Silent as any spectre, he drew back against the building behind him ... slid left along it till he was lost in the pitch-black angle where the next shop joined it.
The shuffling feet drew nearer. Craig caught the hiss of whispering voices. Shapes took form—the shapes of men stalking stealthily, skulking in the shadows.
Warily, Craig edged forward a fraction and peered along the front of the shop to his left.
But here, too, shapes were emerging from the murk. A stray blue beam glinted on what might have been a weapon.
Craig slid back into his angle.
The two groups met in mid-street, scant yards out from him. There was a buzz of whispered consultation. Then, silently, both groups drew back. The men spread out, ranging themselves along the wall on his side of the street.
Craig held his breath.
But already one figure was shuffling towards him, slouching against the wall bare inches from his shoulder. "A curse on the Baemae and their plots!" the intruder muttered. "Night's a time for wine and wenches, not for raiding."
Craig grunted wordless affirmation.
The stranger turned, peered at him. "Who are you, friend? Which company?" And then, in sudden shock: "You! You're not—"