The campfires of the Tábor and the Orphans glowed bright all the way to the horizon. The smell of various soldierly vittles rose from the cauldrons hanging above the coals, but Reynevan found it none too appetising, despite his hunger. He walked, deep in thought, towards the farm buildings that the Hussites hadn’t burned down, in order to keep a small piece of roof over their heads. He expected to find Scharley and Samson there.

Suddenly a dainty figure emerged from behind a passing wagon. He smelled the faint scent of rosemary.

“Rixa?”

She materialised beside him, snugly wrapped up in a cloak with a close-fitting hood. She got down to business at once. Her voice was determined and harsh.

“Where and when will Prokop be crossing the Mulda?”

“I’m glad to see you, too.”

“Where and when will be the crossing be? Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But please do, if you’d be so kind. I’d finally like to hear whose cause you serve. I’d finally like to be certain.”

“I know you were present when they took the decision about the crossing,” Rixa continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “There are three fords on the Mulda. One here, near Grimma. Another downstream, in Dornau. The third upstream near the village of Kössern. Which one did Prokop choose? Tell me, Reynevan, I don’t have much time.”

“Nothing doing.”

“Listen,” she said, her feline eyes flashing in the light of a torch, glowing like a real cat’s. “This is important. You don’t know how important. I have to know. Tell me, or—”

“What?”

Rixa didn’t have time to answer, didn’t have time to react with a word, a gesture or an action. A shadow suddenly dashed out from behind a wagon. Reynevan heard the dull thud of a blow, Rixa groaning softly and the sound of a body falling. He tried to react but wasn’t quick enough. He heard the sound of a spell being uttered, detected the smell of ozone, typical for magic, and felt paralysis immediately overcoming him.

“Be quiet,” hissed Łukasz Bożyczko. “And don’t do anything you might regret.”

“You’ve killed her.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said the deacon, pushing Rixa with his foot and sliding the brass knuckles from his fingers. “I was only getting my revenge for Racibórz. She broke two of my teeth then. I took her sex into consideration, not wanting to spoil her looks with a scar or a bruise, so I thumped her in the back of the head. But enough of trifles, I’m here on an important mission. Where is Prokop going to cross the Mulda?”

“I don’t know.”

“And do you know that your ignorance may have very ill consequences,” said Bożyczko after a brief silence, “for Jutta of Apolda?”