of God!" he whispered. He recognized the darkened, distorted
face.

Sordello.

All around Simon the Venetians were edging closer to the Armenians,
their daggers gleaming in the candlelight. But none of the foot soldiers
wanted to be the first to brave those sabers.

That meant, Simon thought, heart pounding, that he would have to face
them.

_Where the devil are my knights?_

Looking to the right and left Simon saw Alain, Henri de Puys, and the
four others, swords out but--like himself--unarmored, standing
irresolutely between the Venetians and the Armenians. Against one wall
he saw a huddle of women, their bare bosoms gleaming in the dim light.
Standing protectively in front of the women was a man Simon recognized
as the innkeeper. For the price Simon was paying, why could not this man
keep order in his own house?

"Aha, now we have the stinking figlii di cagne!" a man behind Simon
cried. Simon turned and saw a crossbow leveled at shoulder height. He
had ordered that the Venetians' weapons be kept under lock and key.
Evidently someone had broken them out. Once the rest of the Venetians
armed themselves with their bows, the Armenians would be slaughtered.

Simon's body grew hot with anger. He would like to kill the fool who
helped the Venetians to their arms.

But the Armenians had their bows, too, and one by one they started to
unsling them. Simon heard the ominous squeaking as the Venetians wound
back their crossbow strings. The Armenians would never be able to get
their arrows nocked and their bows drawn before the crossbow bolts began
to fly.

Simon's actions followed instantly on his thoughts. "Cessi!" he shouted,
hoping the Venetians would understand him.

Now all eyes were turned toward him. The muscles of his belly tightened
as he cast about in his mind for the right thing to do.

The hands of the Venetians hesitated on their crossbows as they
recognized their master.

"De Pirenne, de Puys, the rest of you. Make our men put down their
crossbows."

But just as Simon spoke, the Armenian strangling Sordello gave another
turn to his bow, and the old bravo gagged and gasped.

Simon realized that if he drew his scimitar, the room would be a charnel
house in moments. He approached the Armenian nearest him, spreading his
hands to show their emptiness. He prayed that the man, whose bow and
arrow was aimed at his chest, would not see how those outstretched hands
were trembling.

In his strongest voice