“I don’t see the point of this interrogation,” Reynevan repeated. “This Schilling is a common thug, knifeman and killer. An assassin. The kind that is sent to eliminate somebody. You point out the prey and you slip him like a hound. And Grellenort only used the thug for jobs like that. I doubt that he let him into his confidence or revealed any secrets to him. In my opinion the rogue knows next to nothing. But he will lie, he will give false information, feed you with confabulations, pretend to be very well informed, because he realises that only by doing so is he of any worth to you. And he felt confident when you treated him like that. More like a guest than a prisoner.”

From outside the window came the hooting of owls circling the tower. It appeared there was a great abundance of them in the vicinity. Which had its good sides—there wasn’t a single mouse or rat in the vicinity. A hunk of bread or pancake left uneaten by the bed in the evening would still be there for a midnight snack, untouched.

“You, Reinmar,” Horn threw a dog a gnawed bone, “are an expert at medicine and magic because you have studied and practised them. I am an expert at the art of interrogation. I thank you for your advice, but it would be better for each of us to stick to our specialities and do what we are best at. Agreed?”

“I have no idea how you’ll fare with this renegade,” said Reynevan, looking at the wine against the light of a candlestick. “But I have my forebodings. However, since you insist, I won’t give you any more advice. In that case, since my advice isn’t needed, what use am I to you?”

Horn began to gnaw on another bone. Scharley and Samson did likewise. Neither the giant nor the penitent joined in the discussion.

“Schilling is talking about the castle called Sensenberg,” said Horn, stopping chewing for a moment, “the Black Riders’ headquarters and hideout. Talking about witchcraft and spells, about elixirs, magical narcotics and poisons. I don’t believe much of it and he sees that. You’re mistaken to think of him as a slow-witted thug; he’s a wily fox and a keen observer. He saw me send you away under escort and presumed he doesn’t have to fear you now. But when he suddenly sees you beside me at the interrogation, he’ll take fright. And just as well. Let him shake in his shoes a little. And you: show him hatred. Show him hostility.”

“I won’t have to pretend.”