“You don’t have to answer,” continued Scharley, mockery even more evident in his voice. “I understand. You have too little knowledge and skill; you’re but a novice of the secret arts, barely a sorcerer’s assistant. A fledgling of magic who will one day grow into an eagle, a Merlin, an Alberich or a Maugris. And thus, woe betide—”

He broke off, seeing on the road what Reynevan was seeing.

“Our friends the witches really weren’t lying,” he whispered. “Don’t move.”

In the clearing, head bowed and nibbling grass, stood a horse. A fine saddle horse, a light palfrey with slender cannons, chestnut coat and darker mane and tail.

“Don’t move,” Scharley repeated, dismounting gingerly. “This might be an unrepeatable opportunity.”

“That horse is somebody’s property,” said Reynevan firmly. “It belongs to somebody.”

“Indeed. To me. As long as you don’t frighten it. So don’t.”

Seeing the penitent approaching very slowly, the horse raised its head high, shook its mane and gave a long snort, but didn’t take fright and allowed him to grasp its bridle. Scharley stroked its muzzle.

“It’s someone else’s property,” repeated Reynevan. “Not yours, Scharley. You’ll have to give it back to its owner.”

“Good people…” Scharley muttered softly. “I say, whose horse is this? See, Reinmar? No one’s coming forward. So res nullius cedit occupanti.”

“Scharley—”

“Very well, calm down, don’t trouble your fragile conscience. We’ll give the horse back to its rightful owner. On condition that we meet them. And may the gods save us from that, I entreat.”

His entreaties clearly didn’t reach their addressees or were ignored, for the clearing suddenly teemed with men on foot, panting and pointing at the horse.

“Is this your chestnut?” asked Scharley, smiling benignly. “Are you looking for it? You’re in luck. He was heading north at full gallop. I barely managed to stop it.”

One of the visitors, a large bearded man, observed him suspiciously. Judging from his dishevelled clothing and repugnant appearance, he was—like the others—a peasant. And like the others, he was armed with a stout stick.

“You stopped him, so you deserve credit,” he said, jerking the bridle tether from Scharley. “And now be on your way.”

The others approached, surrounding him in a tight ring and the chokingly unbearable stench of agriculture. They weren’t free peasants, but the rural poor: landless tenants, labourers and shepherds. Arguing with people like that about a reward made no sense, which Scharley understood at once. He forced his way wordlessly through the crowd. Reynevan followed him.

“Hey.” A stocky, foul-smelling shepherd suddenly seized the penitent by the sleeve. “Friend Gamrat! Just letting them go? Without asking who they be? P’raps they’re them outlaws? Those two what the Strzegom lords are seeking? And promising a bounty for seizing them? Ain’t it them?”