“When fortune favoured me, it favoured me,” said Horn, nodding. “And when it abandoned me, it did so for good. I dreamed of a dead fish last night, dammit, and a dream like that always predicts misfortune. It is my bad luck and misfortune that you happened to find me today. You’ve become accustomed to me as a Hussite intelligence agent, so it may surprise you to learn I’ve come to Silesia in a different role this time. As a private individual. On a matter of personal importance.”

“Indeed. Well, I never.”

“I came to Silesia for private revenge,” said Urban Horn, ignoring the mockery. “Does it interest you to learn against whom? I shall tell you: against Konrad, Bishop of Wrocław. Isn’t it a strange coincidence? After all, you, too, Grzegorz, have a bone to pick with the bishop. How does the proverb run? The enemy of my enemy—”

“Horn!” said the Inquisitor, aiming the duck’s leg at him. “Let’s get one thing straight. My feud with the bishop is my business. But the bishop is the highest ecclesiastical authority in Silesia, a bulwark of stabilisation and a guarantee of order. A blow aimed at the bishop is one aimed at order; you won’t draw me into anything of the kind. Don’t even try. I know what you personally have against him. Just imagine, I investigated the matter of the Świdnica Beguines, I’m familiar with the documents from the trial and the report from your mother’s execution. While I may sympathise with you, I won’t cooperate with you. Particularly since I’m not entirely convinced by your intentions. You’re trying to persuade me that you are being driven by personal reasons, that you are seeking revenge, that you have come to Silesia with mercenaries to that end. When for me, you were, are and will remain a Hussite spy; you act on behalf of our enemies. So, not in order to right the world? Not for Huss, against the errors, perversions and corruption of Rome? Not from a profound conviction regarding the need for reform in capite et in membris? But for your own private interest, for personal revenge? It makes no difference to me. Nor to the starving beggars I saw on my way, sitting among the ruins and the smoking remains of villages. It was you who burned down those villages, Urban Horn, you who condemned those people to misery and death by starvation.”

“There’s a war on,” retorted the spy haughtily. “And war, if you’ll excuse the platitude, is cruel. Don’t put the blame on me, Grzegorz. I can also show you the burned-out settlements around Náchod and Broumov, the mutilated people there, the charred ruins and the graves of the dead, marking the routes of Catholic crusades!”

“I forgave you one platitude, the one about war. Don’t shower me with more.”

“Touché.”