“Absolutely. For Brother Jan Schwenckefeld rejoiced and was heartened whenever a mysterious hand put to death a scoundrel, a heretic or a heretic’s henchman. Brother Jan would give silent thanks to that mysterious hand and say a prayer for him. There was simply one less scoundrel and thus Brother Jan would have more time for other scoundrels. For he considered it right and proper for sinners to live in terror, to tremble in fear both day and night, uncertain of his life, as the Book of Deuteronomy demands.”

“Fascinating, m’lord, quite fascinating. I shall ponder it, be certain.”

“You claim,” the Wallcreeper said a moment later, “and the view has already been sanctioned by numerous Popes and Doctors of the Church, that sorcerers and heretics are acolytes in one monstrous sect, a mighty army acting according to a great plan, concocted by Satan himself, to topple God and seize control of the world. Why, then, do you so fervidly spurn the thought that in this fight, the other side of the conflict has also founded its own… secret organisation? Why don’t you want to believe that?”

“Because,” the Inquisitor calmly replied, “no Pope or Doctors of the Church have sanctioned that belief. God doesn’t need any secret organisations when He has us, the Holy Office. I have seen too many madmen claim to be divine instruments, acting in accordance with a divine mission.”

“I envy you. You have seen much. Who would have guessed, given Your Reverence’s youth.”

“Hence,” Hejncze was not swayed by the mockery, “when I finally get my hands on that flying arrow, that self-appointed demon and divine instrument, it will by no means end in martyrdom, which that person certainly hopes for, but incarceration in the Narrenturm. For the Tower of Fools is the place for idiots and lunatics.”

Boots scraped on the stairs to the crypt, from which no cries had been heard for a long time.

Soon after, a thin Dominican entered the room. He approached the table and made a deep bow, revealing a bald pate dotted with brown liver spots over the sparse garland of his tonsure.

“Well?” Hejncze asked with visible aversion. “Brother Arnulph? Did he finally confess?”

“Indeed.”

“Bene. For it was beginning to weary me.”

The monk raised his eyes. There was no aversion in them. Nor weariness. It was clear that the procedure in the crypt hadn’t tired or repulsed him in the slightest. On the contrary, it was apparent he would gladly begin again. The Wallcreeper smiled at his kindred spirit. The Dominican didn’t smile back.

“And?” the Inquisitor urged.