"She knows," hissed Ajatasutra.
Balban blinked his eyes.
"What?"
"She knows," repeated the assassin.
Balban frowned.
"Why do you say that? I saw no indication that she had any suspicions at all."
He made a little gesture at Ajatasutra.
"And-just now-she walked right by you with hardly any notice."
"That's the point," retorted the assassin. "That woman is not stupid, Balban. She knows exactly who I am. What I am. Every other time I've been in her company she always kept a close eye on me. It was a subtle thing, but-" Frustrated, he groped for words. "I'm telling you-she knows."
Balban hesitated. He turned his head, looking at the door. For a moment, it almost seemed as if he would reopen it. But the moment passed, quickly. Then, when Ajatasutra began to approach the door himself, Balban stayed him with a hand.
The spymaster shook his head.
"I think you're imagining things, Ajatasutra. But, even if you're not, there's nothing we can do about it."
Balban scowled. "I think Nanda Lal's orders were an overreaction, anyway. The last thing I'm going to do-now, of all times! — is run any risk of exposing our mission."
He began moving down the corridor. With his hand still on Ajatasutra's shoulder, he guided the assassin along with him. "Besides," he added, "what difference does it make, even if she does know? She's just a woman, Ajatasutra-a small woman, at that."
Cheerfully:
"A sheep often knows it's in danger, when the wolfpack begins circling. What good does that do the sheep?"
Ajatasutra shrugged off the hand. He stopped abruptly, forcing Balban to look at him.
"She is not a sheep, Balban," stated the assassin firmly. "She grew up on the streets of Alexandria. The toughest streets in the Roman Empire. Her father was a charioteer-some of the roughest men you'll ever encounter. And her husband is not only a great general but a great swordsman as well. And those thugs you hired are not `wolves.' They're a pack of mangy street curs."
"That's enough!" snapped Balban. "I've made my decision."
He stalked away. Ajatasutra remained alone, standing in the corridor, staring at the door. He stood there, silent and unmoving, for a full minute. Then, smiling thinly, he whispered, "Good luck, wolves. You're going to need it."
Antonina strode up the street in the direction she always took, until she was far enough away from Balban's villa to be out of sight. She had traveled two blocks, by now, and knew that the ambush would be coming very soon.
At the next corner, she turned abruptly to her right and began walking quickly down a narrow side street. Behind her, faintly, she heard footsteps. Several men a block away, by the sound, startled into sudden activity.
She began running.
The street was barely more than an alley. She was unfamiliar with it. But she had noticed-in times past, as she had walked by-that the street was the domicile for a number of the small bakeries and cookshops which provided Constantinople with its daily supply of bread and meat pastries.
She raced by three such shops. Too small. She needed a big one, with a full kitchen.
At the fourth shop, she skidded to a halt. Hesitated. She could smell the thick, rich scent of meat broth.
Maybe.
She heard the footsteps approaching the mouth of the street.
It'll have to do.
She strode through the shop door. The shop was very small-not ten feet square-and completely bare except for a small counter on which were displayed samples of the shop's wares. When she saw that they were meat pastries, Antonina sighed with relief.
A middle-aged woman-the cookshop owner's wife, she assumed-approached Antonina and began uttering some pleasantry. Antonina didn't catch the words.
"Are you cooking meat broth?" she demanded. "For pastries?"
The woman, frowning with puzzlement, began to nod. Antonina grabbed the woman's wrist and dragged her toward the door at the opposite end of the shop. The woman was heavyset, taller than Antonina, and began squawking and struggling vigorously. To absolutely no avail. Antonina was a very strong woman, for her size, and she was filled with implacable determination.
She shouldered the door open and hurled the woman through, following an instant later. Before closing the door, she peeked at the shop entrance. The outer door was still closed. Her pursuers, she thought, hadn't seen her enter the shop.
Good. I've got a little time.
She turned and confronted the woman, who was now spluttering with outrage. The woman's husband was standing next to her, glowering, holding up a metal ladle in a half-threatening gesture.
"Shut up!" snarled Antonina. "There are men just outside your door who are trying to kill me! They'll kill you, too."
The woman's mouth snapped shut. A second later, her mouth reopened. Wailing:
"Get out! Get out!"
The husband stepped forward hesitantly, raising the ladle.
There was a large table against the wall of the kitchen next to the door. Antonina slammed her purse onto the table and emptied its contents. A pile of gold coins spilled out. Along with a small dagger.
The shopkeeper and his wife were, first, transfixed by the sight of the coins. Then, by the sight of the dagger in Antonina's hand.
"You've got a simple choice," hissed Antonina. "You can take the money-call it rent for the use of your kitchen-or you can take the blade. In your fucking guts."
The shopkeeper and his wife ogled her.
Antonina hefted the dagger. The wife's face, as she eyed the razor-sharp blade, paled a bit.
The shopkeeper's face paled quite a bit more.
He was fat and middle-aged, now. But, in his youth, he had led a rather disreputable life. He was not particularly impressed by Antonina's sharp little blade. He was a professional cook. He had several knives which were just as sharp and much bigger.
But he recognized that grip. That light, easy way of holding a blade.
"Shut up, woman!" he snarled to his wife. "Take the money and go upstairs."
His wife frowned at him. The shopkeeper threatened her with the ladle. Antonina stepped away from the table, clearing a space. The shopkeeper's wife scuttled over, glancing at her fearfully. Then, after scooping up the coins, she practically sprinted to a small door in the rear corner of the kitchen. A moment later, Antonina heard her clumping up the stairs which led to the living quarters above.
Her husband began backing his way toward the same door.
"You can't come upstairs," he muttered. "I'm not going to get involved in any of this. Things are crazy right now."
Antonina shook her head.
"Just bar the door and stay upstairs. But, before you go-where do you keep your flour? And your knives?"
The shopkeeper pointed to a cupboard with the ladle.
"Flour's in there. The knives, too."
"Good. Leave me the ladle."
He frowned, glanced at the ladle, shrugged.
"Where do you want it?"
Antonina pointed toward the big kettle on the stove. Hurriedly, the shopkeeper dropped the ladle into the simmering broth and then scampered out of the kitchen.
Antonina stepped to the door which led to the outer room of the shop and pressed her ear against it.
Nothing. They haven't found the shop yet.
She raced to the cupboard and threw its door open. She hesitated, for just an instant, between the flour barrel and the knives hanging on the wall.
The knives first.
She grabbed four of the knives, two in each hand, and carried them over to the workbench next to the stove. Quickly, she gauged their balance. One of them, she decided, was suitable. That one-and her own little dagger-she placed on the edge of the workbench, blades toward her. The other three-much larger blades, one of them a veritable cleaver-she placed next to them, hilts facing out.