A man had come forward, a bold man who seemed unafraid of the place where Ebenezer’s guards brought him. The man glanced at the brazier, at the stained table with the shackles nailed to its thick surface, and at the instruments hung neatly on the walls. He looked back at Ebenezer.

“Mr. Slythe?”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Mason, sir. John Mason.”

“And you want two hundred pounds, Mason?” Ebenezer was dressed in a long, fur-edged, black cloak. These cellars were always cold unless work was in progress.

“No, sir.” Mason spoke in the short, cocky tones of a soldier. He was dressed as a soldier, though Ebenezer’s men had taken his sword.

“You don’t?” Ebenezer hid his surprise, making the question seem menacing.

“My colonel does, sir. He sent me.”

Ebenezer frowned. He was not used to such assurance from men or women brought to this room. He looked at his guards, both alert behind Mason, then back to the young man. “And who is your colonel?”

“Name of Devorax, sir.”

The name meant nothing to Ebenezer. He ran a hand over his glossy, long hair that was brushed back from his pale forehead. “Mason, I have had a dozen men here who claimed to deserve my money. The last one I was forced to punish. I bored a hole in his tongue to teach him not to lie.”

“Whatever you say, sir.” Mason was cheerfully unmoved.

“No! Not what I say, what you say. You’ve come about the witch?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well? I know where she is, so don’t think you’ll be rewarded for that.”

“No, sir. I’m only here to give you a message, sir, and give you a small token of Colonel Devorax’s good wishes.” Mason spoke as if he was reporting on the state of cavalry horses to his troop leader.

Ebenezer limped closer to Mason. He had shaved only an hour before, but already his chin was dark. “A token?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

Mason opened a small, leather pouch that was attached to his belt. He took out a small, paper-wrapped package. “Sir!”

Ebenezer took it, unwrapped it, and went very still. In his palm was half of a wax seal. The impression had been cut cleanly with a knife, but the semicircle clearly showed the front half of a winged ox, beneath which was the single word “Luke.”

“Where did you get this?” Ebenezer could not hide his excitement.

“Colonel Devorax, sir.”

“Where did he get it, fool?”

“Don’t know, sir. Not in the colonel’s confidence, sir!”

“Who the devil is Colonel Devorax?”

“Man who wants to meet you, sir. That’s my message, sir.”

“Well, go on, man! Go on!”

Mason momentarily shut his eyes, as if remembering, and then repeated the message in his clipped voice. “Three o’clock today, sir, under the gibbet at Tyburn, sir, and Colonel Devorax says you’re not to bring more than four men, sir. He’ll only bring two, sir. That’s it, sir.”

Ebenezer looked at the half seal of St. Luke. Dear God! Lopez’s seal! His mind flickered over the possibility of a trap, but he could see none. Tyburn was a well-chosen meeting place. The execution site was at a lonely crossroads outside London, amid bleak, flat land and it would be impossible for either side to bring more men without them being seen. Added to that was the breath-taking audacity with which Devorax had cheerfully suggested Ebenezer’s men could outnumber his own, as if these strangers were not fearful of the odds. Ebenezer thought swiftly. “I’ll be there.”