“Indeed.” Honoria folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “And, of course, they’re all together.”

“We would be much more exercised if it was any of them alone,” Phyllida told Deliah, “or even just two of them against unknown others.”

“In this case,” Honoria said, “we don’t need to actually worry for their safety-they’re as safe as they could be even were we there to watch over them. However, while I will admit us being anywhere near the cathedral while they’re dealing with this Black Cobra person would distract them utterly-and we don’t want to forget they have Sangay to protect-there’s no reason I can see that we shouldn’t arrive the instant the action’s over.”

“Which by my calculation,” Patience said, “means we should leave as soon as possible.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Flick glanced around the table. “So-how many horses, how many gigs?”


Del sat on the floor of one of the stalls around the octagon in Ely Cathedral and prayed he wouldn’t get a cramp. At least the stall floor was timber, not stone. The cathedral-so much massive stone in the depths of winter-was as cold as the proverbial tomb.

Waiting for time to pass-it was exactly like being on picket duty. Not that he’d been a picket all that often, let alone recently, yet at least in war, there was an element of omnipresent danger to help keep one alert. Here…they all knew nothing would happen until after Sangay arrived.

Which would be shortly, Del hoped. Shifting silently in the confined space, he pulled out his fob-watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Outside the stained-glass windows of the octagonal tower, it was full daylight-or as full as the light was going to be that day.

Settling back into his hunched position, he found himself staring at the hilt of his sword. The sheathed blade lay on the floor beside him. He had a loaded pistol, too. Many of them had elected to carry one, just in case Larkins resorted to firearms. The cultists, thank heaven, abjured such weapons on some convoluted religious grounds, which was all to the good. He had no doubt that, regardless of how many came to the cathedral, his side would see victory, at least of a sorts, that day.

He was in a mood for victories. Succeeding in gaining Deliah’s promise to marry him had meant more to him than he’d thought it would. He’d intended to ask her regardless and had told himself he’d been asking then because of the necessity of his mission-because he’d needed the right to ensure she didn’t arrive at the cathedral too soon.

While all of that had been true, he’d needed to know she was his on some much more crucial, personal plane. Knowing she’d agreed had filled him with a…certainty. A jubilation, an assurance and an absolute conviction that this-all of this-was proceeding exactly as fate decreed. Exactly as it was supposed to be.

His only remaining uncertainty was a small, tiny, niggling one. He hoped his and Deliah’s exchange of promises would be strong enough to stand against the inevitable ramifications of his morning’s actions. He hoped she’d understand that he’d simply had to do it, that given what she meant to him, he’d had no choice.

Regardless, he thought, as he shifted awkwardly again, he couldn’t regret tying her to the bed. She was safe, and in his new world-the future he’d taken his first steps into last night-that, to him, was the most important thing.

A loud creak had him raising his head, listening, straining his ears.

Light shafted above his head, then slowly faded as the sound of a heavy door closing reached him.

Someone had just entered through the main doors at the end of the nave. Sangay? Or someone else?

Carefully shifting into a crouch, he slowly raised his head, until he could look out over the front lip of the stall. His line of sight was across the octagon, past the altar, and down the nave. He could see Gervase in his borrowed monk’s robe seated halfway along a pew three rows from the front, head bowed, apparently deep in prayer. Glancing to his right, Del saw Tony, also garbed as a monk, all but invisible, seated at prayer in the shadows of one of the stalls across the octagon from Del’s position. Gyles, the other monk, Del couldn’t see, but he knew Gyles was sitting or kneeling in prayerful attitude beyond one of the columns on the other side of the nave.

Whoever had entered had hesitated at the far end of the nave. Thinking of how awestruck Sangay would feel in an edifice that struck awe into the hearts of grown men, Del prayed the boy would remember his instructions.

Assuming it was he.

Finally, on slippered feet, the newcomer crept slowly up the central aisle. It was Sangay.

Del exhaled. Watched as the boy, still wary, but with increasing assurance-presumably he’d sighted his bodyguards-made his way to the second pew from the front, and slid into it to perch at the end by the aisle.

Everything was in place. No matter how he strained his ears, Del could hear not even a shuffle to give away the presence of the other men concealed at various points inside the cathedral. Even the monks were as still and silent as statues; in their gray robes in the shadows, they were difficult to see unless one looked directly at them.

Sangay looked around, scroll-holder in clear view in one hand. Seeing no one frightening, the boy settled on the pew.

He didn’t have long to wait. As they’d surmised, the Black Cobra had had someone watching the cathedral, too wise to get trapped inside. Less than two minutes had passed when a door somewhere opened and shut, then footsteps-confident and assured-came striding in. They were coming from the south transept, past the vestries.

Whoever had come to fetch the scroll-holder would appear through the massive archway on Del’s left. He ducked down, peered through a narrow gap he’d found in the front paneling of the stall.

Held his breath.

A man-large, heavy, close-cropped dark hair-Larkins!-strode into the octagon.

Del looked at Sangay. The boy’s eyes had widened, locking on Larkins. To his credit, Sangay didn’t do the one thing that might give their game away-he didn’t glance at any of his bodyguards.

Instead, even though he was visibly trembling, he gamely stood and slipped out of the pew. And halted, waited. There, at the top of the long nave, in the middle of the central aisle, the scroll-holder clutched in one thin hand.

As they’d hoped, Larkins saw no reason not to go to Sangay. The boy was the epitome of unthreatening. Larkins slowed, but didn’t break stride, almost swaggering as he crossed to halt before the boy, towering over him.

Watching Larkins from behind the man’s back, Del couldn’t see his face, but he saw no evidence of a glance to either side, no indication Larkins had even noticed the monks. None of them had been, or were, in his immediate line of vision.

Larkins looked down at Sangay. “Well?” His voice was rough, dark with suppressed menace.

Sangay ducked his head respectfully. “I have brought the scroll-holder as you wanted, sahib.” Sangay offered it up, balanced across both his palms.

Unseen by Larkins, Tony slid silently from the stall in which he’d been sitting and, sword in hand, glided to the altar. Gyles appeared, hovering just behind the column to Larkins’s right. Gervase held his position, apparently as yet unseen, but he was closest to Sangay-he would be the last to move.

“Good.” Reaching out, Larkins took the scroll-holder. He turned it in his hands, examining it. Then his fingers flicked and tugged, releasing the six levers. Opening the unlocked holder, Larkins slid the single sheet of parchment from within.

Ignoring Sangay, still standing before him, Larkins unrolled the letter. The decoy copy. Half turning so the light from the tower windows above fell on the sheet, Larkins quickly perused it. Then he smiled.

Del caught the satisfaction in that smile-also saw the evil anticipation infusing Larkins’s features. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, felt his body tense.

Still turned away from Sangay, Larkins slid the letter back into the scroll-holder, closed and locked it, then put it into the pocket of the heavy coat he wore.

Focused on securing the letter and holder, Larkins missed seeing the three monks draw closer.

Focused on Larkins, Del didn’t miss the glint of light along the blade the bastard drew from the pocket into which he’d dropped the holder.

“Run, Sangay!”

The order rang out from multiple points around the octagon as Larkins turned and lunged for the boy, but Sangay had already yelped and danced sideways, avoiding Larkins’s grasping hand and his deadly knife.

Leaving Larkins momentarily off-balance.

Before the heavy man could recover, Sangay shrieked, “Ai-ai-ai!” and fled-flew-past him, straight to Tony, rounding the altar some paces beyond Larkins.

Larkins whirled with a roar-then gaped. Froze at the sight of Tony, monk’s robe thrown back over his shoulder, sword raised, his other arm clamped protectively around Sangay’s shivering shoulders.

Larkins’s eyes widened. He looked to the left, toward the north transept, and saw Gyles move out from behind the column.

Larkins whirled to face down the nave.

Only to find Gervase waiting, sword in hand, in the middle of the aisle, with Vane coming up behind him.

Larkins took a step back, then swung to the south-to the corridor through which he’d entered. He’d already taken a step before he registered that Del stood there, blocking that route of escape. Demon hovered in the shadows behind him.

Meeting Larkins’s eyes, Del saw recognition flare-felt grim retribution curve his lips as Larkins stared.

Then Larkins glanced around, and bolted.

Tony had grasped the moments of Larkins’s distraction to draw Sangay back to safety beyond the choir screen. Larkins thought that meant the east corridor was unguarded-mistakenly.