Dreys could hardly see a damned thing back here. All he could make out of his assailant was the gleam of the man’s eyes and teeth, a pearl ring in his left nostril, the flash of the knife. The smell of woodlands clung to his cotton tunic as fiercely as the scents of anise and curry held to his breath.

No, Dreys was not prepared to fight here in Cat’s Alley. He had no weapons and wore only the linen surcoat that normally fit over his ring mail, along with pants and boots. One does not go armed and armored to meet his lover.

He’d only stepped into the alley a moment ago, to make certain the road ahead was clear of city guards, when he heard a small scuffling behind a stack of yellow gourds by one of the market stalls. Dreys had thought he’d disturbed a ferrin as it hunted for mice or for some bit of cloth to wear. He’d turned, expecting to see a pudgy rat-shaped creature run for cover, when the assassin sprang from the shadows.

Now the assassin moved swiftly, grasping the knife tight, shifting his weight, twisting the blade. It flashed dangerously close to Dreys’ ear, but the sergeant fought it off—till the man’s arm snaked around, stabbing at Dreys’ throat. Dreys managed to hold the smaller man’s wrist back for a moment. “Murder. Bloody murder!” Dreys shouted.

A spy! he thought. I’ve caught a spy! He could only imagine that he’d disturbed the fellow in mapping out the castle grounds.

He thrust a knee into the assassin’s groin, lifting the man in the air. Pulled the man’s knife arm full length and tried to twist it.

The assassin let go of the knife with one hand and rabbit-punched Dreys in the chest.

Dreys’ ribs snapped. Obviously the little man had also been branded with runes of power. Dreys guessed that the assassin had the brawn of five men, maybe more. Though both men were incredibly strong, endowments of brawn increased strength only to the muscles and tendons. They did not invest one’s bones with any superior hardness. So this match was quickly degenerating into what Dreys would call “a bone-bash.”

He struggled to hold the assassin’s wrists. For a long moment they wrestled.

Dreys heard deep-voiced shouts: “That way, I think! Over there!” They came from the left. A street over was Cheap Street—where the bunched houses did not press so close, and where Sir Guilliam had built his new four-story manor. The voices had to be from the City Guard—the same guards Dreys had been avoiding—whom Sir Guilliam bribed to rest beneath the lantern post at the manor gate.

“Cat’s Alley!” Dreys screamed. He only had to hold the assassin a moment more—make sure the fellow didn’t stab him, or escape.