d one
dead by the door. Left able to fight were only Simon, the Tartars, and
one Armenian guard. They had swords and bows, but the bows would just be
encumbrances in this total blackness.

In minutes the ambassadors could be dead. Simon felt terrified, drowning
in darkness, almost overcome with helplessness.

_I must make him come to me._

The thought frightened Simon even more. He did not know whether he would
have the courage to act on it.

What weapons did the stalker have? In the glimpse Simon had of him
before he put the candle out, the man in black had seemed to be
empty-handed. His weapons must be small ones that could kill, but might
not be quite so dangerous to a man in mail.

"Everyone remain still," Simon said loudly. "You will hear me moving
steadily about. If you hear someone else as well, it is the enemy."

He racked his brain to remember the size and shape of the room. Holding
his sword low, he put his hand up before his face and forced himself to
take one step, then another. An attack might come from any direction.
The trembling of his hands and knees made his mail jingle faintly.

The mailed glove dangling from his wrist rattled as his bare hand
encountered a man's face. The man gasped and pulled away.

"C'est moi," said Simon, just to let the man hear his voice, knowing it
did not matter what language he spoke. He was not afraid of calling
attention to himself. He wanted the stalker to come for him. And he
wanted those on his side to know where he was so they would not attack
him by mistake.

The face he felt was hot, sweaty, with a bushy mustache--one of the
Armenians. The killer had been masked. Simon patted the man on the
shoulder and moved on. He doubted that he could find the man in black
this way. If the stalker were as skilled at moving about in the dark as
he seemed to be, he could easily evade Simon.

The Tartars seemed to have understood the peril they were in; they had
been silent now for a long time.

The thought struck him like ice between his shoulder blades: What if the
killer had already gotten to them, and they were silent because they
were dead? He wanted to call out to them, or to Friar Mathieu, to be
sure they were all right. He suppressed the urge and reached out for
another face.

This time he felt a beard. It was long and full. Friar Mathieu.

"C'est moi," Simon said again, and a hand reached up and squeezed his
reassuringly.

The next face was hard, bony. There