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uncertain footing. Spitting dry husks from his mouth, he started running toward the rough stones of the wall—and then stopped in his tracks.
    Up on the wall, between the crenellations, he saw royal guards in white cloaks looking down at him. One of them had a crossbow and was busy cranking at its windlass. In a moment the weapon would be ready to fire.
    Crossbow bolts were designed to penetrate steel armor and pierce the vitals beneath. At this range, Malden knew the shot would probably skewer him—since he wore no armor at all—like a roasting chicken.
    Backpedaling in horror, he dashed to the far side of the roof and grabbed the edge. He swung down toward the street and let go to drop the last few feet. He landed in the stall of a costermonger, amidst barrels of apples and pears.
    The merchant shrieked and pointed at him.
    “Good sir, I beg you, be still!” Malden said, leaning out of the entrance to the stall and looking up and down the street. “The kingsmen are after me and—”
    “Thief! Thief!” the coster howled. He plucked up a handful of plums and threw them at Malden with great force. Sticky juice splattered Malden’s cloak and the side of his face.
    Holding up one arm to protect his eyes, he ran out of the stall and into a street full of marketers. They turned as one at the sound of the costermonger’s shout and stared at Malden with terrified eyes.
    “Murder!” the fruit merchant shouted. “Fire!” The man would say anything, it seemed, to get the blood of the crowd up.
    Malden realized he had made a bad miscalculation. Had he dropped into a similar stall in Ness, he would have received a far warmer welcome. The coster would have shoved him under a blanket where he could hide until the coast was clear. But Ness was a Free City, where it was a point of civic pride that no one trusted their rulers. Here, in Helstrow, every man was a vassal of the king—his property, in all but name. And Malden knew from bitter experience that slaves often feared their masters more than they loved freedom.
    “Thief! Fire! Guards!” the cry went up from every lip in the street. A dozen fingers pointed accusingly at Malden, while shopkeepers rang bells and clanged pots together to add to the hue and cry.
    “Damn you all for traitors,” Malden spat, and hurried down the street as women pelted him with eggs and rotten vegetables and children grabbed at his cloak to try to trip him. He thrust his arm across his eyes to save himself from being blinded by the shower of filth and ran as fast as he dared on the trash-slick cobblestones.
    But just as suddenly as it started, the cry ceased. Malden was left in silence, unmolested. Had he escaped the throng? He’d taken no more than a dozen steps away from them, yet—
    He lowered his arm, and saw a knight in armor come striding toward him, sword in hand.

Chapter Seven
    T he marketers all fled or pressed into the doors of shops where they could watch from something like safety. Malden was alone with his enemy in a wide-open street, alone and very short on options.
    The knight clanked as he walked. He wore a full coat of plate that covered him from head to toe. Even his joints were protected by chain mail. The visor of his helmet was down and Malden could see nothing of his face.
    Such armor, he knew, had an effect on the mind of the man who wore it. It made him believe himself invulnerable. Which was true, for all practical purposes—no iron sword could slash through that steel. Spear blades and bill hooks would simply clash off the armor, at worst denting its shiny plates. Protected thus, men tended to think that their safety meant they were blessed by the gods, and that whatever they chose to do was also blessed.
    Such armor was a license for cruelty and rapine.
    Yet there were weapons that could pierce that protective shell. The bodkin Malden had once carried was designed to pierce even steel, if driven with enough force and good aim. Battle-axes were designed to smash