“That is the River Mulda,” said the bishop, running a finger along the blue line dividing the devils from the angels. “Prokop wants to march to Saxony, so he must cross it. He will most probably do it somewhere here, in the region of Grimma. Elector Frederick could make use of it. During the crossing, he could crush the heretics, could drown them in the Mulda like cats. He simply has to use his head and muster up the courage. Do you think, Grzesiu, that the prince elector will use his head?”

“I have grave doubts,” said the Inquisitor, raising his eyes, “regarding both the young prince elector’s head and his courage. So far, he hasn’t displayed much bravery in this campaign. Were I to search for classical comparisons, I wouldn’t compare him to Julius Caesar. Rather to Quintus Fabius Cunctator.”

“But among his closest advisers? Couldn’t anybody prudent and valiant be found in his circle? No Caesar? I’m not thinking about the Margrave of Meissen, he is even nicknamed ‘the Pliant.’ Nor Johann, the Prince Elector of Brandenburg, for he’s a fanatical character. Who else among them has the balls?”

“The churchmen, naturally,” said Grzegorz Hejncze, smiling. “Some, at least. Certainly Gunter of Schwarzburg, Archbishop of Magdeburg.”

“I expected you to mention him,” said Konrad, nodding. “Yes, Archbishop Gunter is a person capable of seeing the chance presented by the Hussites crossing the Mulda. He would be able to make use of the advantage, would be able to help Frederick plan and launch an attack. But we cannot speculate or rely on chance; Gunter must be told. Somebody has to ride like the wind to Leipzig with a message.”

The Inquisitor looked at the bishop pointedly and coughed into his fist.

“I know,” said Konrad, scowling as though he’d drunk vinegar. “I remember the Archbishop of Magdeburg bears a grudge against me for Grellenort. So I am compelled to rely on you, O Inquisitor. Gunter will listen attentively to your suggestions, he holds Inquisitors in high esteem, supports their work and actively participates in it. Crescit cum magia haeresis et cum haeresi magia, a day without a pyre is a wasted day; that is his motto. The results are there to be seen; for you won’t find a witch or a Jew in a radius of five miles from Magdeburg. I envy him. And regret things aren’t like that in Wrocław… Don’t take it to heart, Grzesiu.”

“I don’t. Let’s get to the point.”

“Do you have somebody for a mission like that?” asked the bishop, tearing his eyes away from the map. “Somebody who will go to Saxony, to Gunter of Schwarzburg. A man who is loyal, reliable and trustworthy?”

“I do. And since I predicted that he would be needed I brought him with me. He’s waiting in the anteroom. Shall I summon him?”

“Do.”