repeat itself. He strained to penetrate the darkness. There was a crying moan,
ending in a cough; moments later, a poor imitation of a night bird’s whistle.
Though he was sure someone had just died, Zalbar didn’t twitch a muscle, holding
his position like a hunting cat. Who had died? The assassin? Or the person whose
call had warned him of danger? Even if it were the assassin there might still be
an accomplice lurking nearby.
As if in answer to this last thought a figure detached itself from a darkened
doorway and moved to the centre of the street. It paused, placed hands on hips
and hailed the alley wherein Zalbar had taken refuge.
‘It’s safe now. Hell Hound. We’ve rescued you from your own carelessness.’
Regaining his feet Zalbar sheathed his sword and stepped into the open. Even
before being hailed he had recognized the dark figure. A blue hawk-mask and
cloak could not hide the size or colouring of his rescuer, and if they had, the
Hell Hound would have known the smooth grace of those movements anywhere.
‘What carelessness is that, Jubal?’ he asked, hiding his own annoyance.
‘You have used this route three nights in a row, now,’ the ex-gladiator
announced. ‘That’s all the pattern an assassin needs.’
The Negro crime-lord did not seem surprised or annoyed that his . disguise had
been penetrated. If anything, Jubal gave an impression of being pleased with
himself as he bantered with the Hell Hound.
Zalbar realized that Jubal was right: on duty or off, a predictable pattern was
an invitation for ambush. He was spared the embarrassment of making this