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was to question. At the same time, he often surveyed the star charts before an important operation, believing that a retrograde Saturn or unlucky moon could slow a patient’s recovery.
    When men at a nearby tavern table rattled a dice cup and called out, “Who’ll share a wager?” my master gave me a pained smile and shook his head.
    â€œWe are new men, now, aren’t we, Tom?”
    When we agreed that we could eat no more—and not, with any wisdom, drink any more beer—we stepped out into the street. It was dark, except for a few pitch lamps, and we made our way down toward the harbor.
    â€œThe mermaid said my name that morning,” said my master, continuing his tale much later, now that we were free of the tavern’s din. This part of the story had great meaning for him, and he did not like to speak of it lightly. “She spoke my Christian name. William . Very clearly pronounced.”
    â€œIt was a powerful omen,” I said, as I always did.
    Usually, the story having been told, my master entered into a happy discourse on such omens, and praised astrologers at the expense of mere magicians—men and women who read the future with the help of the mottles on a sheep’s liver. Astrologers read the stars, and were quite respectable—every royal court had at least one.
    But this night my master did not expand on the stars and their mysterious powers. He took my arm and said, “Listen!”
    As we entered the domain of cats—the entire parish having an acrid, feline scent to it—we heard the grunt and gasping of a fight, booted feet striking a body.
    A familiar voice cried out for help.

Chapter 16
    My master strode forward, calling out, “Enough work for one night, gentlemen rufflers—leave off.”
    A ruffler was a vagabond, a humorous, wryly mocking term. My master approached four figures. Two of the men were armed with clubs—knobby, ugly lengths of wood—and two more looked on. They were jeering, plumed fellows, rapiers at their hips.
    The squirming, injured figure at their feet stirred, gasping for breath. He looked up at us in the dim light.
    At once I put my hand to my hilt.
    The victim of these brutes was none other than my friend Jack Flagg. Red blood flowed hard from a gash in his nose, and Jack’s eyes met mine. He parted his lips to beg our help—or to warn us away.
    The street-brawlers drew their rapiers, each with a flourish I had to admire. I regretted in that instant that fencing tutors, and zeal for the art of swordplay, were common throughout our kingdom. Every ale house had its one-eyed sword master, wise in the ways of cold steel, and happy to impart ability to any student with a purse.
    My master had his sword in hand, and he made a good show of knowing how the thing should be held. But the bone saw and the chopper were my master’s true weapons, and he could no more cut a true circle in the air with his weapon than take wing across the star-splashed sky.
    My master certainly looked capable, however. There in the darkness, the puddles gilded with the light from pitch lamps and candles, William engaged the attention of the shorter and slighter of the two swordsman, while I took my fighting stance against a tall, heavily built man with high boots.
    Teachers are common enough—but good teachers are treasures. Giacomo di Angelo had told me that if I followed his lessons, drilled into me by months of sweat, I need fear no man.
    My opponent was evidently used to the cut-and-thrust school of sword-work, dashing my blade aside, lunging for my upper thighs and groin, where even an inaccurate attack could be painful and crippling. This brutal attack surprised me—before now all my supposed enemies had been fellow students, careful to avoid causing injury.
    If you would strike fast, my teacher used to tell me, you must strike straight. I thrust at my opponent’s right knee, desperate to disable him, but he