“In the towns of Jawor and Świdnica,” confirmed the Helvetian. He pronounced them “Jauer” and “Zviniza.” “We didn’t do anything then, we remained utterly idle, since… Since one may not answer terror with terror. Pierre of Castelnau, Peter of Verona, Konrad of Marburg, Schwenckefeld. Terrorism is wrong and leads nowhere. That’s what we think, the Good People, Amici Dei. Terrorism is an evil and a sin.”

Which are better put on other people’s consciences, not one’s own, thought the Inquisitor. Which is the reason—and the only reason—you are helping me. Only for that reason are you giving me information. Convinced that I am seeking revenge. That I’m planning an assassination attempt. An act of terror. The terror, that repulses you. But when it is carried out, you’ll murmur “Deo gratias.” On your knees. With your eyes raised heavenward. Free of sin. But content. Satisfied.

The Perfectus said nothing and stared at the dark massif of Pilatus, the mountain towering over Lucerne like a crouching giant. The Inquisitor didn’t hurry him.

“Grellenort was educated in Andalusia,” continued the Helvetian. “In Aguilar near Cordoba.”

“Alumbrados,” mumbled Hejncze.

“The Enlightened Ones,” said the Helvetian in confirmation. “A secret sect whose roots stretch back into the gloom of prehistory; older, some say, than the Deluge—why, more ancient than humanity itself. At first exclusively Muslim, it was opened up to Christians by Gerbert of Aurillac, Pope Sylvester II. Well-known names figure among the school’s alumni. The Arabs Hali and al-Kindi, the legendary Morienus and Artephius, Joachim of Fiore, Albertus Magnus, Walter Map, Duns Scotus. William of Ockham. Michael of Cesena. Jacques Duèze, that is Pope John XXII. Grellenort is also a graduate of Aguilar, which explains the rapid pace of his magical education. But that’s not all.”

Hejncze raised his eyebrows.

“Someone is helping him,” said the Perfectus with conviction, “supporting him magically, generating the Power for him. Unceasingly. We failed to find out who.”

“Still in Wrocław?” said the Wallcreeper. “Haven’t you ever thought about removing? To the country, for example?”

“I like Wrocław.” The neufra’s brown face melted into a parody of a smile. “Nothing compares to a city. As they say: Stadtluft macht frei.”

“The countryside is safer, though.”

“I don’t feel endangered. Do you have it?”

The Wallcreeper reached for a pouch and took from it a square-sided flacon of dark glass. The neufra’s gnarled and claw-like fingers twitched, as though they were about to snatch the flacon from him. She controlled herself, pushed forward a goblet and stared spellbound at the lavender liquid slowly filling the vessel. She indicated it was enough with an impatient gesture. She seized the goblet and hesitated.

“Won’t you… join me?”

“No, thank you, Kundrie,” he said, not wanting to upset her, knowing how addicted she was to aurum potabile and how she valued every drop. “It’s all for you.”