“Do you understand, Reinmar?” said Urban Horn, quickly sketching a map of the river basin of the upper Odra with a finger dipped in beer. “Upper Silesia linked to Lesser Poland is the Kingdom of Poland combined with Bohemia. Upper Silesia in the Tábor’s hands and Poland occupied by the Hussites, under the formal control of Korybut, Bolko Wołoszek and the other Herzogs who lean towards Poland. Cieszyn, Pszczyna, Rybnik, Zator, Oświęcim, Gliwice, Bytom, Siewierz, Opole, Kluczbork, Wołczyn, Byczyna, Namysłów. Over sixty miles of shared border with the Kingdom of Poland. Hussite outposts less than forty miles from the lands of the Order, barely six days’ march for the Tábor and their combat wagons, and the Tábor and the Orphans are simply itching to attack the Teutonic Knights. And who is against an annexation, who will protest? Sigismund? Upper Silesia is formally a Czech land, but the Czechs don’t recognise Sigismund as king. The Pope? Jagiełło will declare that Silesia has been captured by the brawler Korybut without his knowledge or consent, sine sciencia et voluntate, and that the Polish army has occupied the Silesian border fortresses with the sole aim of creating a cordon to prevent the spread of heresy.”

“Who will believe such twaddle? Such nonsense?”

“That is politics, Reinmar. Politics has two possible aims: one is accord, the other conflict. Accord is reached when one side pretends to believe in the nonsense the other side is peddling.”

“I understand.”

“It’s time we left Odry. I’m going to Sovinec and then onwards. Schilling’s escape complicated my plans; now, what is more, Prokop is sending me on a mission, a long journey. And you, Lancelot, are doubtless hurrying to your damsel in distress. Unless something has changed.”

“Nothing has, I’m still in a hurry. But go by yourself. I have to stay here.”

On Beltmakers Street, snuggled into the town wall, stood a grim stone building housing the municipal dungeon, torture chamber and executioner’s cottage. The place spread a baleful aura over the entire nearby vicinity and whoever could, avoided it; trade and craftsmen had moved away. All that remained was a brewery, and since it brewed good ale, the dreadful location couldn’t harm it. There was also, strangely, a beer cellar, with a steep staircase leading down to it. The owner had named the tavern—immune to any associations—The Hangman. The stairs led down to deep, vaulted cellars. Beer was only drunk in the one furthest from the stairs.

Reynevan approached the drinkers. Some time passed before he was noticed. And was greeted with an ominous silence.

“It’s Reynevan,” Adam Wejdnar of the Rawicz coat of arms finally announced. “The physician from Prague. In the flesh! Praise the Lord, sawbones! Join us, we invite you. You know everybody, I believe.”