Daoud scaled the disk at the candle that rested in the sconce at the door to the pantry. It sliced through the candle's tip, just below the wick. The flame went out, plunging the cellar into total darkness. The disk rang against the stone wall, then clanged to the floor. Daoud's trained hearing registered the place where it fell. The Armenian's bolt whistled past him and hit the wall with a sharp crack.
Voices from inside the spice pantry shouted questions. That must be the two Armenians who had first gone in there with the Tartars. The man outside answered, and Daoud could hear fear in his voice. De Gobignon would not want to open the door to help the Armenian, for fear of endangering the Tartars.
Somehow, he had to be made to open the door.
Daoud stood still, listening to the guard's rapid, heavy breathing, the scraping of his boot soles on the stone floor.
After a moment he tiptoed to the side of the chamber, retrieved his disk, and dropped it into its pouch in his tunic.
Silently picking up the water bucket in front of the wine barrel rack, he drifted closer to the guard, thinking of smoke, as the Hashishiyya had taught him, to make himself move even more quietly.
He heard the Armenian sling his bow over his shoulder, and the slithering of his sword coming out of his scabbard.
Daoud set the water down and crept close to the guard, utterly silent, listening for the many small noises that would tell him where the man was and how he was standing—breathing, swallowing and the licking of lips, the creak of leather armor, the rustle of cloth, the clink of steel. Slowly and very carefully Daoud reached out toward the guard's throat, then with a sudden movement seized it, his thumb and fingers gripping like a falcon's talons.
His action had the desired effect. The Armenian screamed, forcing air through his constricted throat again and again.
He tried to slash at Daoud's arm but missed.