As he spoke, they emerged from the crawl-space into a small courtyard.

'We're here,' Mungo announced, coming to a halt in the centre of the yard.

'Where?' Jubal growled standing beside him. 'There are no doors or windows in these walls. Unless he is hiding in one of those refuse heaps ...'

He broke off his commentary as the details of their surroundings sank into his mind. No doors or windows! The only other way out of the courtyard was another crawl-space as small as that they had just traversed ... except that it was blocked by a pile of wooden cartons. They were in a cul-de-sac!

A sudden crash sounded behind them, and Jubal spun to face it, his hand going reflexively to his sword. Several wooden boxes had fallen from the roof of one of the buildings, blocking the entrance.

'It's a trap!' he hissed, backing towards a corner, his eyes scanning the rooftops.

There was a sudden impact on his back. He staggered slightly, then lashed backwards with his sword, swinging blind. His blade encountered naught but air, and he turned to face his attacker.

Mungo danced lightly just out of sword range, his eyes bright with triumph and glee.

'Mungo?' Jubal asked, knowing the answer.

He had been wounded often enough to recognize the growing numbness in his upper back. A rasp of pain as he shifted his stance told the rest of the story. The boy had planted his dagger in Jubal's back, and there it remained. In his mind's eye, Jubal could see it protruding from his shoulder at an unnatural angle.

'I told you we were close,' Mungo taunted. 'Maybe the big folk are afraid of you, but we aren't. You shouldn't have ordered Gambi's death.'

'Gambi?' Jubal frowned, weaving slightly. 'Who is Gambi?'

For a moment, the boy froze in astonishment. Then his face contorted with rage and he spat.

'He was found this morning with his throat cut and a copper coin in his mouth. Your trademark! Don't you even know who you kill?'

The blind! Jubal cursed himself for not listening closer to Sali-man's reports.

'Gambi never sold you any information,' Mungo shouted. 'He hated you for what your men did to his mother. You had no right to kill him as a false informer.'

'And Hakiem?' Jubal asked, stalling for time.

'We guessed right about that, didn't we - about Hakiem being one of your informers?' the boy crowed. 'He's on the big wharf sleeping off a drunk. We pooled our money for the silver coin that drew you out from behind your guards.'

For some reason, this last taunt stung Jubal more than had the dagger thrust. He drew himself erect, ignoring the warm liquid dripping down his back from the knife wound, and glared down at the boy.

'I need no guard against the likes of you!' he boomed. 'You think you know killing? A street-rat who stabs overhand with a knife? The next time you try to kill a man - if there is another time - thrust underhand. Go between the ribs, not through them! And bring friends - one of you isn't enough to kill a real man.'

'I brought friends!' Mungo laughed, pointing. 'Do you think they'll be enough?'

Jubal risked a glance over his shoulder. The gutter-rats of Sanctuary were descending on the courtyard. Scores of them! Scrabbling over the wooden cases or swarming down from the roofs like spiders. Children in rags - none of them even half Jubal's height, but with knives, rocks, and sharp sticks.

Another man might have broken before those hate-filled eyes. He might have tried to beg or bribe his way out of the trap, claiming ignorance of Gambi's murder. But this was Jubal, and his eyes were as cold as his sword as he faced his tormentors.

'You claim you're doing this to avenge one death,' he sneered. 'How many will die trying to pull me down?'

'You feel free to kill us one at a time, for no reason,' Mungo retorted, circling wide to join the pack. 'If some of us die killing you, then at least the rest will be safe.'

'Only if you kill me,' Jubal corrected. Without taking his eyes from the pack, he reached his left hand over his right shoulder, found the knife hilt, and wrenched it free. 'And for that, you'll need your knife back!'

Mungo saw the knife coming as Jubal whipped his left hand down and across his body, but he froze for a split second. In that split second, the knife took him full in the throat. The world blurred and he went down, not feeling the fall.

The pack surged forward, and Jubal went to meet them, his sword flashing in the sun as he desperately tried to win his way to the exit.

A few fell before his first rush - he didn't know how many -but the rest scattered and closed about him from all sides. Sticks jabbed at his face faster than he could parry them, and he felt the touch of knives as small forms darted from behind him to slash and duck away.

Realization came to him that the harassment would bring him down before he could clear the wooden cases; abandoning his charge, he paused, whirling and cutting, trying to clear a space around him. The urchins were sharp-toothed, elusive phantoms, disappearing from in front of him to worry him from behind. It flashed through his mind that he was going to die! The survivor of countless gladiator duels was going to meet his end at the hands of angry children!

The thought drove him to desperate action. With one last powerful cut, he broke off his efforts at defence and tried to sprint for the wall to get something solid at his back. A small girl grabbed his ankle and clung with all her strength. He stumbled, nearly falling, and cut downwards viciously without looking. His leg came free, but another urchin leapt on to his back. hammering at his head with a rock.

Jubal lurched sideways, scraping the child off along the wall, then turned to face the pack. A stick pierced his mask, opening a gash in his forehead which began to drip blood in his eyes. Temporarily blinded, he laid about him wildly with his sword, sometimes striking something solid, sometimes encountering air. A rock caromed off his head, but he was past feeling and continued his sightless, mindless slashing.

Slowly it crept into his fogged brain that there was a new note in the children's screams. At the same time, he realized that his sword had not struck a target for ten or fifteen swings now. Shaking his head to clear it, he focused anew on the scene before him.

The courtyard was littered with small bodies, their blood a bright contrast to their drab rags. The rest of the pack was in full flight, pursued over the rubble piles by ...

Jubal sagged against the wall, fighting for breath and numb from wounds too numerous to count. He watched as his rescuer strode to his side, sheathing a sword wet with fresh blood.

'Your ... your name?' he gasped.

'Zaibar,' the uniformed figure panted in return. 'Bodyguard to His Royal Highness, Prince Kadakithis. Your wounds ... are they...?'

'I've survived worse.' Jubal shrugged, wincing at the pain the movement caused.

'Very well.' the man nodded. 'Then I shall be on my way.'

'A moment,' Jubal asked, holding up a restraining hand. 'You have saved my life ... a life I value quite highly. I owe you thanks and more, for you can't spend words. Name your reward.'

'That is not necessary,' Zaibar sniffed. 'It is my duty.'

'Duty or not,' Jubal argued, 'I know no other guardsman who would enter the Maze, much less risk his life to save... Did you say a royal bodyguard: Are you...'

'A Hell Hound,' Zaibar finished with a grim smile. 'Yes, I am. And I promise you, the day is not far off when we will not be the only guardsmen in the Maze.'

He turned to go, but Jubal stopped him again, removing the hawk-mask to mop the blood from his eyes.