Devorax gave a short, bitter laugh. “You’d trust a lawyer, Mr. Slythe? God’s breeches! He’ll twist everything and cheat us blind! I’ve learned a thing or two in fifty years, Mr. Slythe. I can empty saddles faster than most men, I can tear out a windpipe with my bare fingers, and I’ve learned; never, never trust a damned lawyer. Do you trust him?”

Ebenezer shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“You’re getting the money from the Covenant, yes?” Devorax waited for Ebenezer’s small nod. The soldier watched the younger man very carefully. “How much does he give you? Five thousand a year? Six? Seven?” Devorax smiled. “That’s it. Seven.”

“So?”

The rum bottle tipped, Devorax drank, then grinned at Ebenezer. “Mordecai Lopez reckons the Covenant ought to be worth nearer twenty thousand a year. That’s how much that fat, bastard lawyer is cheating you. Do you think we can trust him? What do you think he’ll do if he gets all three seals? Give us our share?” Devorax shook his head. “No, Mr. Slythe, it’ll be a quick knifing in the night and two shallow graves. I won’t deal with Sir Grenville Cony.”

Ebenezer stretched his left, lame leg. “And how do I know that I can trust you?”

“Sweet Jesus! Do I look as if I need twenty thousand a year? Christ! I don’t want to be pursued by damned parasites forever. No. You give me enough to buy my favorite whorehouse, Mr. Slythe, and I assure you of my undying devotion. And free service for you, of course.”

“I thought it was a farm you wanted.” Ebenezer smiled.

“A bastard farm.” Devorax laughed.

Ebenezer felt flattered to be humored by this man, yet his defenses were not down. “How do you know you can trust me?”

Devorax grinned. He corked the rum bottle, pushed it into his saddlebag, and then pulled the helmet on to his head. “Watch me, Mr. Slythe.”

Devorax’s horse turned, seemingly from pressure of the rider’s knee, and then it went into a trot. There was a scraping hiss, Devorax’s long, straight sword was free, and he shouted at his horse that went into a spirited canter. Mud flew up from the hooves.

The crows flapped off in alarm. Devorax stood in the saddle, approaching one of the hanged men, and then his sword arm blurred into vicious speed. A downstroke sliced through the shoulder of the corpse, severing a dead arm, and, in the same motion, the sword looped up and chopped through the second shoulder. Before the first arm slopped into the mud, the second was falling.

“Hup! Hup!” Devorax shouted.

Ebenezer had heard of trained cavalry horses, but had never seen one in action. The horse wheeled, rearing as it turned, hooves lashing against enemies, and then Devorax was riding again toward the swinging corpse. “Go! Go! Go!”

The sword was brought forward in a savage, huge stroke, driven by all the strength of the helmeted man. It cut clean through the rotting body, spine and belly, spilling liquids and decomposing entrails out of the abdomen, and again the sword kept moving in a fast, brilliant backstroke as the horse reared, the blade neatly chopping through the distended neck. The head thumped from the empty noose, falling beside the dismembered corpse.