Chapter One of Chandlefort

Chapter 1
Fighting Practice

"I am going to thump Lady Saraband Sconce," said Clovermead Wickward. Her hand swiped at the air as she paced back and forth along the wooden floor of her father's room. Her fingernails had turned into bear-claws and small tufts of golden fur sprouted from the back of her hands. "She is the most infuriating person I have ever met. In dance class today, she said-oh, you have to hear the way she said it." Clovermead lifted her nose into the air and gave herself the cultivated drawl of a Chandlefort lady. "'Demoiselle, it is true that at a ball you will sometimes need to step on your partner's toes. Nevertheless, this should only happen as a deliberate choice. Please be more careful.'" Clovermead clawed the empty air. "She didn't lower her voice or anything. Everyone in class could hear her!"

"She is the image of cruelty, Clovermead," said Sorrel solemnly. "I would have words with her, if I did not remember how heavily you landed on my toes when I attempted to teach you that Tansyard dance last winter. My toes whisper to me that perhaps your dance teacher has a point."

Clovermead glared at Sorrel-but then Sorrel slipped his feet from his boots, wiggled his toes accusingly at her, and she couldn't help giggling. Her claws shrank back into her hands. Her fur faded and left bare skin behind. "Your toes don't know what they're talking about. I didn't step on them that hard."

"My toes are quite attached to their opinion. It will be difficult to persuade them otherwise." A late-morning sunbeam lit up the windowsill where Sorrel had curled up. He yawned, stretched, and teetered on the edge. He was resplendent in his new canary-yellow shirt with white sleeves, which proclaimed him a new-fledged cadet of the Yellowjacket Guards, and had even tied a yellow ribbon around his long brown hair. Still, the criss-cross blue tattoos on his cheeks were unmistakable signs that he had been raised with the Hordes that roamed the Tansy Steppes. He swallowed the end of his yawn and slipped his feet back into his boots. "Lord Wickward, do you also have sympathy for the Lady Saraband?"

Waxmelt Wickward flicked a stray speck of dust from his dresser. It was spotless already, but he cleaned it from nervous habit. "Stop making trouble, Tansyard. My sympathies are for my daughter alone." He smiled comfortingly at Clovermead-and shook his head bemusedly as he realized that her blue eyes were nearly even with his brown ones. "Why, you're almost as tall as me now, Clo," said Waxmelt. "I bet you'll be taller by the end of the summer." In the last six months, Clovermead's cropped yellow hair had grown back to her shoulders and she had shot up two inches. Her beige linen trousers were only a few months old, but they were short on her already. As for her short-sleeved, sky-blue shirt-Clovermead's shirt exposed a faded rope of scar tissue that ran along the inside of her arm from her shoulder to the palm of her hand.

Last winter, Clovermead had put one of Lord Ursus' bear-teeth into her arm and let it drink her blood and crumple her flesh. The scar remained. A little later she had put the bear-tooth in her mouth and it had ground away the upper left canine. When she laughed, anyone could see the gap. Clovermead could bend her elbow and move her shoulder without difficulty, and she could talk without a lisp, but there was no hiding the visible signs that once she had let Lord Ursus possess her. Not that Clovermead tried to hide them: She had worn short-sleeve shirts ever since the onset of the broiling Chandlefort summer, and she laughed as often as ever.

"I can't wait to finish growing. I'll wear boots with heels three inches thick, just to rub it in, and then I'll lean over, pat you on the head, and ruffle your bald spot," said Clovermead. She reached up to stroke Waxmelt's thinning hair. He shied away and anxiously felt at the back of his head. "Don't worry," said Clovermead. "You look handsome and hirsute. If you were a ram, all the ewes would sidle up to you and bleat that there wasn't a ram in Linstock with such curly wool."

"You aren't helping," Waxmelt grumbled. He looked sidelong at a mirror hung on the wall. Save for the thinning hair on the back of his head, his appearance was the same as ever-small and slender, graying and goateed, with lines of laughter and worry on his face. His clothes had changed more than his features: Lord Wickward of the Vale, ennobled by the curious kindness of Lady Cindertallow, dressed in far better style than he had as an innkeeper. Right now he wore a plain gray wool shirt and trousers, but the clothes were of a lordly cut and quality.

"I'm glad Father sympathizes with me," Clovermead continued. She directed a killing gaze at Sorrel, which he ignored with great aplomb. "Really, Saraband's dance class is awful. I hate learning how to dance Chandlefort-fashion with ten-year-olds who don't come up to my shoulder and snigger at me when they think I can't hear them. I hate that I never get better. And I especially hate the way Saraband plasters this kind look on her face when I make a mistake. She talks to me slowly and clearly, like I'm the village idiot, and then she shows me precisely what I should have done. She's always graceful and perfect, and she makes me want to-" she clawed at the air again.

She could picture Saraband vividly. She was some sort of cousin to Clovermead, but they didn't resemble each other at all. Pale, raven-haired Saraband was lovely; slender Saraband always dressed in the height of style; tall Saraband moved gracefully. Saraband's endless perfections would have been more tolerable if she were eighteen, or even seventeen-but she was just sixteen! It was the just sixteen that made her insufferable. Clovermead was almost thirteen already with none of Saraband's graces.

Just once, I'd like to see one hair on her head out of place, thought Clovermead. Let me see that, Lady, and I wouldn't mind her half so much afterwards.

"Milady asked Saraband yesterday if I was ready to dance at the Midsummer Ball," Clovermead continued out loud. "I didn't want to give her a chance to say anything, so I said, 'I dance like a clumsy goat. I'm the laughingstock of the class and I'd just embarrass myself.' Then Saraband said, 'The Demoiselle exaggerates, milady, but I believe she is correct to decline to dance.' Ugh! 'I believe she is correct to decline to dance!'" Clovermead swiped at a stray pillow, which Waxmelt hastily pulled out of the reach of her claws. "She was so polite, but she let milady know just how awful I am. I don't much mind not being able to dance at the Ball, I knew anyway I shouldn't go, but she is such a snob about dancing! I've had enough dance classes with Saraband to last me a lifetime."

"Weary is the head that wears the crown," intoned Sorrel. "Furrowed is the brow of she who will one day rule all Chandlefort. Happy is the simple Tansyard who wanders where he will upon the Steppes, concerned only with purloining horse-flesh from his neighbors." He winked at Clovermead. "Shall we ride together from Chandlefort and leave this torturous life behind us?" He turned to Waxmelt. "Do you wish to come with us, most noble Lord Wickward? When I was on guard outside milady's chambers this morning, I heard you exchange some sharp words with her. You looked as peeved as Clovermead is with Lady Saraband when you emerged from milady's room."

"Were you really angry with each other?" Clovermead asked Waxmelt anxiously. "I hope you didn't argue too much. I want you to get along with moth-with milady."
Clovermead still had trouble calling Lady Cindertallow her mother. She had only discovered half a year ago that she was not really Waxmelt's daughter, Clovermead, but Demoiselle Cerelune Cindertallow, daughter of Lady Melisande Cindertallow, the sovereign of Chandlefort. Clovermead's real father had been murdered before she was born. Waxmelt was in truth an embittered servant of Lady Cindertallow who had stolen Clovermead away as a baby and fled from Chandlefort to Timothy Vale. There he had started a new life as the master of Ladyrest Inn and raised Clovermead as his own child. When Clovermead had discovered who she truly was and realized that Waxmelt had deceived her all her life, she had been so overcome with anger that she had let Lord Ursus possess her. Yet eventually she had realized that she could not stop loving Waxmelt.

Lady Cindertallow detested the man who had stolen Clovermead from her, but she let Waxmelt stay in Chandlefort, so as not to alienate her new-found daughter. It was a strange life for Clovermead in Chandlefort, with a father who was no father and a mother who was still a stranger.

"I try to be civil to her," said Waxmelt. Now frustration crept into his voice. "But I just can't keep silent when I see how badly the servants are still treated here. I keep hoping I can convince milady to improve their lot, but she just gives me a look of cold contempt when I speak to her, like I was an animal that had stood up on my hind legs. This morning she said, 'You presume too much on the safe-conduct I gave you for Clovermead's sake.' Then she left the room before I could say another word. Dear Lady, if she does that to me again, I will-"

"Challenge her to single combat, Father?" asked Clovermead. "I suggest sharpened skillets at thirty paces."

"Saucepans are better," said Sorrel. "In Yellowjacket training, I have learned that they are particularly good for close-quarter fighting."

"One in each hand," said Clovermead. "I've been reading The Astrantiad in milady's library-it's a wonderful book, all about the battles between Sir Tourmaline and the Reiver Prince, and their long rivalry for the heart of Queen Aurette-and in the sixth sally, Sir Tourmaline fights a sand dragon with a knife in either hand. You ought to do the same, Father. I'll bring sand and sprinkle it in the throne room."

"I sympathized with you, Clo," said Waxmelt reproachfully.

"On my part," said Sorrel, "it is disinterested mockery. I give it to any Wickward I find, father and daughter alike."

"I'm just teasing you a little, Father," said Clovermead. "Now that I'm here in Chandlefort, I see they do treat the servants as badly as you always said. I wish I knew what to do. Milady's very stubborn!" Quick panic suddenly flitted across her face as she looked out the window and realized how high the sun had risen in the sky. "Sorrel, we should have left for fighting practice half an hour ago."

Sorrel cursed in Tansyard and leaped from the windowsill. "Please excuse us, Lord Wickward. I fear we have enjoyed your hospitality for too long. Oh dear, I shall receive another demerit. Somehow they accumulate on me like lint when I am in Clovermead's company."

"I don't get them except when I'm with you," said Clovermead indignantly. She kissed Waxmelt on the cheek and rushed to the door. "Bye, Father!" Then she and Sorrel were sprinting through Cindertallow Castle to the Training Grounds.

Cindertallow Castle consisted of five rectangular floors. The top floor was Lady Cindertallow's: Wide windows in her rooms gave her a panoramic view of the town, the fields, and the Salt Heath. The floor below was the Cindertallow Nursery, whose rooms had been built for the twelve daughters of the ninth Lady Cindertallow. Clovermead had one large room all to herself; most of the rest were used by the high nobles of Chandlefort when they were not at their own castles. Waxmelt's little room was by the staircase at the far end of the floor. It smelled of bleach and Clovermead suspected that it had been a linen closet not so long ago.

Beneath the Nursery lay the State Floor, where the business of governing Chandlefort took place. Lady Cindertallow's Council Room and Hall of Justice were here, and so was the Chamber of Alms, where nuns in Chandlefort service dispensed relief to the poor. At ground level was the Ceremonial Floor, where the Ballroom and the Banquet Hall flanked Lady Cindertallow's enormous Throne Room. Lords, visitors, clerks, and supplicants entered the castle through great bronze doors that led from the front courtyard to an atrium in front of the Banquet Hall.

The Servants' Floor was at the very bottom, half-buried underground and extending far beyond the perimeter of the Castle above. Its rough-plastered corridors were cut out of the rock, lit by torches even at midday, and provided with fresh air by thin shafts leading up to the surface. The castle servants came to work through a stone ramp that descended from a back courtyard to the Servants' Floor and left by it when their work was done. Waxmelt had been among them twelve years ago, before he had stolen Clovermead from Lady Cindertallow and fled from Chandlefort. Scattered around the underground labyrinth were chilly wine-cellars stacked ceiling-high with bottles, cabinets filled with earthenware and silver, laundry rooms filled with soapy clothes, and everything needed to keep the Castle well fed, luxuriant, and clean.

Two demerits later, Clovermead and Sorrel scurried onto the Training Grounds, where the other cadets had already finished their exercises and begun to fight in a sand-strewn quadrangle of open ground next to the Chandlefort stables. Clovermead quickly donned a helmet, leather armor, and a blunted metal practice sword. She was already sweating as the summer sun of Chandlefort beat down relentlessly upon her. Clovermead glanced up at the wall that ran alongside the Grounds, where lords and ladies idled along the parapet, and saw a slender figure in a white dress approaching them. It was Saraband. She lifted her parasol politely to Clovermead and drifted closer.

"Just what I need," Clovermead muttered to herself. "Now she can see Sorrel beat me at sword-play, and she'll know I can't dance or fight." Clovermead's swordsmanship had improved steadily during her training with the cadets, but so had Sorrel's. He still trounced her in most of their bouts together.

Sorrel and Clovermead hurried through their stretching exercises, saluted one another with their swords, and began to fight. Clovermead could feel Saraband's eye on her from above, and she just knew that Saraband was judging her as critically as she did in dance class. It was very difficult to concentrate. Sorrel's blade lunged toward her waist, and she barely parried it in time. Clovermead growled. She was very angry all of a sudden, and she wanted to lash out with claws and fangs.

Clovermead had torn Lord Ursus' bear-tooth from her mouth and crushed it, with the aid of Lady Moon herself, but she still could turn into a bear. Indeed, when she got upset, it was hard not to turn bearish. Clovermead didn't think her shape-shifting ability had anything to do with Lord Ursus, but she couldn't say exactly where it did come from. It was a mystery that perplexed and discomfited most Chandleforters. After all, Lord Ursus remained at war with Lady Cindertallow and his army of enslaved bears and worshipful human bear-priests might march north from his capital in Garum to Chandlefort at any point: It was unnerving in those circumstances to realize that Chandlefort's Heir Apparent could turn into a bear indistinguishable from Chandlefort's fearsome enemies. But Clovermead didn't worry too much. She knew how she had felt when she was possessed by Lord Ursus, and it was nothing like what she felt now when she became a bear.

I will stay human, Clovermead told herself. I'm practicing sword-fighting, not paw-bashing. Control yourself. She tried a particularly subtle feint against Sorrel that she had been practicing for the last week. He evaded it, even more subtly. Clovermead growled again. Sorrel was grinning now and Saraband gasped with admiration at his skill, which was peculiarly annoying. What's the use of being subtle and restrained? Clovermead asked herself in frustration. Sorrel will beat me, sooner or later, and Saraband will applaud him. She didn't want to fight Sorrel anymore. She wanted to leap onto the parapet and snap her jaws at Saraband. She'd be so startled, she wouldn't know what to do! Clovermead thought gleefully. Then she smiled. I'll bet I can startle you, too, Sorrel. I won't turn into a bear, but I'll fight like a bear, good and angry.

It was easy to let the bear into her mind. That's the prettiest girl in Chandlefort standing in front of me, she told herself. That's Saraband. Then growling rage filled up her mind and she wasn't precisely thinking anymore. She leaped forward and smashed her blade against Sorrel's, then followed up with a shower of blows to bludgeon his arm into numbness. She didn't plan ahead, just let her arms and legs move by exhilarating instinct. Sorrel tried to counter her with the controlled and thoughtful blows he preferred, but this time they melted before Clovermead's assault. Six months of endless drills had made lunges and parries an instinct in her muscles; her sword was as natural to her as her claws. Sorrel's blade shook in his hand and he stumbled away from Clovermead. One by one, his practiced stratagems failed him. He slammed into the back of the Training Grounds and desperately parried her assaults with his back to the wall.

Sorrel's eyes grew wide and wild and he began to gasp a ragged chant in Tansyard. His sword shifted in his hand and it became a glittering snake that struck out like something alive against her. Now there was no control or thought in his fighting either and he began to match Clovermead's blows. He forced her away from the wall and back to the sand-strewn center of the Training Grounds. His chant was a war-cry, an ululation, a savage desire for blood and death. They fought as desperate animals and his strength matched her strength, his speed her speed. Their swords clashed together one final time-and both spun to the ground. Sorrel and Clovermead stared at each other's empty hands. Then all at once their knees buckled and they collapsed to the sand.

The bear only slowly receded from Clovermead. When she could think once more, she found that she had a stitch in her side and her lungs were heaving. She swam with sweat underneath her leather armor; its cotton padding was drenched. Her limbs were limp. But so are Sorrel's, she thought with satisfaction. The Tansyard was just as exhausted as she was.

"So that is what it is like to fight a berserker," said Sorrel at last. He sat up, his chest still heaving. "I had always been curious as to what that experience is like, much as I am curious about what it is like to be bitten by a snake. Will you be doing this often?"

"If it works," said Clovermead. "Being calm and collected doesn't work that well against you."

"Then I must consider how to defend myself against such an onslaught," said Sorrel thoughtfully. "I do not wish to become a berserker, but I think I must learn to be a little wilder in my sword-play. I must thank you for that lesson." He smiled suddenly, making the crosses on his cheeks flutter like flags. "You are a wildcat, Clovermead, a hellion, a spirit of flame. It is terrifying and wonderful to fight against you."

"Don't say such things," said Clovermead. She was sure her cheeks were glowing red with pleasure from his praise and she was glad she had her helmet on. "I know you're still a better fighter than I am. I keep on thinking I'll get to the point where I can beat you in a fair fight, but then you learn some new trick and you wipe the floor with me."

"I do try to improve," said Sorrel. "I have made it my professional study to find new ways of defeating you in combat, so I may sing of my triumphs, and instill ever stronger in you the virtue of humility. I have concluded that a life spent whacking you on the ribs will be a life well spent."

"One of these days I'll get to the Steppes and I'll find out that 'Sorrel' is the Tansyard word for 'cock-a-hoop,'" said Clovermead. She tried to stand up, but her legs weren't yet in a mood to cooperate. "I don't think I'll be able to walk straight for a day. What was that you were singing? It sounded like a wolf howling."

"It is the Dirge of Two Knives. When Yarrow lay dying in the Farry Heights, after he had fought alone against ten warriors of the Gray Bar horde and killed nine of them, Our Lady came and comforted him with the Dirge. In the Cyan Cross Horde, we sing it in combat, as we commend our souls to Our Lady. It seemed appropriate, as your sword glittered in my face, my shoulders scraped the bricks, and I began to wonder whether I would live to see a nineteenth winter."

"We didn't have songs about dying in battle in Timothy Vale," said Clovermead. "We sang drinking songs and wooing songs and songs about lost sheep. I tried singing The Song of the Siege of the Silver Knight out loud once, but Goody Weft told me to shush up because I had a voice like a rooster."

"That was an admirable bout, demoiselle," said a gentle voice from above. Clovermead looked up and saw Saraband leaning over the parapet. She had tilted her parasol forward to shade her face, but its thin fabric let through enough light to show her features to proper advantage. She wore an intolerably fetching circlet of white daisies in her hair. "I see your talent is for fighting. I never saw you so quick in my class."

"That's because dance is torture and this is fun," said Clovermead softly. Be polite, Clovermead, she told herself. Don't scowl at her too obviously. "Teach me a sword-dance, Lady Saraband, and I'll see what I can do," she said more loudly.

"A terrifying thought, demoiselle," said Saraband faintly. "But perhaps I will schedule one session, as an expression of my esteem for you." She glanced at Sorrel. "Tansyard-what is your name, Tansyard?"

"Sorrel, so please your ladyship." He staggered to his feet and bowed low to her.

"I have seen you around, Sorrel," said Saraband. "I recognize your tattoos."

"I know your ladyship by sight as well," said Sorrel. "Although most of what I know of you is by Clovermead's report."

Saraband laughed. "Don't believe a word she says." She unhooked a daisy from her crown and let it fall over the wall. Sorrel caught it in his fingers. "I esteem you also, cadet. Please accept this token of my regard." She smiled at Sorrel, nodded respectfully to Clovermead, and ambled away from the parapet.

"She's such a show-off," said Clovermead disgustedly. "She always has to make herself the center of attention. Are you going to put that stupid flower away?"

"Hmm? Yes, I suppose I will." Absentmindedly Sorrel took off his helmet and stuck the flower behind his ear. Clovermead rolled her eyes. "I only have two hands, Clovermead. Can you think of a better place to keep her gift?"

"I have ideas, but they're not polite."

"Clovermead, I am shocked." Sorrel regaled her with an entirely unconvincing display of innocent horror. "In any case, a Yellowjacket cadet must always exhibit the utmost courtesy toward ladies. I believe it is in the rulebook somewhere."

"You can't read," said Clovermead. "You wouldn't know." Groaning, she stood up, then lifted her sword. "Another bout?"

A whistle shrilled at the other end of the Training Grounds. "Our Lady has provided me a blessed excuse to avoid more buffeting for now," said Sorrel. They began to walk back to the Armory, to return their armor and practice swords to their cubby holes. "Perhaps tomorrow?-no, the Midsummer Ball is tomorrow evening and I do not wish to be too bruised to dance. The day after tomorrow, I think."

"You'll be dancing?"

"Of course." Sorrel's eyes sparkled. "I have been told just yesterday that it is a tradition for Yellowjacket cadets to steal dances at the Midsummer Ball with the prettiest young ladies and leave the lords fuming as we natural gentleman show them that money and high blood do not always secure a lady's favor. This has become my favorite of all the traditions of Chandlefort. I will fight to the death to preserve it."

"Stop and say hello to me," said Clovermead. "Milady says I have to be there, even if I can't dance."

They had reached the Armory. "Until tomorrow evening." Sorrel waved farewell to Clovermead, then jogged into the changing rooms of the cadets, the flower firmly in place behind his ear.

Clovermead put away her sword and armor, then walked through the side courtyard toward the castle's front entrance. There was a small room in the Armory where she could change clothes, but Clovermead wanted to go straight to her room, collapse into her bed, and sleep. "Every muscle in my body aches," she said to herself. "Oof! Milady looks like she's made of solid muscle now, but I'll bet she was made of solid bruise first." She tried to lift her arms, but she couldn't. Then she saw that she had almost caught up with her languorously strolling dance teacher and Clovermead pivoted abruptly and strode toward the courtyard's side wall. She didn't want to give Saraband an excuse to talk with her again.

A tall man with curly red hair was leaning against the wall. His hands were manicured, his face was pale, and he was dressed in plain, faded clothes. He looked only a few years older than Sorrel. He stepped to one side as Clovermead approached the wall and bowed courteously. As his head rose, he looked at her face. Then he frowned.

"Don't tell me I've offended you already!" said Clovermead. "I don't know you, I've never talked to you in my life, and you're scowling at me like I stole candy from your baby daughter just before I hurled a stone through your windows. What did I do wrong? Was I supposed to curtsy when you bowed?"

"Indeed you were, if etiquette hasn't changed since last I was in Chandlefort." The tall man's voice was a low rumble laced with teasing banter and a vein of acid melancholy. "But then, you wear trousers, and that wasn't usual among ladies either. Perhaps there has been a revolution in manners?"

"That's just me," said Clovermead. "Trousers are comfortable, so I wear them. Does that offend you, too?" she asked defiantly.

The tall man laughed and shook his head. "I'm not offended, miss, just curious. Your face is remarkably familiar." He scratched his head. "I can't have seen you before. You would have been a baby when last I was here. May I ask who your parents are?"

Clovermead fumbled a penny out of her trouser pocket and flicked it toward the tall man. Sunlight gleamed on Lady Cindertallow's portrait, engraved upon the coin's head. "I look a lot like milady, my mother. Is that who you were thinking of, goodman?"

The tall man's eyes went wide. "Indeed, demoiselle." He tossed the penny back. "I need no coin to tell me what your mother looks like. I knew her and your father well."

"You knew Ambrosius?" Clovermead's heart skipped. She had heard terribly little of her real father these last six months. Her mother never talked of him and she answered Clovermead's questions with monosyllables. "Were you a friend of his?"

"I owe him my life," said the tall man. "He was an excellent friend to me." He shook his head. "I shouldn't say more. Pardon me, demoiselle. I cannot stay." He turned to go.

"Wait!" cried Clovermead, and she caught at his hand. His fingers were cool in her grip. "I'm sorry if I was rude. Can't you stay another minute and tell me about him? Please don't go."

The tall man disengaged his hand from Clovermead's. "I'm sorry, demoiselle. I shouldn't have come so near milady's front door in the first place." He laughed harshly. "She wouldn't be happy to see me back in Chandlefort."

"Don't worry," said Clovermead. "If she gets upset with you, I'll say I'm responsible. Just stay another minute."

"Your mother thinks I'm gone from Chandlefort forever," said the tall man fiercely. "Let her think that still." Clovermead gaped at him and he grimaced. "I shouldn't have spoken to you at all," he muttered. Then he looked pleadingly in Clovermead's eyes. "I ask you in your father's name not to mention me to her."

Clovermead looked straight into his dark brown eyes. There was anger and good humor in them, malice and sadness, desperation and deception, and above all a loneliness that pled to Clovermead for pity.

"What would she do if I told her you had returned?" she asked at last.

"I think she'd try to kill me." The tall man smiled bitterly as he saw the shock in Clovermead's face. "She's an unscrupulous woman, demoiselle. Other people pay the consequences for her desires. Don't you know that about her yet?"

"No," said Clovermead. Her throat was dry. "I hardly know her at all."

"You shall," said the tall man. He hesitated. "Will you tell her I was here?" Slowly, Clovermead shook her head. "Thank you, demoiselle," he said. "When next we meet, I'll tell you more about Ambrosius." He bowed to Clovermead, then strode toward the castle gates. He ducked around a corner and in an instant he was gone.