struck in the throat with her blade.
Still, his body knocked her down, and he fell hard upon her. For a moment, the
breath was knocked out of her. She was helpless, and when another bulk loomed
above her, she knew that she had no chance.
The second man, also robed and hooded, lifted a club to bring it down on her
exposed head.
Writhing, pinned down by the corpse, Masha could do nothing but await the blow.
She thought briefly of little Kheem, and then she saw the man drop the club. And
he was down on his knees, still gripping whatever it was that had closed off his
breath.
A moment later, he was face down in the dry dirt, dead or unconscious.
The man standing over the second attacker was short and broad and also robed and
hooded. He put something in his pocket, probably the cord he’d used to strangle,
her attacker, and he approached her cautiously. His hands seemed to be empty,
however.
‘Masha?’ he said softly.
By then she’d recovered her wind. She wriggled out from under the dead man,
jerked the dagger from the windpipe, and started to get up.
The man said, in a foreign accent, ‘You can put your knife away, my dear. I
didn’t save you just to kill you.’
‘I thank you, stranger,’ she said, ‘but keep your distance anyway.’
Despite the warning, he took two steps towards her. Then she knew who he was. No
one else in Sanctuary stank so of rancid butter.
‘Smhee,’ she said, equally softly.
He chuckled. ‘I know you can’t see my face. So, though it’s against my religious
convictions, I will have to take a bath and quit smearing my body and hair with