“My eye, strength and guts grow weak,” he added, pouring aqua vitae from a carafe into cups. “Worry corrodes my life and sighing corrodes my years. Oppression has weakened my strength and my bones have grown feeble. In other words, Reinmar, there is no bloody joy in old age. But that’s enough about me. Tell me how you are. Apparently, your lady… Is it true?”

“It is.”

“And our good friend Samson…”

“True, too.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” said the reverendissimus doctor, lifting his cup and taking a large sip. “A great pity. And you were at the Battle of Lipany, they say… They say men were burned alive in barns there, hundreds of men. The horror, the horror. And what now, tell me? What will happen now?”

“It is the end of an era. A turning point. Bohemia is like a boiling cauldron…”

“And the scum rises to the top,” guessed Bezděchovský. “Right to the very top, as usual. What about you? Will you fight on?”

“No. I’ve suffered defeat. In everything. I’ve had enough.”

“It fell on us to live in interesting times,” said the old man with a sigh. “Interesting indeed. And ridiculous and terrible… Fortunately, little of this life remains—”

“What do you mean, Master…?”

“Little, little. All that is keeping me alive is this beverage. This inebriating beverage. Aqua vitae,” said Bezděchovský, raising his cup, “is quite simply aether, which removes impure substances from the body and restores fluidity and vibrance to viscous and indolent blood. An extract of the highest harmony is contained in vodka, as it is in the quintessence. Aqua vitae acts like its name. It’s the water of life, a life-giving fluid which can extend our days—why, even drive away death and delay our demise… Oh, I’ve said enough! Let us drink!”

“Master.”

“Go on, son.”

“I shall not tarry in Prague for long. I’m returning to Silesia. I have… scores to settle there. I visited you because… I have a request. Curious enough that I dare not ask either Telesma or Edlinger Brehm… I can only ask you. In the hope that you will want to understand…”

“Fire away. What do you need?”

“Poison.”

“I have everything you asked for, Master Jan,” said the librarian, Štěpán of Drahotuše, glancing at Bezděchovský and Reynevan suspiciously as he dumped an armful of books on the table. “Turba philosophorum, that is a translation of Mushaf al-gama. Sirr al-asrar, or Secretum secretorum, in the original. Should you have difficulty with the Arabic, please ask for Teggendorf’s help. Arnoldus of Villa Nova’s Epistoła de dosibus tyriacalibus. And a rare find: Guglielmo of Corvi’s Questiones de tyriaca. I wonder why you need those last two works? Do you mean to poison someone?”