Timeline

She counted nine soldiers. Plus de Kere. That made ten altogether.

Ten against two.

The soldiers seemed less preoccupied with their search than before. Many of them were looking at one another over the pounding trip-hammers, and shrugging, as if to say, Aren’t we finished? What’s the point?

Clearly, it would be impossible for Kate and Marek to leave without detection.

Marek pointed at the stairs to the upper ramp. "You go straight to the stairs and out of here," he said. "I’ll cover you. Later, we’ll regroup downstream on the north bank. Okay?"

Kate looked at the soldiers. "It’s ten against one. I’ll stay," she said.

"No. One of us has to make it out of here. I can handle this. You go." He reached in his pocket. "And take this with you." He held out the ceramic to her.

She felt a chill. "Why, Andre?"

"Take it."

And they moved out into the room. Kate headed toward the stairs, returning as she had come. Marek moved across the room, toward the far windows, overlooking the river.

Kate was halfway up the stairs when she heard a shout. All around the room, soldiers were running toward Marek, who had thrown back his monk’s cowl and was already battling one.

Kate didn’t hesitate. Taking her quiver from beneath her robes, she notched the first arrow, and drew her bow. She remembered Marek’s words: If you want to kill a man . . . She had thought it was laughable at the time.

A soldier was shouting, pointing at her. She shot him; the arrow struck his neck at the shoulder. The man staggered back into a brazier, screaming as he fell into glowing coals. A second soldier near him was backing away, looking for cover, when Kate shot him full in the chest. He sagged to the ground, dead.

Eight left.

Marek was battling three at one time, including de Kere. Swords clanged as the men dodged among the pounding trip-hammers and leapt over spinning cams. Marek had already killed one soldier, who lay behind him.

Seven left.

But then she saw the soldier get to his feet; his death had been a pretense, and now he moved forward cautiously, intending to attack Marek from behind. Kate notched another arrow, shot him. The man tumbled down, clutching his thigh; he was only wounded; Kate shot him in the head as he lay on the wood.

She was reaching for another arrow when she saw that de Kere had broken away from the fight with Marek and was now running up the stairs toward her with surprising speed.

Kate fumbled for another arrow, notched it, and shot at de Kere. But she was hasty and missed. Now de Kere was coming fast.

Kate dropped her bow and arrow and ran outside.

She ran along the ramp to the mill, looking down at the water. Everywhere, she could see river stones beneath the hissing white water: it was too shallow for her to jump. She’d have to go back down the way she had come up. Behind her, de Kere was shouting something. On the guard tower ahead, a group of archers drew their bows.

By the time the first arrows were flying, she had reached the door to the flour mill. De Kere was by then running backward, screaming at the archers, shaking his fist in the air. Arrows thunked down all around him.

In the upper mill room, troops were crashing against the door, which was blocked by the ladder. She knew the ladder wouldn’t hold for long. She went to the hole in the floor and swung down into the room beneath. With all the commotion, the drunken soldiers were waking up, staggering bleary-eyed to their feet. But with so much yellow dust in the air, it was hard to see them very well.

That was what gave her the idea: all the dust in the air.

She reached into her pouch and brought out one of the red cubes. It said "60" on it. She pulled the tab, and tossed it in a corner of the room.

She started counting silently backward in her mind.

Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.

De Kere was now on the floor directly above her, but he hesitated to come down, unsure if she was armed. She heard many voices and footsteps up above; the soldiers from the guardhouse had broken through. There must be a dozen men up there. Maybe more.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the drunken soldiers by the sacks lunge forward and grab at her. She kicked hard between his legs and he fell whimpering, curling on the ground.

Fifty-two. Fifty-one.

She crouched down, and moved into the small side room where she first arrived. The water wheel was creaking, spraying water. She shut the low door, but it had no latch or lock. Anyone could come in.

Fifty. Forty-nine.

She looked down. The opening in the floor, where the wheel continued its rotation downward, was wide enough to allow her to pass through. Now all she had to do was grab one of the passing paddles and ride the wheel down until she was low enough to drop safely into the shallow water.

But as she faced the water wheel, trying to time her move, she realized it was easier said than done. The wheel seemed to be turning very fast, the paddles blurring past her. She felt the water spatter her face, blurring her vision. How much time was left? Thirty seconds? Twenty? Staring at the wheel, she’d lost track. But she knew she couldn’t wait. If Chris was right, the entire mill would explode any second now. Kate reached forward, grabbed a passing paddle  –  started to fall with it  –  chickened out  –  released it  –  reached again  –  chickened out  –  and then pulled back, took a breath, steadied herself, got ready again.

She heard the thump of men jumping down from the upper floor, one after another, into the adjacent room. She had no time left.

She had to go.

She took a deep breath, grabbed the next paddle with both hands, pressing her body against the wheel. She slipped through the opening  –  and emerged into sunlight  –  she had made it!  –  until suddenly she was yanked away from the wheel, and found herself hanging in midair.