After a moment of silence, he continued, “One must bring people like that back to the straight and narrow. Give them a lesson in patriotism. And if that proves too little, one must—”

“Eliminate them from this vale of tears,” finished the Wallcreeper, “shifting the blame onto demons or Hussite terrorists. It will be done, Bishop. Just say the word.”

“That’s the way I like you, Birkart,” said the bishop, sighing. “Just like that.”

“I know.”

They both said nothing.

“Terrorism is a useful thing,” said the bishop, sighing a second time. “It can solve so much! How would we cope without it? Who would we blame for everything, on what would we put the blame? Vero, if terrorism didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent it.”

“Well, well,” said the Wallcreeper, smiling. “We think alike, even down to using the same words. And yet you constantly disown me, Papa.”

When they sat together at one table, gorging themselves on pike in saffron-yellow jelly, no one, absolutely no one, would have taken them for brothers. But in spite of their physical differences, they were. The older, Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław, had the appearance of a true Piast; of a mighty, ruddy-faced, hearty sybarite. The long beard and slightly sunken cheeks of Konrad Kantner, the Duke of Oleśnica, brought an eremite more to mind.

“I have nothing but vexation from the children I sired,” said Konrad Kantner, reaching for another chunk of pike from the dish. “Nothing but vexation.”

“I know,” said the bishop. He coughed, hawked at length and spat out a fishbone. “I know how it is, brother. I know that distress.”

“My Agnieszka is turning fifteen,” continued Kantner, pretending not to have heard. “As you know, I’d decided to give her to Kasper Schlick. I believe the pup will go far; he has a mind fit for a chancellor. He’s a good match. Emperor Sigismund promised me the matrimonium, everything was arranged. And now I hear that Schlick is being sought by the daughter of Count Berthold of Henneberg. That sodding liar. He’s never said an honest word in his life!”

“Indeed,” said the bishop, licking his fingers. “Which is why I wouldn’t be overly concerned. And I think that our gracious king is lying to Count Berthold to acquire short-term gains and is leading him by the nose. Never mind. You’ll see, we’ll drink ourselves stupid at Agnieszka and Schlick’s wedding yet.”

“God willing,” said Kantner, sipping from his goblet and clearing his throat. “But that’s not all. The thought occurred to me, mark you, to marry my young Konrad to Barbara, the daughter of Johann, Margrave of Brandenburg. I went with the lad to Spandau at Christmas, let the youngsters get to know each other, so I thought. But young Konrad, mark you, took one look and said ‘no.’ Said he won’t have her because she’s fat. You lummox, I say to him, the little girl is only six years old, she is sure to grow slenderer with age. That is for primo, and for secundo you can never have too much beloved flesh, your bed will be full of bliss, from one side to the other, when it comes to your nuptials. But he said if he had the choice, he’d rather fill it with two or three slim ones. Can you mark the impudent pup? Who does he take after?”