“There you go!” he said. “Magic! Levitation, gravitation. Reynevan, you levitate, for I saw it once when you were showing off to some girls. Every second man knows some spells, wears an amulet or drinks elixirs. Is it right to torture people for that, burn them at the stake? It is not. So they can stuff their excommunication. I’ll give you sanctuary. Here, over the apothecary’s shop, is a small room, you’ll stay there. But just don’t roam around the town, for there’ll be trouble.”

“It so happens,” muttered Reynevan, “that I must visit a few places—”

“I advise against it—”

“I must. You don’t own a talisman by any chance, do you, Achilles?”

“I own a few. What kind do you need?”

“A Pantaleon.”

“Ah!” The unguentarius slapped his forehead. “Indeed! Ha, true enough, that’s a solution. I don’t have one myself, but I know where to get one. It won’t come cheap. Do you have money?”

“I’m due some.”

“Not today, but tomorrow?” guessed Achilles Czibulka. “Very well, I’ll lend it to you and you can pay me back later. You’ll have your Pantaleon. And now let’s go to the Moor’s Head. We’ll have a bite to eat and something to drink. You can tell me about your adventures. There’ve been so many rumours I’m dying to find out…”

Thus, before the day was over, the fortunate Reynevan was offered in Wrocław money and a hideout—the two things a conspirator cannot operate without. He also had a comrade and an accomplice. For though Reynevan greatly abridged and censored the account of his adventures, Achilles Czibulka was so impressed that immediately after hearing it, he declared his willingness to help and his complicity in everything that Reynevan was planning.

As far as Reynevan was concerned, he harboured great hopes that his winning streak wouldn’t end, for he had great need of it. He had to find Canon Otto Beess. And there were risks attached to that. Otto Beess might be being followed, and his house under observation.

I’m pinning all my hopes… thought the lucky Reynevan, blissfully and happily falling asleep in the small room above the apothecary’s shop, on a creaking bed, under a musty feather-bed. I’m pinning all my hopes on the good fortune that has lately favoured me.

And on the Pantaleon.

When Reynevan hung the amulet around his neck and activated it, Achilles Czibulka stared goggle-eyed, his mouth fell open and he took a step back.

“Jesus, Mary,” he gasped. “Urgh, vile. What that bloody thing does to a fellow… Lucky you can’t see yourself.”