighed, and continued to push her way through the crowd, over to the platform again. As she pulled up even to it, she shrugged the cloak off of her shoulders, showing her still bandaged face and fine cloths. She looked over to where the scribe was writing furiously, and cleared her throat in her best, imperial imitation.

"Excuse me," she said in a voice loud enough to carry four deep into the crowd that was formed around the gallows. The startled scribe looked up at her, surprise written on his face, followed closely by annoyance.

"Yes?" he said, impatiently, in a querulous voice. Illy steeled herself, and shrugged her shoulders, nonchalant.

"Oh, nothing, except that that man," she pointed to the one with the sack over his head, "The dog trainer? Well, he is not to be executed by you. I am going to take him back to the palace." She could see the disbelief written on the man's face, before he started laughing.

"Girl," he said, condescendingly, "This man is to be executed by his Royal Regent Marcell's orders! Why, he is the one who is responsible for the princess Illyasha's disappearance!" He glanced around, still laughing, and the others on the platform took his hint, joining in his mirth. Strangely though, the crowd remained quiet.

Illy sighed. She hadn't taken into account that they wouldn't recognize her. Fine, she could do this the hard way then.

"Well," she said, as she reached up, tucking her hair behind her ears (she had reverted to her old habits, without noticing, of pulling the hair down over them), "At this point," she said, "I outrank my father dearest, at least in domestic matters, and this is as domestic as it gets." Her voice had a slightly snobbish lit, and she regretted the necessity of it. "I say that he will not be hung,-" she then amended quickly, "-at least, not today. Most certainly not for my kidnapping, at any rate."

She watched as the scribe went a delicate shade of white, then green as his laughter strangled off. She could see his mouth moving as he counted the stones in her ears, his face reverting to its previous pasty shade. His eyes flicked down, not meeting hers, and he nodded his head, in a half bow, before turning, and signaling for the arms-man to release the prisoner.

When the hood came off, Illy held her breath to keep from gasping. The man's face had been beaten almost beyond recognition, his left eye swollen shut. There was a wide array of color blossoming on his face, at least, that which his hair wasn't covering. It looked as if his nose had possibly been broken, also. She closed her own eyes and swallowed. She would NOT forgive Marcell for this.

She turned her head to Sara's direction, eyes still closed and said, "Sara? Would you mind sharing your saddle with him? Or maybe just guiding your mount as he rides?" It wasn't an order, she avoided giving them whenever she could. It was but a request, between friends. She opened her eyes, to look at Sara. The serving girl's expression was open, eyes wide, but she was dismounting, and leading her horse over to the platform.

Illy tried to maneuver her mount, to turn back to the crowd, and had by habit tried to use her legs to do so. She took deep breaths, her head spinning, and her vision beginning to double. She closed her eyes again for a moment, pulling up on the reigns, to make sure her horse was stopped. Her stomach turned, and she had to swallow back bile as it crept up her throat. She had seen worse beatings, but the knowledge that she was the cause of this man's pain and suffering was making her sick.

Then the inevitable happened; in her weakened state, with the additional stress of the horse ride along with this latest confrontation, and her lack of inattention to her state…she could feel herself sliding off of her horse, falling over the side, gasping in fear before crying out in pain as she was caught, her legs jarring yet again. She opened her streaming eyes, only to be greeted by Dirk's face. She could see so many emotions playing for dominance in his expression, from concern to annoyance to awe, but she didn't care about any of them. He hefted her up, so that he could better hold her, and she felt a fresh onslaught of tears burst forth. By all that was holy, it hurt.

She was breathing fast, gasping in pain, and managed to say in a relatively even voice, "Ouch." She saw a smile flick over his face, before he turned his face away, looking to Sara for further direction, Illy still in his arms. She snuggled into him, and let her eyes close, trying her hardest not to pass out. The sound of the crowd was enormous, people yelling and shouting to know what was going on. She felt safe, now that she was back out on the streets. She knew that is should be just the opposite, but the dangers out here she knew, whereas in the palace they were all hidden in the darkest corners.

Dirk raised an eyebrow when he met the servant girl's eyes, wondering if she was going to dictate where they go. After a moment she started speaking, and he sighed.

"We will handle the situation from this point," the serving girl announced to the crowd, tilting her head slightly in his direction. "Leave us be, and move out of the way."

He so did NOT need this, on top of everything else that was going on. He glanced around the crowd, uneasy at the general agitation, before he looked back to Illy's…servant? Friend? Either way, she had called the girl Sara. He sighed again, shifted the limp weight in his arms, and spoke to the girl standing next to the horse with the rescued man huddled on it.

"Kristell's Alehouse is closest, how about we take them there until they can move again?" He didn't know what was going on, except that his friend Illy had more issues than anyone from the guild could have originally thought. Sara nodded her head, and led the horses, following Dirk. He led her over toward the Northern exit, the one that lead to the Inns of the city.

He saw a familiar face in the crowd, and walked past Bob, who was surveying the scene with more than a little amusement. Dirk paused for less then a breath, and glanced around at all the people who were still staring. "Take care of it?" he asked quickly, and quietly. Bob gave one sharp nod, then went of, vanishing into the crowd. Dirk sighed in relief, and continued toward North exit, knowing now that they wouldn't be followed by anyone intending harm, and that the proper authorities would be notified.

Sara rolled her eyes, and decided to trust him. Illy had said that she had made a lot of…new….friends, and Illy wasn't screaming for help, so Sara assumed that it was alright. Not that Illy would scream in any circumstance. She didn't condone those feminine stereotypes, although she often did take advantage of them. Sara followed him out the North Square exit, onto Inn Rd, ignoring the commotion behind them. The very first building they came to, he shouldered the door open.

"What's your name?" she asked the boy carrying her master. She was worried as to why Illy had blacked out again, and hoped that the stubborn girl had not pulled the stitching.

"Dirk," he replied simply, and Sara was surprised at the deepness of his voice. Maybe not a boy then…but he still looked young. He seemed more than capable of carrying Illyasha's weight, and with ease, so Sara didn't pry.

Sara looked back over her shoulder out of curiosity, back toward the square, but almost no one was looking in their direction now. She thought that she could see a few people shadowing them; they would stop at the groups that were watching them, then move on, and the groups would go about their business. Or, she chided herself, Maybe I am being paranoid.

Sara didn't know what was going on, or who it was that was following them, but she decided that they weren't hurting anyone yet, and turned back to the building that they had just finally come up to. She led the two horses around to the stables, and signaled a boy over to help her get the battered huntsman off of her horse, while she quickly went about stabling Illy's. Dirk had taken Illy into the main room, and Sara was anxious to attend, and see what could be done to revive her

((Anyone who is interested should thank my beta, Sara because she is the bestestest batch and harshest editor I've ever met. Without her pushing, I may have never updated!))