It’s just a prayer, Reynevan reassured himself. It’s just a coincidence…

He leaned over. The heat of the fever and an acrid smell of sweat emanated from the sick man. Reynevan placed his hands on his temples and began to slowly utter healing spells and invocations.

“Veni ad nos…” groaned the patient, “et esto nobiscum et dignare illabi cordibus nostris… Adsumus… Adsumus…”

Reynevan mumbled some spells. The sick man wheezed.

“Ex lux perpetua,” he said quite clearly, “luceat eis.”

The wagon rattled and creaked. The delirious man raved.

Reynevan was awoken by the scraping of the bolt and the creaking of the door being opened. The cold fresh air and the light shining in from the outside brought him to his senses. He squinted.

Fresh passengers were shoved into the wagon. Three men. The first, a broad-shouldered, moustachioed man in a knight’s doublet, recoiled instinctively at the sight of the sick man on the floor.

“Fear not,” Reynevan reassured him. “It isn’t catching. A fever, nothing more.”

“Get inside!” one of the mercenaries urged. “At the double! Do you need my help?”

The door to the wagon slammed shut, plunging the interior into darkness once again. The light was enough, however, for Reynevan to be sure he knew at least two of the three new arrivals sitting shoulder to shoulder opposite him. He was sure he’d seen their faces before.

“Since sad fate has brought us together,” the moustachioed man began, in a cautious and hesitant voice, “let us introduce ourselves. I am Jan Kuropatwa of Łańcuchów, miles polonus…”

“Bearing the Szreniawa arms,” said Reynevan, completing his sentence in Polish, “if I remember rightly. We met in Prague.”

“Well, I’ll be!” said the Pole, his suspiciously gloomy and fierce face lighting up. “Reynevan, the Prague sawbones! I remember! I thought you looked familiar, m’lord. And we’re all in the shit, by the plague.”

“Adsumus,” the sick man whined loudly, rolling his head. “Adsum…”

“Speaking of the plague,” said the other Pole anxiously, pointing at the man lying on the floor. “This one here—”

“The Honourable Reynevan is a medic, Jakub,” said Kuropatwa. “He is skilled around illnesses. If he says it’s not catching, we may believe him. If I may, Sir Reynevan: this good gentleman is Sir Jakub Nadobny of Rogów, of the Działosza coat of arms. And this one—”

“We’ve been introduced,” interrupted the third man, with a thrusting, slightly crooked jaw. “Klemens Kochłowski of Wieluń, do you remember? We’ve had the pleasure. It was in Toszek, last autumn. We discussed… business.”