Father Felicjan swallowed loudly. And said nothing for a long time.

“What you want to know,” he finally mumbled, “is a secret matter of the Inquisition. Regarding heresy. It is a great secret.”

“Great secrets,” said the thug, impatience audible in his voice, “can also be sniffed out. And the greater the secret, the greater the reward. Look, here are twenty Rhenish gold pieces. I give them to you, they are yours. You can keep them when I release you, with no demands exacted. If, however, you supply me with information and it satisfies me, you’ll receive that sum five times over. A hundred florins, Gwisdek. That is five times more than the prebendaries you now receive annually from your two altarages. So think about it, do the reckoning. Perhaps it is worth the effort.”

Father Felicjan swallowed once more and his eyes flashed like a fox’s. The thug with the ordinary appearance bent over him and shone a lantern in his face.

“But know this: should you betray me…” he drawled. “Should you denounce me, should I be seized… Should any misfortune befall me, should I fall ill, be poisoned by food, choked by a fishbone, drowned in a clay pit pond or fall under the wheels of a speeding wagon… Then, Confessor, you may be sure that certain evidence will reach the people you have harmed. Whom you continue to try to harm. Included among them is Jan Sneschewicz, the bishop’s assistant curate. The latter is a determined fellow, as well you know. Should he learn of certain matters… They will fish you out of the Odra, Gwisdek. Before three days pass, they will fish your swollen corpse from the Sokolnicki weir. You see that, don’t you?”

Father Felicjan did. He cringed and nodded eagerly.

“You have ten days—and not a day longer—to obtain the information.”

“I shall do my best… If I succeed—”

“Better that you do… Better for you. Is that clear? And now you are free, you may go. Aha, Gwisdek.”

“Yes, m’lord?”

“Don’t roam about after dark. I’m counting on you, so it would be a shame for you to have your throat cut around here somewhere.”

The yellow curtain was still not hanging in the window of Otto Beess’s house in Shoemakers Street. Reynevan hadn’t especially expected to see it. He was there for a different reason. Their route simply led them along Shoemakers Street.

“Do you know where the canon went? To his home in Rogów?”

“Allerdings,” confirmed Allerdings. “He may stay there for some time. A hostile aura has settled on him in Wrocław.”

“Partly thanks to me.”