It had been a remarkable display of horsemanship and weaponry. Devorax tipped his helmet off again, looped it on his saddle and grinned at Ebenezer. His voice was as cold as the wind. “Think what I can do to a living body, Mr. Slythe.”

Devorax cleaned the stinking filth off his blade by running it between finger and thumb, wiped his hand in his horse’s mane, and then slammed the sword home. His two men grinned. Ebenezer’s guards, like their master, stared at the grotesque horror that had so suddenly been chopped into the mud. The stench was appalling. Devorax trotted back to Ebenezer’s side. He was not in the least breathless, as calm and composed as before his hideous display. He took the bottle from his saddlebag. “Can I trust you, Mr. Slythe?”

Ebenezer Slythe did a remarkable thing, he laughed. He looked from the carrion on the ground to the big, ugly soldier. “You can trust me, Devorax.” He looked back to the corpse. Already the crows were tearing at the easy pickings offered by Devorax’s sword. “How do you propose giving me the girl and the Seal of St. Luke?”

Devorax closed his eyes as he drank, then tossed the empty stone bottle away. “There’s no problem. If the girl doesn’t come then I have other impressions of the seal. We can fix them to paper. But she’ll come.” He grinned. “She doesn’t like me, but she trusts me. She thinks I’m collecting the seals for her. The difficult thing, Mr. Slythe, is not your sister, but Sir Grenville. I assume he has both seals?”

“And he guards them well.” Ebenezer was leaning forward eagerly, but the thought of parting Sir Grenville from the two seals seemed to deflate him. He shrugged. “Even I can’t get close to them.”

“You will.” Devorax seemed unworried by Ebenezer’s gloom. He took a new bottle from his saddlebag and pulled out the stopper. “I have the use of a ship, Mr. Slythe. I propose that you and I meet Sir Grenville and the girl at a remote place on the coast where we will part them from their seals and sail on to Amsterdam. Simple.” He grinned.

Ebenezer shook his head. “Sir Grenville won’t travel with the seals. I told you, he guards them too well.”

Devorax said nothing. The rain pattered on his leather jacket, dripped from his boots, soaked his hair. He smiled. “What’s he afraid of?”

Ebenezer looked up at the gray clouds. “Of someone else assembling the seals.”

Devorax’s voice was patient, like a teacher with a pupil. “Dorcas already has the Seal of St. Luke?”

“So you tell me.”

“And she held the Seal of St. Matthew for several months. Suppose Sir Grenville was told that during those months she had taken some wax impressions of St. Matthew? That would give her two seals, yes?”

Ebenezer nodded.

“And remember, Mr. Slythe, there is a fourth seal. Suppose Sir Grenville thought that Aretine was alive, that Aretine was meeting her in Amsterdam?” Devorax held up his left hand and raised, one by one, three fingers. “Matthew, Luke, and John.” He grinned. “Don’t you think Sir Grenville would do anything to stop her? And he’d have to go himself, Mr. Slythe. He wouldn’t risk anyone else getting the seals from her.”