e cannot just sit here," Tilia said. "We are like mice waiting for the
cat to come and eat us."

"I don't like depending on someone else to save me any more than you,
Tilia," Sophia said, "but all we can do is wait. Someone will come for
us. Daoud or Lorenzo. Someone."

"We should have left long ago, when the men-at-arms ran away," said
Ugolini. "Then we would have had horses." He looked reproachfully at
Sophia. Sophia felt he had a right to. She had persuaded them to stay
here. How could she have been so sure that the news that the battle was
lost, which had thrown the men-at-arms into a panic, was merely a
baseless rumor? It was her faith in Daoud, she thought, her certainty
that no matter what happened on the battlefield he would come for her
and take her to safety.

"Adelberto, you cannot ride very well," said Tilia. "And I cannot ride
a horse at all. You may be sure those poltroons would not have carried
us on litters. We could not have left then."

"You could ride if your life depended on it," said Sophia. "You may
still have to."

"My life depends on _never_ getting on a horse," said Tilia. "I would
surely break my neck."

There were more anguished shrieks from somewhere nearby, and they looked
at each other and the pool of terror rose higher.

Sophia heard hoofbeats and men's voices, loud, in the street outside.
She went to the door that led out to the balcony and pushed it open a
crack. With a clattering of hooves on cobblestones, three mounted men
rode down the street, looking up at buildings. They carried no torches,
but their drawn swords gave off pale glints. There was no way she could
tell who they were or which side they were on.

The man in the lead pointed with his sword at the house where Sophia
was. She leaned farther out, her heart pounding at her ribs, to see the
trio dismount and tie their horses.

She turned away from the doorway to the balcony and pointed silently
downward. Ugolini closed his book with shaking hands. Tilia fingered her
pectoral cross that Daoud had long ago told Sophia contained a poisoned
blade. And Sophia loosened the mouth of the leather bag tied to her belt
that held the tiny crossbow Daoud had given her.

Would she be able to use it? She had shot a longbow for sport a few
times in her life, with indifferent accuracy. But she had never fired
even a normal-size crossbow. Still, if the darts were poisoned, she need
not hit a man in a vital spot to stop him.

Sophi