“Oh, you are, you are, no doubt,” said the Wallcreeper, looking down at him in disgust. “So listen, worm. Go on spying. If you learn the place of Apolda’s imprisonment, inform me. If Bielawa or one of his comrades contacts you, you will also inform me. If you do well, I shall bolster your wormlike existence with a generous reward. I shall not stint. But if you disappoint me or betray me… Then, vile worm, it won’t end with some light roasting. I won’t leave a span of your skin untouched. So begone, get to work, go and spy. Be off, out of my sight.”

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.”