“Oława.”

“Oława?” The canon suddenly raised his head. “Just don’t tell me you were there—”

“On the Sunday before Saint Anthony’s? Indeed I was.”

Otto Beess said nothing for a long time. Eventually, the canon said, “That Pole, Łukasz Bożyczko, is the next puzzling matter in your tale. I’ve seen him at the Inquisitor’s once, perhaps twice. He hung on to Gregory Hejncze’s coat-tails, trotting after him like a dog. He made no impression on me. I’ll just say this: he’s about as much an all-powerful eminence grise as our Bishop Konrad is a pious, virtuous ascetic. He looked as though he’d have difficulty counting to three. And were I to try to paint nothing at all, I’d have him pose for me.”

“I fear his appearance is meant to mislead,” Reynevan said grimly. “I’m afraid of that with regard to Jutta.”

“I can believe in semblances.” Otto Beess nodded. “In recent days, several have been dispelled before my very eyes, stunning me with what I saw after their dispelling. But semblances are one thing and the Church hierarchy another. Neither that Bożyczko nor any other factotum would act on his own initiative without the Inquisitor’s knowledge or permission. Ergo, Hejncze must have issued the order to abduct and imprison Jutta Apolda. And that I cannot by any means imagine. It doesn’t accord in any way with my knowledge of the man.”

“People change,” said Reynevan, biting his lip. “Recently, various semblances have been dispelled in front of my eyes, too. I know that anything’s possible. Anything can happen. Even that which is hard to imagine.”

“God’s truth,” said the canon with a sigh. “Many things that have happened in recent years, I also previously simply could not have imagined. Could anyone have supposed that I, Provost of the Cathedral Chapter, instead of being promoted to prelate, to diocesan suffragan bishop, why, perhaps even to titular bishop in partibus infidelium, would be demoted to the rank of collegiate cantor? And all because of the nephew of my firmest companion, the late lamented Henryk of Bielawa?”

“Father—”

“Silence, silence.” The canon waved a disdainful hand. “Don’t apologise, you’re not to blame. Even if I had predicted how it would end, I’d still have helped you. I would help you today, too, now, when for contact with you I risk consequences a hundredfold more severe than the bishop’s disfavour, you bloody Hussite. But I am unable to help you. I have no power. I have no information, since power and access to information are inseparable. I have no informers. The faithful, trustworthy ones were found stabbed to death in lonely alleyways. Those that are left—including my servants—instead of informing for me, inform against me. Father Felicjan, for example. Do you recall Father Felicjan, nicknamed Little Louse? It’s he who slandered me before the bishop. And he continues to do so. In exchange, the bishop is helping him to work his way up the ladder, unbeknownst that that whoreson… Ah! Reynevan!”