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for so the object must be, though he could not see more than the rough shape and size of it, as big as a big man’s fist – was nearly in his grasp. All thought of Grimalkin’s fabled fighting prowess was gone from his mind; a predatory instinct welled up from he knew not where. He slid back down the slope of the roof, then rose to a crouch and circled to the right, where, he had ascertained from his former perch, a path led to Grimalkin across a series of connected rooftops.
    After what seemed an eternity, he crossed to the flat roof on which Grimalkin stood, intent on his prize. A warm breeze freighted with the stink of the Thames kept the fog at bay. Holding his breath, he slid his rapier from its sheath and crept forward a step, then another.
    A tile shifted beneath his foot.
    Grimalkin spun, sword in hand, with a speed beyond anything Quare had ever seen … but Quare was already lunging to close the distance and could not pull back. All his training in swordplay deserted him in that terrifying instant. He made no attempt to bring his point en garde but instead stepped close, inside Grimalkin’s guard, and punched wildly, frantically. More by luck than skill, the hilt of the rapier slammed into the grey-hooded skull, and the man collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
    The clock dropped from Grimalkin’s hand and fell towards the roof. Almost indolently, Quare plucked it from the air. Then reeled, stumbling, as if the weight of the clock had unbalanced him. But really it was just the weight of all that had happened this night: the unlooked-for appearance of Grimalkin; the long, harrowing chase by moonlight; the confusion of his clumsy attack – which had by some miracle ended with Grimalkin, a master swordsman, lying unconscious at his feet. Or was the villain shamming?
    Quare took a step towards the man, then halted at another wave of dizziness. His hands were trembling; he felt an incongruous urge to laugh. Perhaps he would have – if a sudden burning sensation in the vicinity of his thigh had not directed his eyes downward to torn fabric and a spreading stain. His legs gave way, and he sprawled on the roof alongside Grimalkin – who, he was now certain, was truly unconscious.
    Dropping his rapier – though his other hand maintained its hold on the clock – Quare examined his leg as best he could by the light of the moon. The wound did not seem deep: just a long and bloody gash along the outside of his thigh. It burned like hell, though. Recalling how quickly Grimalkin had turned to meet him, he felt almost sick with a visceral understanding of how lucky he had been: a fraction of an inch to one side, and the odd-looking weapon of his grey-cloaked adversary would have punched into his thigh; a fraction higher, and the same move that had ended the fight would instead have impaled him on Grimalkin’s blade.
    Wounded as he was, he would be even less of a match for the man now. He had to get away before Grimalkin regained consciousness. Or, no … Quare drew a deep breath and mastered his emotions. He knew his duty and would not shirk it, however unpleasant.
    Quare shifted his legs beneath him – grimacing as the movement aggravated his wound – and pushed himself to his knees. Grimalkin had fallen onto his back and lay as if peacefully sleeping, one arm flung over his head, the other draped across his chest. All that Quare could see of the man’s face between his grey hood and mask were his eyes, and even they were closed. He drew his dagger, then hesitated.
    What was he doing? He was about to murder a man who was at his mercy. Surely what was wanted now was questioning, not killing. Here was an opportunity to learn not only Grimalkin’s identity but that of his masters.
    Setting down the clock, Quare used his dagger to cut lengths from the coiled rope he carried, then bound Grimalkin’s wrists and ankles. All the while, Grimalkin lay motionless, though his light eyelashes fluttered and a faint moan