Monk turned and slashed at Orme's attacker, catching only his sleeve. Then again and again the metallic clash of steel, the smells of sweat and blood fresh over the stink of slime.

He was hit from behind and fell forward, managing at the last moment to hold his blade clear. He rolled over and scrambled up again. He lashed back and this time struck flesh. There was a yell, and curses all around him. At least his own men were easier to recognize by the outline of their uniform tunics, although most of their hats had been lost in the battle.

Some memory within his own muscles brought back the skill to balance and lunge, to duck, keep upright, push forward and strike. His blood was hot and in some wild way he was almost enjoying it. He barely felt his own pain.

Then suddenly he was backed into a corner. There were two men in front of him, not one, and then a third. Fear was sick and real. He could not fight three men. How had he been so careless?

A blade arced up. He saw it gleam in the candlelight, and beyond it, for an instant, Clacton's face a couple of yards away, smiling. He could see him, and Clacton was not going to help.

There was nowhere for Monk to run, no room to step left or right. He'd take on one of them at least, two if possible. He dared not raise his arm to slash. There was no space to swing. He checked and lunged forward, skewering the man to his left, expecting any second to feel the blade through his own chest and then darkness, oblivion.

He tried to yank his blade out but there was someone on top of it, heavy, lifeless, pinning his arm down. Then he saw Orme pulling his own blade free, and understood what had happened.

"Better be quick, sir," Orme said urgently. "We've done a good job. One of the Fat Man's men killed the thief with the carving and now the Fat Man's got it himself. We've got to get back to the boats."

Monk responded without hesitation. The thieves could fight it out among themselves. He must get the Fat Man and the carving. They could still win, perhaps more swiftly and completely than in the original plan. He snatched up the thief's cutlass that moments ago would have meant his own death. Shuddering and stumbling, he went back through the wreckage of the building after Orme. He blundered into wreckage and tripped, falling headlong more than once, but when he emerged into the winter night, which was clear-mooned and stinging with frost, Orme was a couple of yards in front of him. Twenty feet beyond, the Fat Man floundered, coat waving like broken wings, his right fist held high with something clenched in it. It had to be the carving.