“In your ear, sir,” he said.

I recoiled. “Stand back,” I cried, “or you will cull no more simples this side of hell!”

“Hell!” he answered. “There’s no such place. I will not tell my secret aloud.”

“Nicolo the Italian! Nicolo the Poisoner! Nicolo the Black Death! I am coming for the soul you sold me. There is a hell!”

The thundering voice came from underneath our feet. With a sound that was not a groan and not a screech, the Italian reeled back against the heated iron of the brazier. Starting from that fiery contact with an unearthly shriek, he threw up his arms and dashed away into the darkness. The sound of his madly hurrying footsteps came