“Schilling also told us extraordinary and astonishing things regarding the medicines that the Black Riders use to induce trances. It is thought that the substances referred to in the works of Geber and Avicenna as al-qili—and which we called ‘alkaloids’ in Prague—possess the strongest narcotic and hallucinogenic properties. They were thought to be extracts of magical herbs, but what transpired? That they grow in any common woodland! And were none other than the common saltwort and the even more common fly agaric, muscarius. They are the basic ingredients of that celebrated intoxicating potion called ‘bhang’ mentioned in the manuscripts of Morienus. Can you imagine?”

Scharley and Samson probably could. And even if they couldn’t, they didn’t let it show. Neither by word, gesture nor expression.

“And the notorious, mysterious hash’eesh, which al-Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountains, used to intoxicate his assassins in his mountain citadel of Alamut? Grellenort’s Black Riders, as I suspected, also drug themselves with the very same hash’eesh. It is made from the resin of the flowers of a plant called in Greek kannabis, which is similar to hemp. As it turns out, however, there are two varieties of that medicine. One bears the name of ganja and is a beverage; it is drunk and one falls into a euphoric trance. The other—called hash’eesh—is burned and the smoke is inhaled… I know it sounds unbelievable, but Bruno Schilling promised—”

“This Bruno Schilling murdered your brother, O specialist,” Scharley interrupted calmly. “It’s hard for me to sympathise, since I’m an only child, but I think that if I had a brother I wouldn’t chat about magic and mushrooms with his killer. I would simply break his neck. With my bare hands.”

“It was you who once tried to convince me of the futility of revenge,” said Reynevan, cutting him off sourly. “And I’m not chatting with Schilling, I’m interrogating him. If, one day, I make out a bill for Peterlin’s death, it will be to the initiator of the crime, not some lackey. And the knowledge gained during the interrogations will come in useful to that end.”

“What about Jutta?” Samson Honeypot asked softly. “How will your knowledge about al-qili and hash’eesh aid her release and rescue?”

“Jutta…” Reynevan stammered. “We’ll soon ride to her aid. Very soon. Horn promised to help and we can’t do it without his help. I’ll help him and he’ll help us. He’ll keep his word.”

“He will,” said Scharley, standing up and stretching. “Or he won’t. God moves in mysterious ways.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That life has taught me not to trust people too hastily and always to have a contingency plan up my sleeve.”

“I’ll ask you again: what do you mean by that?”

“Nothing beyond what I’ve said.”

“M’Lord Horn?”

“Yes?”