The panting serfman heaved and boosted. "Hurry! Hurry—!"
A final surge. Momentarily, Craig sagged on his belly on the sill.
The serf tugged up the hanging legs and swung them through the opening.
From behind Craig came a crash of splintering timbers, a ring of curses. He threw a dazed glance back.
Someone—the serf, perhaps?—had slammed shut a heavy door between this rear room and the wineshop proper.
Now its bolt tore loose. The door burst inward. One of Zenaor's men clawed past it, whipping up a weapon that might have been a pistol.
The old serf threw himself upon the guardsman.
Green fire blazed. The serf fell back.
Craig dropped from the window-sill into an alley. The haze of pain was clearing now. He could run again, though his right arm still trailed useless at his side.