Scharley wasn’t particularly tall, even a little shorter than Reynevan, but that detail went unnoticed, since the erstwhile penitent was broad-shouldered, well built and no doubt strong, evidenced by the wiry, muscular forearms revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. Scharley refused to leave the Carmelite priory wearing a habit, and the costume he had been given was slightly outlandish.

The penitent had a rugged, lively face, endlessly changing, conveying a wide gamut of expressions. His aquiline nose bore the marks of an old fracture, and the dimple in his chin vanished into a faded but still visible scar. Scharley’s eyes, as green as bottle glass, were very strange. When you looked in them, your hand automatically checked to see if your purse was where it should be, and your ring still on your finger. Your thoughts anxiously ran to your wife and daughters back at home, and your faith in their feminine virtue was exposed in all its naivety. That’s how you felt when you looked into Scharley’s bottle-green eyes. His face definitely had more of Hermes than of Apollo about it.

They passed a large expanse of suburban gardens, then the Chapel and Hospice of Saint Nicholas. Reynevan knew that the hospice was run by the Knights Hospitaller and also that the order had its commandery in Strzegom. Recalling Duke Kantner’s instruction to head to Mała Oleśnica, he began to feel anxious. People might associate him with the Knights Hospitaller, so the road he had chosen wasn’t that of a hunted wolf; he doubted Canon Otto Beess would have applauded his choice, either. At that moment, Scharley proved his perspicacity for the first time. Or perhaps he really could read minds.

“No need to worry,” he said cheerfully. “Strzegom has a population of over two thousand, so we’ll vanish there like a fart in a snowstorm. Besides, you’re in my care, and I made a commitment.”

“I keep wondering,” replied Reynevan after the long pause he needed in order to cool down, “what a ‘commitment’ like this means to you.”

Scharley flashed his white teeth at a group of linen pickers marching in the opposite direction, buxom wenches in blouses open at the neck to reveal plenty of their sweaty and dust-covered charms. There were about a dozen of them and Scharley grinned at them all in turn, hence Reynevan gave up hope of ever hearing an answer.

“The question was philosophical,” answered the penitent, surprising him, and tearing his eyes away from the rounded behind of the last linen picker, jiggling beneath a shift wet with sweat. “I don’t usually answer those sober. But I promise I’ll give you an answer before sundown.”

“I don’t know if I can bear to wait, or if I’ll expire from curiosity before then.”