“Two heretics burned in all,” the Hospitaller said with a shrug. “Over the last three Sundays. In Brother Schwenckefeld’s time, there would have been twenty. Actually, a third will be burned any moment. The Reverend has caught a sorcerer. Apparently one of the Devil’s own. As we speak, he is undergoing a painful interrogation.”

“At the Dominican priory?”

“In the town hall.”

“Is Hejncze present?”

“He is, surprisingly.” The Teutonic Knight’s smile was a foul thing.

“This magician, who is he?”

“Zachary Voigt, an apothecary.”

“In the town hall, you say, Brother?”

“I do.”

Grzegorz Hejncze, interim Inquisitor for the Wrocław Diocese, was very young. The Wallcreeper wouldn’t have given him more than thirty years, which made them the same age. When the Wallcreeper entered the town-hall cellar, the Inquisitor was taking his meal. Sleeves rolled up, he was enthusiastically wolfing down kasha and pork straight from the pot. In the light of torches and candles, the scene was harmonious: the rib vaulting, oaken table, crucifix, candlesticks festooned with wax, colourfully glazed earthenware vessels—all combined to create a pleasant ambience.

The mood was utterly destroyed, however, by the piercing cries and howls of pain coming at regular intervals from a deeper crypt, the passage leading to which was illuminated, like the gates of Hell, by the crimson flickering of flames.

The Wallcreeper stopped by the steps and waited. The Inquisitor went on eating. Only when he had eaten everything, down to the very bottom of the pot, did he raise his head. The bushy joined eyebrows above sharp eyes lent him seriousness and made him look older than he was.

“You work for Bishop Konrad, don’t you?” he asked, recognising him. “Lord…”

“Lord Grellenort,” the Wallcreeper reminded him.

“Indeed.” Grzegorz Hejncze reticently gestured for the serving wench to clear the table. “Birkart of Grellenort, the bishop’s confidant and advisor. Sit down, please.”

The victim being tortured in the crypt wailed, screaming wildly and inarticulately. The Wallcreeper sat down. The Inquisitor wiped some traces of grease from his chin.

“I understand that the bishop has left Wrocław? He is travelling?”

“As you say,” replied the Wallcreeper.

“No doubt to Nysa? To visit Lady Agnieszka?”

The Wallcreeper didn’t react even with a flicker of his eyelid at the mention of the bishop’s latest lover, which was a closely guarded secret. “His Eminence doesn’t usually inform me of such details. Neither do I enquire. Whoever pokes his nose into bishops’ affairs risks losing it. And my nose is dear to me.”