“If we knew,” Dzierżka of Wirsing’s eyes flashed dangerously, “they wouldn’t be doing any more killing. But fear not, we’ll find out. And you stay away from it—”

“Does the name Horn mean anything to you?” interrupted Reynevan. “Urban Horn?”

“No,” she replied, and Reynevan knew at once she was lying. Scharley shot him a glance that told him not to ask any more questions.

“Stay away from it,” repeated Dzierżka. “It’s a dangerous matter. And you have—if one is to believe the rumours—enough worries of your own. Folk are saying that the Sterczas are determined to catch you. That Kyrie-eleison and Stork are hunting you like wolves, that they’re on your trail. And finally, that Sir Guncelin of Laasan has offered a bounty for two rascals—”

“Rumours,” interrupted Scharley. “Gossip.”

“Perhaps. Still, such things have led many a man to the gallows, so I’d advise you to steer clear of the highways. And instead of Bardo, where you claim to be heading, I’d suggest you choose another, more distant town. Like Pressburg, for example. Or Esztergom. Or even Buda.”

Scharley bowed respectfully. “Sound advice,” he said, “and thanks for that. But Hungary is far, far away, and lacking a horse, I have to walk—”

“Don’t beg, Scharley. It doesn’t suit you— Bugger!”

She sprang up again, rushed over to the window and hurled more insults at a man handling a horse carelessly.

“Let’s go outside,” she said, adjusting her hair, her bosom heaving. “If I don’t supervise them myself, the whoresons will cripple those colts.”

“A nice little herd,” said Scharley once they were outside. “Even for the Skałka stud. There’s a pretty penny to be made if you sell it.”

“Fear not.” Dzierżka of Wirsing gazed at her horses in delight. “Castellans are in demand, cobs, too. Noblemen forget their miserliness where horses are concerned. You know what it’s like: every man wants to be proud of his horse and his entourage on an expedition.”

“What expedition is that?”

Dzierżka cleared her throat and looked around. Then grimaced.

“For the betterment of this world.”

“Oh,” guessed Scharley. “The Czechs.”

“Better not to talk about that too loudly.” The horse trader grimaced even more. “The Bishop of Wrocław is said to be coming down hard on the local heretics. Many towns I passed had gibbets creaking with hanged men, often accompanied by the smoking embers from burnings.”

“But we’re not heretics. So why should we be afraid?”

“Where stallions are being gelded,” said Dzierżka, “it’s best to keep an eye on your own balls.”