Marlowe had hidden himself in the chilly shadows of a doorway, waiting. He had rid himself of the itching beard, and wore a black cape with a cowl to cover his head and face. He still hadn’t slept, and his nerves were jangled beyond all reason. Just as he was about to concede that the other two were not coming, there they were, rapiers drawn, side by side, striding into the little garden. They looked about, scowling. Argi said something in the Basque tongue, and Zigor laughed once. Marlowe drew his dagger silently and prepared to throw it. Zigor was the more serious threat, he thought. Argi was a marksman, not so adept at swordplay. Then, for no reason Marlowe could discern, Zigor fell to his knees, his face close to the ground. “Hah!” he said softly. His hand shot forward and grabbed something. He sprang to his feet and showed Argi what he’d found: a small bright red tie. “What’s that?” Marlowe announced loudly, stepping from the shadows ready to throw his knife. Both men whirled to face him.
