“It would appear,” continued the bishop, playing with the stem of the goblet and enjoying the expression on the Wallcreeper’s face, “that you are the son of the Devil and a lewd Jewess. A perfect Antichrist, the hero of my last propaganda homily. Evanthas, Lateinos or perhaps Shitas or Twatos, I forget. Pour me some wine. You’ve scared away the staff, so serve me yourself. And tell me what brings you here. What do you want?”

“Nothing. I passed by to pay my respects. Ask how you are, since it behoves a son to take an interest in his parent’s health. I wanted to ask—like a dutiful son—whether you need anything, Father. Perhaps you need some sort of filial help from your son? Or service?”

“Your concern is tardy—I needed you a month ago, and I truly regret that you weren’t close at hand. You’ll regret it, too, I think. Reynevan of Bielawa was in Wrocław. And you were once strangely fascinated by him.”

The Wallcreeper’s face twitched slightly. So slightly that no one who didn’t know the Wallcreeper would have noticed. But the bishop did.

“A month after I excommunicated him,” he continued, “two months after Wielisław, where he defeated and humiliated you, that scoundrel dares to show his heretical face in my city. But that’s not all: he managed to escape. My servants are sheer fools—by Satan—fools and incompetents.”

“What was he doing in Wrocław?” the Wallcreeper asked through clenched teeth. “What was he after? Was he alone or with companions? Who unmasked him and how? How the hell did he get away? Details, Bishop. Details.”

“I don’t give a damn about details.” Konrad snorted. “What interests me is the result, and there is none. I didn’t ask about details, they would only have lied to me, trying to cover up their own ineptitude. Sound out Kuczera of Hunt, perhaps you’ll get something from him. And now begone. You’ve turned up at a bad time. I’m expecting a guest. Oswald of Langenreuth, secretary and advisor to Conrad of Dhaun, the Archbishop of Mainz. He is on his way directly from Volyn. From Lutsk, to be precise.”

“I’d like to remain. Lutsk interests me, too. To some degree.”

“Stay,” agreed the bishop after a moment’s thought. “According to the usual conditions, naturally. Meaning hop into the cage.”

The Wallcreeper smiled, and the smile appeared to survive the metamorphosis in the beak of the bird that opened to squawk strangely. The bird shook its wings, its black eye glowered, it fluttered over to the gilded cage in the corner of the chamber and it alighted, ruffling its feathers, on a golden perch.

“Don’t flap your wings,” warned the bishop, rocking the wine in the goblet. “Or caw at untimely moments. Enter!”

“His Lordship,” announced the lackey, “Sir Oswald of Langenreuth.”

“Show him in. Welcome, welcome.”