Cassio stumbled down the edge of the harbor. Iago waited for him to turn up the third lane, then followed, quickly, staying close to the buildings, in the shadows. The narrow lane wound up the hill to lessen the steep climb, but nevertheless the three-story stone-and-stucco houses had been built so tightly together on either side that except for a stripe of blue moonlit sky, walking it was like traversing a cave. Several blocks toward the Citadel, it became so dark that he lost sight of Cassio, but could hear him bumping into walls and swearing before carrying on. Rounding one severe bend, the lane opened and Iago could see the high Citadel walls looming above, and at the end, the red light, marking the courtesan’s house. Silhouetted in the red light was a very tall, thin figure of a man having a wee in the street, turning as Cassio trudged toward him.

“I am surrounded by gormless gits,” Iago whispered to himself. “Were I their general, would I be one of them, too? Do I want to be what I want to be?”

He heard something move behind him, but could see nothing there in the dark. Perhaps a cat. Then he heard movement above him, but there was no balcony. Another cat, on the roof. The smell of the sea was stronger here than even at the harbor, and he wondered if one of the fishermen might not have hung his nets from the window above and a cat was climbing there. The sound of ringing steel brought his attention to the fore: Rodrigo drawing his sword.

“Defend yourself, thou scurvy patch,” said Rodrigo as he advanced on the stumbling Cassio.

“What?” said Cassio.

“En garde!” cried Rodrigo, raising his sword.

Cassio made as if to draw his sword, then stumbled back and fell out of the light with a crash. “I shall shout something French back at you presently. Hold there!”

Rodrigo advanced. No, it has to be a fight, thought Iago. The watch has to find Cassio shamefully drunk. Iago stepped out of the shadows, drew his sword, and was about to shout the alarm when the thought snapped in his head, SPARE THIS ONE. A foul and foreign thought, like the flash of a fever dream, NOT THIS ONE. A lightning white-blue image of Michael Cassio fired across his mind’s eye, giving him an immediate, nearly blinding headache.

“Awake! Awake!” Iago cried. “Thieves! Mayhem! Murder most foul.”

“Where?” said Cassio, trying to draw his sword but instead the blade stayed put and the soldier spun with the effort and fell again.

“Awake!” said Iago. “Murder! Alert the watch!”

Rodrigo advanced on the supine Cassio.

Then it came down from the rafters as if the shadows themselves had gone liquid—a black blur passed behind Rodrigo, flipping his legs out from under him. He fell, screaming, curled and clutching at the ragged wound where his calf muscle used to be.