“By betrayal, you mean?” said Reynevan in a softer voice. “Sell the Inquisition information about the mission Prokop is sending me on? Hoping that the Inquisition in its gratitude will give me Jutta. Is that your advice to me?”

“I suggest you bear it in mind. Ponder it and decide whether your interests are higher in your hierarchy. What is more important: the Chalice or Jutta? Ponder and decide—”

“Enough, Scharley,” Samson Honeypot interrupted gently. “That’s enough. Don’t urge Reinmar to consider a course of action that has no sense. And don’t urge him to make choices where there are none to make.”

The moon was hiding behind the roofs of the merchants’ houses. Reynevan strode boldly and swiftly, aiming for the town walls.

He turned into a side street. Instead of going on, he soundlessly slipped into the alcove of a gateway. He waited, motionless and patient.

A moment later, he heard quiet steps, the barely audible shuffling of poulaines on cobbles. He waited for the man following him to emerge from the darkness. And then he leaped on him, caught him from behind by the hood and jerked with all his strength. The man wheezed and brought both hands up to his throat. Reynevan slammed him in the ribs with the metal-edged pommel of a knife, two handsbreadths above his hip. The man gulped air and choked. Reynevan spun him around with a jerk of his shoulder, swung and struck him hard with the pommel, with the expertise of a doctor, right in the plexus solaris. The man in the hood wheezed and fell to his knees.

High above on a roof a cat meowed.

“Tell Prokop,” said Reynevan, using the blade to lift the man’s chin. “Tell Prokop that I can swear on the cross again. I can even swear several times. But this has to stop. I don’t wish to be followed. I’ll kill the next spy I get my hands on. Tell Prokop—”

“M’lord—”

“What? Louder!”

“I’m not from Prokop… I’m from the castle… On orders—”

“Whose? Who ordered you?”

“His Excellency the Duke.”

The gloom of the castle chapel was only dispelled by the light of two candles burning in front of the severe altar. The flickering light reflected on the gilt of the figure of a saint—perhaps Matthias the Apostle, for he was holding an executioner’s axe. The light barely reached the man sitting among the choir stalls. In the darkness, it limned his physique and the cut and details of his rich raiment. But not his face. It didn’t have to. Reynevan knew who it was.

“Greetings, physician. It’s a small world. Well, we meet again, after so long. How many years is it since the Battle of Ústí? Three? Am I right?”

“You are, Your Grace.”

The man in the choir stall sat upright. The light fell on his face.