“… captured by Jan of Ziębice I did not betray… I do not serve the bishop… Amen.”

“Splendid,” Prokop said. “And everything is resolved. The matter is clear.”

“Perhaps to be certain we could use trial by ordeal?” said Bedřich, pointing at the red-hot stones, a malicious smile playing on his lips. “Divine Judgement using trial by fire?”

“We may,” Prokop said calmly, looking Bedřich in the eyes. “At my sign, the accuser and the accused will sit down on the stones, both at the same time, bare-arsed. He who sits longest is true. Ready, Bedřich? I’ll show you when.”

“I was jesting.”

“I was, too. And be glad of it.”

“A crucifix,” concluded Scharley, grimacing as though he’d drunk vinegar. “Lord, what a pitiful and vulgar spectacle. A naive, primitive, tasteless trick. You can’t have believed that pantomime?”

“I didn’t. But it doesn’t really matter, for Prokop was by no means joking. He indeed intends to send me on a mission to Silesia.”

“Did he give you any details?”

“None. He said he would when the time came.”

Scharley, not even trying to outshout the Poles who were dining at the next table, stood up and waved his arms vigorously. The innkeeper noticed and summoned a serving wench who ran up with fresh mugs.

“And so you are going to Silesia,” he said, blowing off the froth. “Just as you wished. And we with you, for we won’t leave you all alone. Ha, we’ll have to equip ourselves suitably. In the morning I shall wander around the bazaar, take a look at the goods smuggled from Lesser Poland and acquire some supplies…”

“Do you have enough funds?”

“Don’t worry. Unlike you, I make sure that my participation in the Hussite revolution brings me profit. I risk my neck in the cause of the Chalice, but I observe at the same time the principle of virtus post nummos. Ha, it calls to mind a certain thing…”

“Go on.”

“Perhaps the secret and confidential expedition to Silesia that is being prepared is a lucky coincidence? Perhaps it’s the stroke of luck we’ve been looking for?”

“Stroke of luck?”

Scharley looked at Samson. Samson put down the stick he was whittling, sighed and shook his head. The penitent also sighed. And also shook his head.

“You recently unleashed a tirade about calculated pragmatism in front of Horn,” he said, looking Reynevan in the eyes. “You claimed the euphoria had worn off, that your ardour had cooled, that you were no longer a naive idealist. Your interests rank higher than other men’s in the hierarchy; those were your very words. And now an opportunity is arising to put those words into action.”

“How, exactly?”

“Think.”