The downpour didn’t abate so quickly and the now softened highway prevented them from galloping or any other feats of equestrianism, hence the journey was much longer than they planned. It took them two days to reach Legnica—a town described as a second Wrocław—just as the population of ten thousand began to be summoned to Mass by the bells of all seventeen churches. Rixa knew the town well and led them without going astray. They passed the impressive, quite new, recently consecrated Collegiate Church of the Holy Sepulchre, crossed the crowded town square and the vegetable market, dreadfully muddy after the rain. They passed the stalls of tinsmiths and needle makers. Rixa reined in her horse beyond the stalls and dismounted. They were at the entry to a lane which announced itself with the intense aroma of incense, herbs and spices.

“I have something to deal with here,” she explained. “I can go by myself, asking you to wait in the tavern around the corner. Or we can go together in order to strengthen our collaboration based on mutual trust.”

“Let’s try. And see what comes of it.”

“Then let us go. I request two things. Don’t ask any questions.”

“And the other?”

“Don’t offer any answers.”

The lane—it turned out—was Mages’ Lane. The stalls and benches located there mainly offered herbs, elixirs, periapts, amulets, talismans, Loreto hand bells, crystal balls, crystals, beads, polished stones, straw effigies, shells, antlers and other marvels. Reynevan had heard of the lane, which was tolerated by councillors and the Legnica clergy. There were two reasons for that: the high duties which went to the town and the fact that the goods on sale had absolutely nothing in common with true magic. A glance was enough for Reynevan to be absolutely certain of it: the goods on the stalls were dominated by charlatanism, junk and trash.

Rixa stopped in front of a counter, behind which a black-haired girl was dusting the wares. Mainly dried frogs.

“We’re here to see Master Zbrosław.”

The black-haired girl looked at Reynevan, fluttered long eyelashes and vanished into the back. Reynevan surveyed the stall. He was surprised to suddenly see among the innumerable dried slimy creatures a horned lizard with a spiralling curled tail. He had seen a similar one in an illustration in the Grand Grimoire.

“The Master will see you.”

Master Zbrosław astonished Reynevan somewhat. He was certain that the vendor of dried frogs—Rixa’s contact, after all—had assumed a Slavic name just for cover. But inside, in a room smelling strongly of ginger, cloves and camphor, they were greeted by a real Slav. Broad-shouldered, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes, he was the spitting image of the legendary King Krak.

“Greetings. How may I help?”

“I’m Rixa Cartafila of Fonseca. Sent by… tzaddik Chalafta.”