“Don’t open it till the morning,” said Scharley, pointing at the trapdoor in the floor. “They can stay down there. If they get angry, tell them I threatened to kill you. And as a matter of fact, there you go, give them a ducat each. Tell them it’s from me, as compensation. And here, have one yourself. For the damage and the inconvenience. Oh, blow it, take two. So that you will remember us with gratitude.”

The innkeeper eagerly took the money and swallowed loudly. Muffled cries, curses and dull thuds could be heard from under the trapdoor to the cellar. But the trapdoor was made of oak and sturdy.

“Never mind, noble sir,” said the innkeeper hurriedly, before Scharley could speak. “Let them rant and rage. I shan’t open it until tomorrow. I won’t forget what you said.”

“Indeed, it’d be better if you didn’t,” said Scharley, his expression and voice becoming a tone colder. “Samson, Reinmar, to horse. Reinmar, what’s the matter?”

“My ear—”

“Don’t moan and groan. If you mean to be stupid, you have to be hard.”

“How did you find me? How did you know?”

“It’s a long story.”

Chapter Five

In which Reynevan leaves his barely recovered friends on the island of Ogygia and continues on his way. In order to soon stand before a revolutionary tribunal.

They rode. First of all, at a gallop, slowing only when going uphill and in order not to exhaust their mounts. They rode so fast earth shot out from under their hooves. But when they were around a mile from the inn in Libina, when there were hills, forests, glades and bushes between them and Libina, they slowed down. There was no point rushing.

A warm spring wind was blowing from the mountains. Samson led, having ridden to the head of the cavalcade. Scharley and Reynevan rode side by side, not trying to catch up with the giant.

“Where are we going? Scharley? Where does this road lead?”

Scharley’s horse, a handsome black stallion, cavorted around, unwearied by the gallop. The penitent patted its neck.

“To Rapotín,” he replied. “It’s a village outside Šumperk. We live there.”

“You live here?” said Reynevan, mouth open in astonishment. “Here? In some Rapotín or other? And how did you find me? How the hell—”

“It was one of a sequence of absolute miracles,” said Scharley with a snort, “each one more miraculous than the last. It began three Sundays ago. The day Neplach croaked.”

“What?”

“Flutek has departed this life. Passed away. Florentibus occidit annis. In short, he died. Of natural causes, just imagine. Some predicted the noose, others wished him the noose, all in all no one doubted that the rascal would depart this world on the gallows. But in the end, he died like a babe, or a nun. Peacefully in his sleep. With a smile on his face.”

“Impossible.”