“Hard to believe,” Scharley agreed, “but true. There were plenty of witnesses. Including Hašek Sýkora. Remember him?”

“I do.”

“Hašek Sýkora has temporarily taken over Flutek’s position and responsibilities. And is, you ought to know, very favourably disposed to you. Does any reason suggest itself?”

“Two, even. Two warts, both in unpleasant and most troublesome places for a married man. I cured them using a magical unguent.”

“Good Lord,” said Scharley, raising his eyes heavenwards. “My heart swells when I see that there is still gratitude in this world. Suffice it to say that it was he who sent us to your aid. Ride, he said, to Sovinec and Šumperk and rescue Reynevan, he said, before they take him to Prague. Prague isn’t good for him. Whatever Reynevan did, he did, were his words. The Honourable Neplach, he said, had it in for him, but the Honourable Neplach has died. I have no opinion about the scandal, he said, and once Reynevan vanishes, the scandal will die down. So may the physician vanish, may he go where he wants. If he’s guilty, God will judge him; if he’s innocent, God help him. A decent sort.”

“God?”

“No. Hašek Sýkora. Enough chinwagging, laddie. Spur on your horse. See how Samson has drawn away. We’ve fallen behind.”

“Where’s he hurrying to?”

“Not to where, but to whom. You’ll see.”

The homestead, announced by the barking of dogs and the smell of smoke, was hidden behind a birch grove and a dense blackthorn hedge, above which poked the roof of a barn. Behind the barn were a shed and a granary beneath a thatched roof; then a wicket fence beyond which was an orchard full of squat plum and apple trees; then a farmyard, a white dovecote and a well with a sweep. And a house. A large log house with a shingle roof and a porch on posts.

They had barely ridden into the courtyard than a young woman ran down the steps of the porch. Reynevan recognised her even before her headscarf had slipped off as she ran, revealing luxuriant red hair. He recognised her by how she moved, and she moved as though she were dancing, gracefully, barely touching the ground, like a nymph, a naiad, or some other supernatural creature. She was dressed in a simple grey frock, calling to mind those gauzy and fantastic robes with which—for the sake of decency and also for the composition—artists covered the sensual bodies of their Madonnas and goddesses in frescos, paintings and miniatures.

Marketa ran up to Samson and the giant slipped from the saddle straight into her embrace. Having freed himself, he lifted the girl like a feather and kissed her.