Houžvička, the escort’s commander, was a grunting, muttering fellow, right from the outset of the journey dismissing any questions by grunting and muttering. It was some time before Reynevan realised that the name wasn’t Vička or Žvička, or even Ožvička. The remaining four soldiers weren’t very garrulous, either, seldom even talking among themselves. One might have been called Zahradil and another Smeták, but Reynevan couldn’t be certain.

“A long road ahead,” grunted Houžvička, “and we’re only in Libina—we haven’t even reached Šumperk. We must make haste and not rest.”

“You can see I’m wounded,” said Reynevan, pointing to the bandage wrapped around his head. “I have to change my dressing or gangrene will set in, I’ll become feverish and die here on the road. It won’t please them in Prague, believe me.”

Actually, the wound was healing well, the ear wasn’t swollen, the pulsating pain had eased and there was no infection. Reynevan simply wanted to rest his saddle-sore backside and delight in some warm, homemade food for the first time in ages, and a breeze was blowing quite appetising aromas from the little tavern nestling at a crossroads.

“It won’t please them in Prague,” he said again, putting on a gloomy face. “The guilty will be called to account, no question.”

Houžvička grunted and his grunting contained quite coarse epithets aimed at Prague, Praguians and being called to account.

“We’ll stop,” he finally agreed. “But not for long.”

Inside, in the empty common room, it transpired at once that Houžvička’s haste was feigned and his objections only for effect. With an eagerness equal to that of Smeták, Zahradil and the others, the escort commander threw himself at the Lenten żur soup, peas, dumplings and stewed cabbage, and with an enthusiasm to match his subordinates’, swilled the mugs of beer being brought by the breathless servants. Seeing them finishing one mug after the next over his bowl, Reynevan grew certain the journey would be delayed. And that they would stay the night in the little tavern outside the village of Libina.

The door creaked; the innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron and hurried to greet some new customers. And Reynevan froze with his spoon halfway to his wide-open mouth.

The arrivals—there were two of them—took off cloaks bearing the marks of a long journey made in conditions of oft-changing weather. One of them was of a great height and build and the floor thudded and shook under his feet. His head was closely shaven and he had the face of a child—a dim-witted one at that. The face of the other man, who was shorter and slimmer, was adorned with a scar across his chin and a large and distinguished aquiline nose.