“The money,” said the Fuggers official, folding his arms, “belongs to the person who, in September 1425, ordered the robbery on the tax collector and the theft of the money he had collected. That same black wagon, which was snatched from under your nose then, is now carrying treasure to Otmuchów, a stronghold whose walls are meant to guarantee safety and be protection from robbery. I know the wagon’s route and I know it has a small escort so as not to attract attention. What do you think, m’Lord Scharley? Wouldn’t it be a perfect chance for revenge? Wouldn’t it be a piece of historic justice and moral recuperation to rob the robber of what he robbed? If you undertake the task I am commissioning, the wagon will be yours, I’ll place it in your hands, you will intercept it before it reaches its destination. You must make a swift decision. And something tells me I know what it will be.”

The bells of Bytom were sounding the alarm. The buildings of Bleiberg mine were burning, smoke completely blotting out the sky. As the fire devoured the sheds, the blazing tower with the winding gear collapsed in an explosion of sparks. Shapes of riders flashed among the flames, destroying and setting light to whatever they could. They were the Fire Starters, Scharley’s sabotage-storm unit, crack Polish and Moravian horsemen.

What am I doing here? wondered Reynevan. What am I doing here?

The bells tolled, the fire raged, the mine disappeared in the fire. Reynevan and the Fuggers clerk watched from the edge of a forest on a hillside.

“Bytom,” said Reynevan, nodding, “will utterly collapse because of this loss.”

“That’s the whole point,” said the clerk, looking at him as though in surprise. “For it to collapse.”

“Who did the shaft belong to?”

“Of what interest is it to you? Let’s go. There’s no need to stay.”

“Let’s go,” said Reynevan, turning around in the saddle. “Let’s go, Samso—”

He froze, his words stuck in his throat. There was no giant rider on a huge horse beside him, though he could have sworn that there had been, that a moment before Samson had been on his right-hand side. But no one was there.

“Did you say something?” asked the official. “Reinmar?”

“Let’s go.”

They rode through trees, down the left bank of the small river called the Kłodnica. Ten of them: Reynevan, the clerk and four of his servants, and an escort of four Fire Starter soldiers. Around noon, they noticed a large cloud of smoke rising above the wall of forest to the north, around half a mile away.