They jostled him, heaving him from the room, then strained to pull him down the stairs and outside onto the rough slate street.

As soon as he felt the sun on his face, he heard a woman gasp; an older man said, "Mare de Déu," but Court knew better than to expect anything from the people here other than a sharp turning of their heads and the ushering of children inside. Their fear of Pascal was ingrained. Court could be butchered in the town square and no one would lift a finger. Actually, that was a close estimation to what he knew was about to happen.

Yet he didn't feel as though that was the direction they were moving in. He heard the din of rushing water, realized they were traveling to the river beside the village, and futilely turned his head toward the sound. "No execution in the town center?" he rasped. "Careful that I doona feel slighted."

"We are being more circumspect with our…activities," said the one on his left.

"Too late. Pascal's already angered Spain." He bit out the words with conviction, but in truth it was little more than a hope.

"And we will be ready," the other replied, just before they slammed him up against what had to be a bridge railing. And Court couldn't fight because he couldn't see.

The water was directly below them, pounding furiously over a drop-off. The Riu Valira was always an angry torrent after rains to the north. He struggled to remember how high this bridge was. Would the Valira be deep enough?…

He heard a knife being unsheathed. What choice did he have?

"If you do this now," Court said in a low, deadly tone, "my men and my kin will descend on you. They live for killing." And kill for a living.

Court knew he couldn't talk them out of planting that knife. These weren't merely two among the general's army—these were assassins, part of the Orden de los Rechazados, Order of the Disavowed. Court just wanted time to get his bearings. A second stalled was possibility…