“And I tell you,” said the bishop, sitting upright, “that the end justifies the means. And that you don’t appreciate the importance of symbolism. You can wear out your throat harping on about honour, the fatherland, faith and the Church. The people won’t budge, they don’t give a shit. But give them a symbol, any symbol at all, and they will follow it at once. A symbol means more than a regiment of soldiers. Which is why, who knows, perhaps I’ll also search for a Jehanne like that here, in Silesia. I’ll call her the Virgin, teach her about voices from Heaven, tell her to preach nonsense and bait the Hussites, dress her in armour, hand her a pennant… Perhaps it will work?”

“But it may not be so,” the Grand Master repeated severely. “Male attire on a wench is a sin, debauchery, lecherous provocation and blasphemy. Wenches who wear male attire, who believe they can be equal to men, ought to be burned. Burned!”

“Of course.” Konrad snorted. “Of course they should! But only once they do what is required and outlive their usefulness.”

Twenty-two groschen from the bishop. Grajcarek totted it up again, sliding a finger over the table in a dark corner of the Blue Carp tavern. Thirty from the woman smelling of rosemary. Twelve from the Inquisition. Not bloody much, those infernal priests are stingy. Twenty from the Fuggers. After deducting costs, that makes about fifty. And I need to give my wife some money to get by, four children, fuck it, the fifth on the way. Jesus, when will that woman start visiting witches when she falls pregnant? I’ll manage to put forty aside at most. It’s not much. It’s still too little to go into business with my brother-in-law and buy the mill by the Widawa from Sir Werner Pannewitz. Lord Pannewitz, may the devils roast him in hell for his stinginess, is asking eighty-five grzywna for the mill… I’ll have to work more. And harder. But things are getting dangerous. Inquisitor Hejncze has returned to Wrocław, he will be making up for lost time, they’re already building pyres for after Saint Adalbert’s Day. The town’s crawling with spies. Kuczera of Hunt is sniffing and tracking. The bishop has become suspiciously courteous. As though he suspects something.

And Grellenort. Grellenort twice looked at me strangely.

Something rustled behind him. Grajcarek shuddered and started, reached for a knife and at the same time formed his fingers into a magical sign.

It was a rat. Just a rat.