Rochefort

The last thing Rochefort remembered...was the mocking glint in that insolent man's eyes, his own belated parry, and the burning shame as his opponent's blade deftly knocked the sword from his hand. Shame. Not just defeat - humiliation. And then - a step into the void, the wind whistling in his ears, the impact against the stone ledges of the roof and the rapid fall down into the darkness.

He should have been dead. But death must have deemed him unworthy. The cold floor beneath his back. A sharp pain in his side, as if someone had driven a hot nail between his ribs. His head buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Rochefort groaned, trying to inhale deeply, and immediately coughed, the taste of blood and dust in his throat.

Damn it.

He opened his eyes. The cracked wooden beams above his head. Thin rays of light shining through the cracks in the shutters. Water dripped somewhere, measuredly, as if counting down the seconds to something inevitable.

This house was unfamiliar to him. Rochefort rose slowly, clenching his teeth. Every movement was painful, but he was accustomed to enduring far crueler blows from fate. A step. Another step. The floor creaked under his boots, giving him away.

Where's my sword?

The belt was empty. No blade, no dagger-not even the folding knife he always carried in his sleeve.

So I've been searched.

That was more alarming than the unfamiliar room itself. Someone had deliberately left him alive. And now that "someone" was undoubtedly watching.

• Well? Rochefort said hoarsely, looking round. Since you have taken the trouble to keep me alive, is it not time for me to introduce myself?