The arrow smashed the windowpane and flicked across the room to dent the plaster. Nigel Loring winced slightly at how narrowly it had missed a painting by Nebot; his wife was already unfastening the message.

" 'Stand clear and pick up the string from the next,' " she read. "But dear, we can't climb down even if they do have a rope attached. The bars: "

Whhhptt.

The first shot hit the bars and bounced back. The second landed in the room trailing a thin cord, and Maude Loring began to haul it in hand over hand, a pile of it growing at her feet.

"Sir Nigel!" a voice called from the hall outside their suite. "Please to open the door, immediately!"

He didn't bother to reply. Seconds later the first ax hit the outside door of their suite.

"Keep going!" he barked to his wife, and went to stand beside the doorway.

Through the piled furniture he could see the panels begin to splinter; a two-handed war ax made short work of anything not built to military specifications. The dry splintery scent of old wood filled the air, followed by the glug-glug-glug sound of Icelandic-in this case panting curses between grunts of effort. Loring flipped the knife down into his hand and into a thumb-on-pommel grip-good for a short-range stab-then risked a glance over his shoulder.

The heavy rope had come up at the end of Maude's cord-two of them, in fact, both woven-wire cable. One was the top of a Jacob's ladder, and she was a little red-faced with effort before she clipped that to the bar nearest the left side of the window. The other had a ring clip swagged onto the end. She fastened it to the center bar, made sure that the thin cord that prevented it from falling back was still tied to a chair, and stepped back.

"Encourage them to hurry, my dear," he called, and turned back to his own task-making sure the Varangians didn't break through too soon.