opened off the end of the taproom. He might have left the high toby behind, but he still dressed all in black, like the devil that danced before the flames of hell on the sign hanging outside his tavern. Black coat and waistcoat, black trousers and boots, black cravat. Only his shirt was white.
He was older than Sebastian by a few years, darker, and perhaps a shade taller. But he had the same leanly muscled frame, the same fine-boned face, the same feral yellow eyes. As far as Sebastian knew, the two men were not related; yet Knox looked enough like Sebastian to be his brother.
Or at least a half brother.
“I didn’t kill your damned Frenchman,” said Knox. The smile on the man’s face remained, but his eyes had hardened. Just six weeks before, Sebastian had accused Knox of killing a paroled French officer named Philippe Arceneaux. Knox denied it. But Sebastian was never completely convinced of the man’s innocence.
“How about a diamond merchant named Daniel Eisler?”
The faintest flicker of surprise crossed the tavern owner’s features, then disappeared. It could have meant anything. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? From what I hear, the man’s barely been dead twelve hours.” His gaze shifted, significantly, to a nearby table of leatherworkers who were suddenly looking interested. Pushing away from the doorframe, he took a step back. “Pippa? If you’ll bring us a couple of pints?”
Following him into the inner room, Sebastian found himself in a small, neat office sparsely furnished with the unpretentious functionality of a campaign tent.
“Please, sit,” said Knox, indicating the plain gateleg table that stood near a window overlooking the cobbled rear yard.
Sebastian sat and waited while the woman, Pippa, banged two foaming tankards down on the tabletop, threw him a malevolent glare, then slammed the door behind her as she returned to the taproom. He said, “Somehow, I expected you to deny knowing Eisler.”
Knox came to sprawl in the opposite chair. “Why should I? Because he’s dead? Are you imagining I killed him too?”
“Where were you last night around eight or nine?”
Knox took a long, slow sip of his ale and set it down before answering. “Here, at the Black Devil. And damn you to hell for asking.”
Sebastian looked at the dark, handsome face of the man across from him and said, “You went to see Eisler last week. Why?”
“How do you know I went to see him?”
“His butler remembered you.”
For a long moment, the other man stared back at him. Then he pushed up from his chair and crossed the room to unlock a small chest. He withdrew a flat rectangular object wrapped in oilcloth, locked the chest again, and came to lay the article on the table before Sebastian.
Roughly bound with cord, the bundle was some fifteen inches long, slightly less wide, and two or three inches thick. “What is it?” asked Sebastian.
“Open it.”
Sebastian untied the cord that held the oilcloth in place and peeled it back to reveal a crumbling brown calf-bound book. Opening the tattered cover, he found himself staring at a handwritten script that was neither Roman nor Greek, but something at once strange and vaguely familiar. Puzzled, he ran his fingertips over the page. The book was definitely made of paper rather than vellum, yet it had been written by hand, not printed on a press.
“How old is it?” he asked.
“Late sixteenth century, I’m told,” said Knox, resuming his seat.
“It’s in Hebrew?”
“So they say.”
Carefully turning the brittle, foxed pages, Sebastian studied the cramped script illustrated with curious geographical shapes and strange images. He looked up. “What does this old manuscript have to do with Eisler?”
Knox reached for his tankard, but he didn’t drink from it. Instead, he turned his head to stare out the window beside them. Watching him, Sebastian had the impression he gazed beyond the cobbled yard and the shady elms of the ancient
He was older than Sebastian by a few years, darker, and perhaps a shade taller. But he had the same leanly muscled frame, the same fine-boned face, the same feral yellow eyes. As far as Sebastian knew, the two men were not related; yet Knox looked enough like Sebastian to be his brother.
Or at least a half brother.
“I didn’t kill your damned Frenchman,” said Knox. The smile on the man’s face remained, but his eyes had hardened. Just six weeks before, Sebastian had accused Knox of killing a paroled French officer named Philippe Arceneaux. Knox denied it. But Sebastian was never completely convinced of the man’s innocence.
“How about a diamond merchant named Daniel Eisler?”
The faintest flicker of surprise crossed the tavern owner’s features, then disappeared. It could have meant anything. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? From what I hear, the man’s barely been dead twelve hours.” His gaze shifted, significantly, to a nearby table of leatherworkers who were suddenly looking interested. Pushing away from the doorframe, he took a step back. “Pippa? If you’ll bring us a couple of pints?”
Following him into the inner room, Sebastian found himself in a small, neat office sparsely furnished with the unpretentious functionality of a campaign tent.
“Please, sit,” said Knox, indicating the plain gateleg table that stood near a window overlooking the cobbled rear yard.
Sebastian sat and waited while the woman, Pippa, banged two foaming tankards down on the tabletop, threw him a malevolent glare, then slammed the door behind her as she returned to the taproom. He said, “Somehow, I expected you to deny knowing Eisler.”
Knox came to sprawl in the opposite chair. “Why should I? Because he’s dead? Are you imagining I killed him too?”
“Where were you last night around eight or nine?”
Knox took a long, slow sip of his ale and set it down before answering. “Here, at the Black Devil. And damn you to hell for asking.”
Sebastian looked at the dark, handsome face of the man across from him and said, “You went to see Eisler last week. Why?”
“How do you know I went to see him?”
“His butler remembered you.”
For a long moment, the other man stared back at him. Then he pushed up from his chair and crossed the room to unlock a small chest. He withdrew a flat rectangular object wrapped in oilcloth, locked the chest again, and came to lay the article on the table before Sebastian.
Roughly bound with cord, the bundle was some fifteen inches long, slightly less wide, and two or three inches thick. “What is it?” asked Sebastian.
“Open it.”
Sebastian untied the cord that held the oilcloth in place and peeled it back to reveal a crumbling brown calf-bound book. Opening the tattered cover, he found himself staring at a handwritten script that was neither Roman nor Greek, but something at once strange and vaguely familiar. Puzzled, he ran his fingertips over the page. The book was definitely made of paper rather than vellum, yet it had been written by hand, not printed on a press.
“How old is it?” he asked.
“Late sixteenth century, I’m told,” said Knox, resuming his seat.
“It’s in Hebrew?”
“So they say.”
Carefully turning the brittle, foxed pages, Sebastian studied the cramped script illustrated with curious geographical shapes and strange images. He looked up. “What does this old manuscript have to do with Eisler?”
Knox reached for his tankard, but he didn’t drink from it. Instead, he turned his head to stare out the window beside them. Watching him, Sebastian had the impression he gazed beyond the cobbled yard and the shady elms of the ancient
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