Seregil’s attacker locked an arm around his neck, choking him as they tumbled together to the street. Seregil landed hard with the man on his back. Between that and the pressure on his throat, he was already seeing stars. The pressure disappeared for an instant, quickly replaced with the cutting tension of a garrote. It caught on the collar of his coat, but he could feel the wire against his skin where the collar gaped. Fighting for his life, he reached back and clawed at the man’s hands. Panic lent him strength and he managed to roll the man off. He felt the wire cut into his neck as he wiggled around and jammed his thumbs into his attacker’s eyes. The garrote went slack as the man grabbed Seregil’s wrists and threw him over onto his back. Seregil wasn’t quick enough to roll away before the man was on him again, a knee planted in Seregil’s gut, choking him with his bare hands. The bastard was big and very strong, but Seregil was limber and fighting for his life. Twisting sideways, he brought his foot up and kicked his would-be murderer in the side of the head. The grip on his throat loosened again. This time Seregil managed to reach the poniard in his boot and stabbed the man through the neck. Scrambling to his feet, he turned to find that Alec’s would be-assassin had the younger man pinned, tightening a garrote around Alec’s neck while Alec fought wildly. Seregil grabbed the man by the hair, stabbed him in the heart, and dragged the limp body off Alec.

Alec had managed to get one hand up to his throat between skin and garrote wire, which had probably saved his life—but the palm of his left hand was cut deeply.

They scanned the surrounding shadows for other attackers, but the night was silent except for the snorting of their panicked horses, who had stopped halfway down the street.

“Bilairy’s codpiece!” Seregil croaked hoarsely, examining Alec’s hand. Pulling out his handkerchief, he tried to bind the wound.

“Never mind me,” Alec replied. “Your neck is bleeding.”

Grabbing the handkerchief from Seregil’s fingers, he used it to blot the thin wound across the base of Seregil’s throat. If Seregil hadn’t managed to get loose, the wire would have cut his throat.

“We’re both in sorry shape.” Seregil could hardly speak above a harsh whisper. “Let me tend your hand. You’re bleeding all over me.”

Using Alec’s own handkerchief, he tied it around Alec’s cut palm, then pulled him close in the windswept darkness.

Alec hugged him back. “You’re shaking.” So was he, for that matter.

Seregil rubbed his smooth cheek against Alec’s, whispering hoarsely, “I just never get used to almost losing you, I guess. And they were good, the bastards. Professionals.”

They turned to the two dead men sprawled at their feet.