Excerpt from A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip DePoy, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"No."

They rode in silence for a distance.

* * *

In Cambridge, Walter Pygott was peeing on roses in the graveyard near the great tower of St. Benet's when he heard a noise behind him. Thinking it was one of the priests come to scold him, he tied his codpiece loosely and spun around.

"I wasn't doing anything," he began.

But he froze; fell silent when he saw the knife so close to his heart.

"You're a bastard idiot," the whispered voice told him, "with pudding for a dick and maggots in your brain."

"I—I—do I know you?" Pygott stammered. "I expect you're one of the little weasels I put to the ground here lately, thinking to get revenge while I'm indisposed. Look. Let's have an understanding. The rules of this place is: I'm on top."

"Not today. Not anymore. Not ever again."

"All right," Pygott said, smiling.

With that he drew out his rapier and thrust it forward, directly at his attacker's heart. It missed because the attacker moved to one side and slashed Pygott's sword arm. The cut was deep and Pygott howled.

Turning in a circle, a dance move, the attacker was suddenly behind Pygott, and slashed the back of the idiot boy's thigh—slashed it to the bone. Pygott went to his knees.

"Wait!" he cried. "Wait! You're not doing this right!"

The attacker turned again, a blur, a gray shadow, and kicked Pygott in the head with the hard heel of a boot.

Pygott grunted and fell flat on his back. Blood soiled his buttered hair.

"No," Pygott managed to say, but his voice was a dream, a distant memory. "You're not a student here."

Pygott reached up and grabbed his assailant's coat, but his hand was met with the blade, and blood dribbled down Pygott's arm.

The assailant stooped then, hovering over Pygott like a carnivorous animal.

"Your useless life is over now," came the whispered taunt. "Despised by everyone, a traitor to your country, who will mourn your passing?"

With that the dagger plunged into Pygott's heart. Blood gushed from the wound. Pygott's killer stood, rolled the body over with the heel of a boot, and was gone.

* * *

The Queen's coach was out of town and into the countryside before Marlowe spoke again.

"Can you tell me, at least, if I'm in some sort of trouble?" Marlowe leaned forward. "Should I try to leap out of this carriage before we get too far?"

"Don't jump, you'd only hurt yourself," Lopez said, "and I'd recapture you."

Marlowe looked into his friend's eyes.

"Have you captured me now, Rodrigo?" Marlowe's voice could barely be heard.

"I am required to bring you to London," Lopez answered without blinking, "whether you will or no."

Marlowe nodded amiably, but surreptitiously reached for his dagger.

Without warning, Marlowe found a rapier point tickling him just underneath his jaw. Lopez wore a cold mask of indifference, and held his rapier with a casual disdain. He seemed calm, but there was menace in the way his chin jutted forward.

"This is unexpected," Marlowe drawled easily.

"I have survived the destruction of my home," Lopez whispered violently, "the brutalization of my family, and the torture of the Inquisition. You think you always win, Chris, but you would not prevail against me. Let's be clear."

"You saved my father's life," Marlowe said, not moving, "and for that I am in your debt. Have I been mistaken in our friendship?"

Lopez sighed and closed his eyes.

"You have not," he said. "I have not slept in several days, and the urgency that compels me to fetch you so unceremoniously to London is … not inconsequential."

"You're not yourself," Marlowe went on. "I can see that, but would you mind very much taking your rapier from my throat? It's making me uncomfortable."

Excerpted from A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip DePoy. Copyright © 2016 by Phillip DePoy. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.