Squinting, Malden glanced over at the lantern. He could see now that it was sitting unattended on the cobblestones. If he had run toward it and kicked it over, he would be away into the shadows by now and free of this danger.

For the first time he looked down the blade of the sword at the man who held it. He was no watchman, at least. He was a blond man perhaps half again Malden’s age, wearing a jerkin studded with iron and a fine samite cape. A man of some wealth, then, though his boots were muddy. He was smiling, but with warmth—not with the predatory grin of a cat pinning a starling with its claws.

It took a moment for Malden to recognize his accoster. When he did, he was only more confused than before.

“You’re the fellow they were going to hang in Market Square,” he whispered. “The knight. Sir—Sir—Sir Something. Well, it seems you have me at your service, Sir—”

“Croy.”

Malden lifted a hand in salute. The knight knocked the hand away with the flat of his sword.

“I apologize for this rude meeting, but I saw no other way to gain your attention,” Croy told him. Stranger by the minute, Malden thought. He was not used to armed men treating him with civility. “I wish to ask you but a single question. Will you answer?”

“Under the circumstances, I can hardly refuse,” Malden replied.

“I saw you send a message to the villa of Hazoth. And I know someone fitting your description was on Castle Hill the night the tower fell. The night a certain boat was waiting in the river below.”

Malden was especially glad then that this knight was no watchman. If Anselm Vry’s men had put things together as neatly as this fellow, his neck would already be in a noose. “If you say so, milord.”

“You don’t deny it. The boat was there to collect you, wasn’t it? Cythera’s boat. I can see in your eyes it was so. So now I’ll ask you—what business have you with Cythera?”

Malden’s brow furrowed as he tried to understand what was happening. Was he about to be killed for reasons he would never know? Or would this fool let him go if he answered true?

For some reason, Malden thought he just might.

“I did some work for her, that’s all. I’m arranging to receive my payment.”

“In the middle of the night? Strange hours to take wages.”

“I suppose,” Malden said, “that depends on the labor.”

Croy’s face changed. The smile faded a bit and his eyes widened. “Tell me true, now. What job was it?”

Malden considered his reply carefully. “Sir Croy, I think your interest in milady Cythera is not of an, ah, adversarial nature. To be plain, I think you are her friend.”

“More than that, I hope,” Croy said.