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.

Pulling the hood of his appropriated robe up over his head, he walked with the sword-cane hidden behind him and his head down directly toward the Guardian. The man, a young, slender Venetian with a face still in the process of maturing, said, "You're ten minutes early, but I could use the relief."

Rule threw a punch to his solar plexus and then, as the Guardian doubled over, chopped down on the exposed back of his neck with the edge of his hand. Rule caught the Guardian as he slumped into unconsciousness and dragged him further down the hallway into a corner, where he piled him into the shadows.

Returning to the closed door, he put his ear to it. He could hear a voice he recognized as Zorzi's and someone else replying, but the second voice was too far away for him to be certain it was Bravo's.

He breathed deeply and slowly, his fingers tightened on the hilt of the sword-cane. His other hand gripped the doorknob, turning it slowly to the left. He was opening the door slowly and silently when he felt a tiny flicker of pain in the side of his neck. He started, turning instinctively, his senses already swimming as if he were drunk, and saw a face leering at him like a Carnevale mask.

Struggling through the chemical fog of the drug, he understood what had happened, and he pulled out the tiny dart that had embedded itself in his neck.