The man was middle-aged, with silver wisps of hair around his temples and none up top. He dressed well, but in the specific shabby-looking finery that rich men wore when they went abroad into the less reputable parts of town. He had a stack of coins in his hands-it seemed for once he’d left the gaming table richer than he’d arrived. The silver spilled from his fingers and rolled across the floor as he stared at Malden.

“Thief,” he whispered, then opened his mouth to shout it.

Malden forestalled him by stabbing his bodkin into the surface of the merchant’s desk. The knife was no longer than Malden’s hand, from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his thumb. It had no edge at all, but only a very sharp point that dug easily into the soft wood of the desk.

It was not a particularly effective or very deadly weapon. But it was good for sending a certain kind of message, one that Doral Knackerson must have received loud and clear. He closed his mouth again without so much as calling for his bodyguard.

“Close the door,” Malden said again, very softly.

Doral did as he was told. Malden had made extensive inquiries regarding Knackerson before he came here, and of all the people he had asked, none described Doral as a fool. Good. That would make this much easier.

“You’ll hang for this, thief. Cut my throat, take my belongings-what will you, but you’ll hang for it. Or you may leave right now, empty-handed, and I’ll say nothing of this intrusion to my close personal friend, the Burgrave.”

Malden smiled. “I’m not here to rob you,” he said. “Not tonight, anyway. In fact, my purpose here is quite the opposite. I happened to be strolling past this fine home tonight when I discovered these,” he said. He glanced to one side.