The altarist fled away stealthily, clutching his hand to his chest. He didn’t look back once.

The Wallcreeper watched him go. And turned around, feeling somebody’s eyes stuck onto his back.

By the stone staircase stood a girl of around sixteen. In a padded men’s doublet and a beret with a plume worn at a rakish angle. Her rapaciously snub nose poorly suited her blonde locks, rouged face and doll-like mouth. Suited them badly. But didn’t mar them.

She heard, thought the Wallcreeper, involuntarily feeling for the knife hidden in his sleeve. She saw and heard everything. She didn’t flee, because fear paralysed her. And now there’s a witness. A quite unnecessary witness.

The girl approached slowly, eyes still fixed on him. Eyes the colour of a mountain lake, framed by half-inch eyelashes. Those eyes betrayed no fear, the Wallcreeper finally realised, but rather delight in what had happened. Delight and a wild, unbridled, pheromone-fuelled fascination. He was surprised to feel her fascination beginning to affect him, too.

“A like-minded soul,” he drawled through clenched teeth. “Attired like a boy.”

Douce of Pack came even closer. She fluttered her long eyelashes.

He fell on her like a hawk. Turned her around, pushed her against the barrel, seized her by the back of her neck and bent her over viciously. Douce’s beret slipped down over her eyes. The Wallcreeper dug his fingers into her blond locks, tore from her bottom the woollen braccae and undergarments and forced himself hard against the girl. Douce trembled with excitement. And then cried out. Loudly.

In the cry were pain and lust.

“Something is in prospect,” said Grajcarek, crumpling his cap. “Various strange individuals have been seen in town. Dangerous-looking people—”

“Speak,” said the bishop, impatiently. “Spit it out, by the Devil.”

“There are rumours going around that m’Lord Grellenort has fallen into disfavour with many people. That many people wish him ill. Very ill, I’d say.”

“That’s not news to me.”

“There’s more.” The spy coughed into a fist. “May Your Eminence forgive me for saying this—”

“I shall. Speak.”

“They say some kinsmen have come to Wrocław. Relatives of the men that were killed. Of Lord Bart of Karczyn. Of Lord Czambor of Heissenstein… For people are saying that Lord Grellenort is… is guilty of those murders…”

The bishop said nothing and played with his pen.

“Your Eminence,” said the spy, breaking the silence, “I think—”

“What do you think?”

“That we ought to warn Lord Grellenort. But Your Eminence certainly knows best what to do…”

The bishop said nothing, playing with his pen and biting his lips.

“You’re right,” he finally replied. “I do.”

The bells of Saint James’s had finished tolling the Compline some time before and now the monks could be heard intoning in chorus Salve regina. At any moment, the later bell would sound the pulsus serotinus; at any moment one could also expect the tolling of the ignitegium.