was close enough now to see that the man's hand was on his sword
hilt.

"Why do you speak of the count to me?" The voice was young.

"Because you are his man," said Daoud, and he thumbed the notched wheel
that held the bowstring in place. The string thrummed, the dowels sprang
forward, and the dart buried itself in the Frenchman's body.

To avoid hitting breastbone or rib, Daoud had aimed for the stomach.
The Frank uttered a cry of pain and anger, and his left hand clutched at
his middle as his right hand drew his sword.

"You Greek bastard!" he groaned, and fell first to his knees, then on
his face. So he had recognized him as David of Trebizond. He must surely
die.

Daoud rolled the unconscious man over on his back. His fingers quickly
found the dart. Just a bit of it protruded from the Frank's stomach; his
fall had driven it deeper. Daoud pulled the dart out, keeping his finger
on the wound. He laid the dart on the ground and drew his dagger. He
drove it upward just below the breastbone, striking the heart. The man's
torso jerked violently, the body trying to save itself even though the
mind was asleep. As Daoud pulled the blade out, blood flowed out after
it, warm on his hand. He whispered a curse and wiped his hand and his
blade on the man's tunic.

This must look like a street stabbing, a man murdered for his purse.
Daoud thrust his dagger into the body again, this time in the place
where the dart had gone in.

He felt for a heartbeat and found none. He sheathed his dagger, felt for
the dart on the street beside the Frank, and put it back in its case.
Case and Scorpion went back in the hidden pocket in his cloak.

The Frank's dead body was heavy as he dragged it into the deeper
darkness under the overhang of the nearest house. He fumbled about the
dead man until he found his purse, a small one and not very heavy, and
tucked it into his own belt. The pottery maker would be shocked in the
morning to find a robbed and murdered man on his doorstep.

Had anyone seen? The houses around the square were dark and silent as so
many stone tombs. There was only that one light in the third-floor
window of Ugolini's mansion.

He could not enter the mansion now, with blood on him. Whoever unlocked
the gate for him would be sure to connect him with the murdered man who
would be found in the morning. Orvieto's authorities would be
questioning everyone, and Ugolini could not control what his servants
might say.

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