“Nu? Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” a slightly gentler voice replied from inside. “Such times are they that a fellow can pay heed neither to his eyes nor his ears. Never mind rumours. Try going to town. See what’s brewing there. Judge for yourselves: can a Jew open his door in such times? Even a Jew who might know something about somebody? No, O girl-with-the-ring-of-tzaddik Chalafta. It’s unwise to open the door if there’s naught but evil outside. Go and see. Find out for yourselves. Oy, and if you had a door, you wouldn’t open it, either.”

The streets of Jawor appeared strangely deserted. And silent. Something vaguely evil hung in the air—aside from the usual stench of manure and rotting meat—something that made the hair stand up on the back of the neck and sent shivers down the spine. Something that made most of the townspeople stay circumspectly at home.

Rixa knew her way around. From the town square she turned into a lane where a large and colourful sign pointed the way towards the Sun and the Moon inn. Inside, in contrast to the outside, there were plenty of people; it was quite simply packed. It was impossible to know exactly, but Reynevan guessed that the inn was playing host to at least a hundred people. On top of that, they were all talking, so their heads were filled with a steady hum of voices.

Rixa looked around cautiously, then quickly moved towards a corner where a grey-haired man in a felt hat with a slightly torn brim was sitting, his moustaches drooping into a mug of beer. The woman sat down beside him and nudged him with her elbow.

“Miss?”

“Greetings, Schlegelholz. Been here all morning?”

“My soul aches,” said the grey-haired man, wiping his moustache. “I must soothe it somehow… Dreadful times… Dreadful…”

“What is happening?”

“An atrocity, an atrocity has happened. We shall all die. There’s no saving us from the plague, none.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’ll be four days since,” said Schlegelholz, taking a long draught of beer, “since a pig’s head, skinned clean, was removed from the well by Saint Martin’s. And just after that, Madam Kunc, the baker’s wife, lost a child. It means they infected the water. With bubonic plague. They tossed an infected swine into the well.”

“Who?”

“Who, who? It’s obvious who. So the townsfolk have gathered and are debating. You can see for yourself, Miss.”

“I see,” said Rixa, pointing at a man in a patched jerkin who had just stood up on a bench and from his elevated position gestured to the gathering to be kind enough to be quiet. “That character and his company, who are they?”

“Strangers. They arrived not long ago, Queer folk.”