This time he preferred to be cautious almost to a fault. Instead of going straight to the company at the Mill Scales, he took a circuitous route. He entered the busy cloth hall and stopped beside a leatherworker’s bench where the greatest, densest crowd was. He vigilantly observed the passers-by. None of them looked like a tail. He sighed in relief.

And almost choked when somebody unexpectedly tapped him on the shoulder.

“May the Lord be praised,” said Łukasz Bożyczko. “Welcome to Silesia, Reynevan. Where have you been all this time?”

“Well, don’t make me wait,” Bożyczko said, hurrying him. “What news do you have for me?”

The dark yard he dragged Reynevan into smelled of sauerkraut. Vomit. And cat pee.

“Come on,” said the Pole impatiently. “Show me that you are useful.”

“If you managed to find me here,” Reynevan said, his back pressed against the wall, “you possess much better information than me. What I know won’t be of any use to you. For I know next to nothing.”

“In our custody, your Jutta is in the lap of luxury, with full board and lodging. It’s so warm, clean and elegant, she might be at home,” continued Bożyczko, ignoring him. “Why, it’s even better than at home, because the company is more interesting. That luxury doesn’t come cheap, it costs us. Go on, reassure us we aren’t throwing money down the drain.”

“I know nothing. I have nothing to inform you about.”

“You disappoint me.”

“I am sorry.”

“You’ll be more than sorry,” hissed Bożyczko. “Do you take me for a fool? I found you here since—as you correctly guessed—I have access to information. I know you are close to Prokop, to Horn, to Bedřich of Strážnice, to Korybut. You must have seen things, heard things, been a witness or a participant in something. Military plans, political ideas, alliances, ways of obtaining financial resources. You must know something.”

“I know nothing.”

Bożyczko stamped his foot to scare away a cat rubbing itself against his boot.

“There are two possibilities,” he said. “Either you are lying, or you a fool and a sloven. In both cases you’ve revealed yourself to be useless; both eventualities disqualify you from being a valuable collaborator. Which is bad for you and even worse for Jutta. The luxury she has now can easily be withdrawn, and comfort replaced by discomfort. Which could soon become pain.”

“You promised not to hurt her! You’re breaking your pledge!”

“Then sue me.”

“I know something that might interest you,” Reynevan blurted out. “If the future of the world interests you.”

“Go on.”

“Pope Martin V will die in 1431, probably in the month of February. Four Sundays before Easter, the Conclave will elect as Pope Gabriele Condulmer, Cardinal of Sienna, who appears in Malachy’s prophecy as Lupa coelestina, the heavenly she-wolf. Before that happens, Witold, Grand Duke of Lithuania, will die. He will die as a duke, the royal crown will not be given to him, the machinations of Sigismund will come to nothing. The death of Władysław Jagiełło, King of Poland, will come to pass in Anno Domini 1434, at the end of May or the beginning of June. Sigismund Korybut will outlive both his uncles.”