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

The point of Pygott's blade was so close that it nicked Marlowe's eyelid when he blinked. Still, Marlowe was smiling.

"What have you got to smile about, cobbler-son? I'm about to stick this knife in your eye!"

Marlowe flicked his own dagger and Pygott flinched, feeling a sharp pain under his codpiece.

"That's why I'm smiling," Marlowe explained amiably.

The full measure of his predicament settled slowly over Pygott's face as he realized exactly where Marlowe's blade was resting. Pygott tried very hard not to move.

"I could live quite cheerfully with an eye patch," Marlowe went on, still smiling. "It would make me dashing. But what's your life going to be without this?"

To emphasize his point, Marlowe pressed his blade slightly forward and drew a single drop of blood from the larger man's flesh.

Pygott tossed his dagger away instantly, eyes wide, lower lip trembling. His pale green tunic began to show signs of sweat.

"Now apologize," Marlowe insisted.

Pygott swallowed and began in a weak vapor of a voice, "I am heartily sorry, Mr. Marlowe, for calling you a contemptuous base-born callet and a—"

"Not to me, you idiot," Marlowe said. "Get off me and apologize to my friend before I lose all my patience."

Pygott lumbered to one side, careful not to lose his balance and fall onto Marlowe's knife. He managed to stumble to a standing posture.

Marlowe leapt up. His blade stood out in the slant of late-afternoon sunlight. Pygott stared at it and began his speech.

"I—I am heartily sorry, Dr. Lopez," he stammered, "for calling you a Jew bastard, and for insulting your island and the entire Portuguese race."

Marlowe looked at Lopez.

"There's a Cambridge education for you," he said, shaking his head, "an equal ignorance of everything. You'll go far, Pygott. You're headed for Parliament; anyone can see that."

"Parliament?" Pygott gaped, not moving.

"Codpieces are going out of fashion, by the way," Marlowe continued. "They're ridiculous."

"Let him go, Marlowe," Dr. Lopez said softly.

"The college is pretty this time of day," Marlowe said absently. "Especially when the weather's soft like this."

Pygott stayed, uncertain what to do. His lip began to tremble more violently, and blood was beginning to spot the unfashionable bit of haberdashery.

"Please, young man," Dr. Lopez encouraged Pygott, "take your leave."

"Yes," Marlowe concurred. "Be gone. But avoid the church. There is no sin but ignorance and you, I fear, will surely burn there."

Without a word, Pygott wandered off, slightly dazed, in the direction of the church.

"That wasn't necessary," Lopez chided.

"He insulted you," Marlowe disagreed, "and he jumped on me. It was quite necessary."

"You draw too much attention to yourself," Lopez went on. "That dagger you wear, its filigreed hilt is too elaborate."

"It was a gift from my father," Marlowe protested, "and it serves a purpose."

"It attracts too many eyes! You've only been at Cambridge since January and everyone on the campus knows your name."

"I do it on purpose," Marlowe said, grinning. "It's my theatrical nature."

"The last thing a man in this world wants to be is unusual," Lopez said. "And you, my friend, are unique."

"I'm late for my last session," Marlowe said. "Will you walk with me?"

Lopez pulled his red cloak around his neck. His long black hair seemed to be cut from midnight, out of place in the daytime.

"You give your thoughts too much tongue," Lopez began as they walked in the direction of Old Court. "You give every man your voice when you should lend your ear."

"You came here to tell me that I talk too much?" Marlowe threw his arm around Lopez.

"You've drawn too much attention to yourself," Lopez said in a very confidential voice. "The way you dress, for example."

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.