“No thank you. I’m limiting expenses for the moment.”

“If that’s the case… Just a shave?”

“After I’ve bathed. I shall call you.”

The warm bath relaxed Reynevan; he grew sleepy and dozed off without knowing when. He was woken by the acrid smell of soap and the touch of a brush and foam on his cheeks. He felt the scrape of the razor, once, twice, three times. The barber standing behind him tilted his head back and shaved his neck and Adam’s apple. The next, quite energetic movement of the razor snagged him painfully on the chin. Reynevan swore through his teeth.

“Did I nick you?” he heard behind him. “I beg your indulgence. Mea culpa. It’s owing to inexperience. Dimitte nobis debita nostra.”

Reynevan recognised the voice. And the Polish accent.

Before he could do anything, Łukasz Bożyczko had shoved the oaken cover of the tub and slid it across the tub, pressing Reynevan against the side, squeezing his chest painfully.

“Indeed, you are just like marjoram, Reinmar of Bielawa,” said the Inquisition’s envoy. “You show up in every dish and course. Keep still and be patient.”

Reynevan kept still and was patient. He was greatly helped in this by the heavy cover which was effectively imprisoning him in the tub. And by the sight of the razor, which Łukasz Bożyczko was still holding while he fixed Reynevan with a piercing look.

“We gave you instructions, I recall, in December at the Battle of Ziębice,” said Bożyczko, folding up the razor. “We obligated you to return to the Orphans and await further orders. If we did not categorically forbid you from undertaking other activities—including investigating, searching and tracking—it was only because we presumed you to be intelligent. An intelligent man would have understood that such activities would not bear any fruit at all. And that if it was our wish for things to remain hidden, they would be and would remain thus. In saecula saeculorum.”

Bożycko handed Reynevan a towel which he used to wipe his burning face and damp forehead. He breathed out hard, mustering courage.

“What guarantee do I have that Jutta is even alive?” he snarled. “That you haven’t hidden her at the bottom of some moat for all eternity? I’ll also remind you of something: in December, at Ziębice, I didn’t agree to or promise you anything. I didn’t agree not to search for Jutta for one simple reason: I mean to. And I didn’t agree to collaborate with you, for an equally simple reason: because I don’t intend to.”

Łukasz Bożyczko looked at him for a moment.