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smiled at Frisk, trying to hide his suspicion. He had been taken in before, and by fairer spies than Frisk—Vasilisa Karevna, for instance, from whose lips he had first tasted Russian. Who was to say that this Swede had not authored the entire confrontation, to present himself as an ally? Certainly the Muscovites had given up easily enough.
    “Well, Mr. Frisk,” Ben said, “again, we are in your debt. If there is some way I can compensate you…”
    “I must admit,” Frisk said, “that my decision to aid you was not without some self-interest. As I said, I gathered from your would-be attackers that you were men of no small importance…”
    Robert chuckled. “We are not so important as we think we are,” he joked, glancing meaningfully at Ben. Robert didn’t trust the fellow either. Still, if he was honest, they did owe the man a debt. If he wasn’t, it might be better to have him near, where his movements could be watched, rather than plotting unseen in the deeper labyrinth of Prague.
    “I meant what I said,” Ben asserted. “If there is anything I can do, publish it to me.”
    “Only to mention my name to someone,” Frisk said. “I am looking for employment, for a time. I had the commission of captain in the Swedish army, and I was hoping to find some small position with the emperor’s forces.”
    Ben considered the man for a moment. “That is the least I can do,” he said at last. “Where is your lodging?”
    Frisk smiled wryly. “In New Town. But I shan’t be there long, as my gold credit is done this afternoon.”
    “Very well, Captain Frisk. Meet us across the river here, in the tavern of Saint Thomas this time tomorrow, and I’ll give you what news I can. At the very least I might find lodging for you.”
    Frisk stuck out his hand, but at the same instant there came a hollow boom, A CALCULUS OF ANGELS
    and the Swede grunted and spun drunkenly. Ben had a brief impression of red
    —spattered on the nearby building, a fine spray like powder on his extended coat sleeve.
    “Shit!” Robert snarled, and vanished. Frisk crumpled to one knee.
    A second explosion followed, and Ben understood at last that the Muscovites had not gone far after all, only just so far as to choose another moment to attack. He fumbled for his aegis key, found it, and vanished as well.
    Robert was a faint suggestion of drawn steel, already ghosting toward the enemy. All five men had produced pistols, though two now quickly traded their smoking ones for swords. Angrily, Ben drew out his own smallsword and edged toward the men, wishing he had brought along some more potent weapon.
    He at least had the satisfaction of seeing the dumbfounded confusion at his and Robert’s disappearance, and that in turn gave him confidence. Who did these men think they were attacking, anyway?
    The nearest man, a monstrously large fellow with dirty blond hair and a face like a pig, trained his pistol on the obscured Robert and fired. An instant later he yelped, clutched at the back of his knee, and collapsed to the pavement.
    Taking a deep breath, Ben chose his own target—a second large fellow—and advanced, wondering what it would feel like to pierce flesh. He would do what Robert had done, simply wound the man, he decided. He was not a killer.
    As he hesitantly planned his attack, an unseen sledgehammer struck him in the chest, and the air leaked darkness and constellations into his eyes. He sat down hard on the cold stone and heard, distantly, the metallic laughter of his sword bouncing away. Blinking, his vision cleared enough for him to make out the small, blue-eyed man jogging toward him, looking determined, shoving a pistol in his belt with one hand and drawing a broadsword with the other. Ben groped stupidly for his errant blade, which lay perhaps two yards away, but his limbs felt like lead; and with sudden chagrin he realized that the world no longer had a rainbow frame. His aegis was no longer functioning.
    He scrambled back, trying