Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Lunging forward on one flexed leg, he deliberately exposed himself to the Guardian with the scar. Grinning fiercely, the Guardian swung his fighter with an evil whistling sound. Rule ducked, felt the blade whir past the crown of his head and embed itself in the trunk of the tree. He came up, leading with his left shoulder, his elbow cocked. But the Scar had anticipated him, had let go of the Byzantine fighter and slammed his fists into the side of Rule's head.

Rule staggered back, felt rather than saw the approach of the Guardian with the gray eyes. He grabbed a handful of Gray Eyes's garment and swung him around. White Scar had by this time wrenched his fighter free and now was swinging it in a swift, shallow arc toward Rule. The crescent blade buried itself in Gray Eyes's chest, and immediately Rule shoved him away, came after White Scar in a direct attack.

White Scar's eyes opened wide with the shock of wounding his own compatriot. That was all the time Rule needed. He stabbed outward, driving the blade of his sword-cane in from an extreme low angle. Scar coughed once, and blood bubbled out of his mouth. He looked down in astonishment and fell to his knees, his hands cupping his abdomen. He had forgotten all about Rule, who took the opportunity to kick him hard in the side of the head. The Guardian toppled over, unconscious.

Without a backward glance, Rule left them, entering the darkness of the monastery, unseen and unheard, like a wraith.

"He's coming," Alvise said.

"Well, now," Paolo Zorzi said, "events have taken on an entirely new shape, haven't they?"

"Three dead, two wounded."

"He'll pay for each outrage," Zorzi growled, "as well as for the rest."

The two men were striding down the hall from the refectory. Alvise, a Guardian with a firm hand and short legs, was hard-pressed to keep up with the long strides of his master.

"It is essential that we keep Braverman Shaw isolated in the refectory," Zorzi said, "now more than ever."

Alvise nodded and spoke briefly into his cell phone. "Done," he said.

"Now we must prepare for Signore Rule's unscheduled arrival."

"This will be a pleasure," Alvise said, but he fell abruptly silent as Zorzi took his arm and swung him around.

"If you underestimate this man, even for an instant, he will kill you."

Alvise, his face drawn and serious, said, "I will kill him before he has the chance."

Paolo Zorzi's mouth opened in a silent laugh.

Something had happened in the last thirty seconds, of this Bravo was certain. Anzolo had received a call on his cell phone, and his eyes had betrayed him. They had cut to Bravo and then had moved quickly, almost furtively away as he turned his back on the refectory. Bravo knew the call concerned him, that Anzolo was getting instructions-probably from Zorzi himself. It seemed clear that Zorzi had no intention of returning with the cipher texts-or possibly returning at all. During the meal he had made his last pitch to Bravo, trying the soft route of insinuating himself into the deciphering process, in order to discover where Dexter Shaw meant to send his son next. This ploy having failed, he had obviously decided to move on to the hard route. Bravo could only imagine what horrors that might entail. He had told Camille that this wasn't a game, that the Knights were out for blood-his blood.

The moment he stood up, Anzolo whirled around, a stiff smile stitched to his face. "Please sit down."

"I'd like to talk to Signore Zorzi."

"I'm sorry, Signore Zorzi is otherwise engaged."

When Bravo made no move, Anzolo took a step into the room. "Please sit down." His face hardened. "Your espresso is getting cold."

"I've had my fill of espresso."

Bravo was careful to keep an edge out of his voice. Nevertheless, Anzolo took another step into the refectory.

"I really must insist."

"All right." Bravo smiled easily as he took his chair, lounging slightly forward. He changed the tone of his voice. "Would you like a cup? There's plenty left."

"Thank you, no."

But the tension had gone out of Anzolo's body, which was Bravo's objective. He swung another chair around, leaning on it with his forearms. It seemed darker in the room now, the golden discs thrown off by the candlelight somehow smaller and dimmer. And then one candle guttered and went out, and it was darker still.

"Anzolo-you don't hear that name much."

"Oh, but you do in Venice, signore, it's our dialect."

"Really? What is the Italian equivalent?"

Anzolo's brow wrinkled in thought, then his face brightened. "Ah, yes, Angelo."

Bravo threw the chair sideways so quickly and so hard that Anzolo was taken completely by surprise. It struck him in the face, and he fell in a kind of swoon. Blood was spattered in a fanlike arc across the slats of the chair back.

Bravo was up and on him in an instant, but Anzolo was only lying there, regaining his equilibrium, and when he felt Bravo grip him, he jackknifed his torso. His knee went straight into Bravo's solar plexus, and Bravo doubled over as all the air was driven out of him.

Anzolo drove a fist into Bravo's side. "Don't fight me," he said.

Ignoring him, Bravo lashed out, connecting with Anzolo's rib cage, but he had no leverage, and Anzolo brought his weight to bear.

"I warned you."

He jammed his forearm against Bravo's throat.

IN a defensive half crouch, Anthony Rule crept through the monastery corridors. He had encountered no one and nothing, which was both puzzling and somewhat alarming. He had expected to come across at least a couple of Guardians.

Up ahead he saw a door on his left that was partially open. Approaching it with caution, he contrived to peer inside. A man was hunched over a table on which several thick books were open. He was paging through one. Then he turned to search through another stack of volumes, and Rule caught a glimpse of the side of his face. It was Paolo Zorzi. The muscles of Zorzi's broad back and shoulders bunched and rippled as he stretched and torqued his torso, as if he were a lion or panther. Rule thought about Zorzi's deep and abiding hostility toward him and knew it stemmed from his friendship with Dexter. The nature of jealousy, he considered, momentarily caught by the thought, was to be like a serpent, slithering this way and that through the thicket of other, more obvious emotions. But it colored everything, even the intentions of the most clear-eyed people.

Rule smiled, his lips a thin, cruel line. This was all too easy-no Guardians and now Zorzi presenting himself through a partially open door, his back turned, a perfect target. Rule could smell a trap even from this distance, and so he moved on, past the bait meant to tempt him. He wanted Zorzi, of course, but he had come for Bravo, and he wasn't going to leave without him. He held no illusions as to how dangerous it was for Bravo to be with Zorzi. It was Zorzi, he suspected, who had tried to undermine his relationship with Dexter Shaw, and now that Zorzi had Bravo he imagined the same thing happening all over again-Zorzi would try to poison Bravo against him.

The room Zorzi was in was windowless, a place where logic said they would be holding Bravo. Also, he could see that the texts were on ciphers and decoding-Bravo would be working on the cipher Dexter had left for him here in Venice. Chances were, then, that Bravo was inside the room, somewhere where Rule couldn't see him. In any case, Rule knew that he couldn't afford to ignore the possibility. That meant he needed to gain entrance to the room by means other than the invitingly open door.

He stole past and soon came to a left-hand branch that, he calculated, would bring him along the right-facing wall of the loom. Risking a peek around the corner, he saw a Guardian standing beside a closed door that could only lead into the room.