“The testimonies have been recorded. He revealed all, beginning with summoning and raising a demon, through theurgy and conjuration to tetragramation and demonomagy. He furnished the content and ritual of signing a pact. He described the persons he has seen during sabbaths and black masses… But did not reveal, in spite of our efforts, the place where the magical books and grimoires are concealed. But we forced him to give the names of people for whom he created amulets, including lethal ones. He also confessed that he had forced a virgin to acquiesce and then seduced her with the Devil’s help and the use of the Urim and Thummim—”

“What nonsense is this, Brother?” Hejncze thundered. “This nonsense about demons and virgins? What about contacts with the Czechs? The names of Taborite spies and emissaries? The locations of hidden weapons and propaganda materials? The names of recruits? The names of Hussite sympathisers!”

“He didn’t reveal any such thing,” stammered the monk.

“Then you will work on him again tomorrow,” Hejncze said, standing up. “Lord Grellenort—”

“Give me a little more of your time.” The Wallcreeper’s eyes flicked to the thin monk.

The Inquisitor dismissed the monk with an impatient wave. The Wallcreeper waited until he left.

“I would like to prove my goodwill,” he said. “On the understanding that it will remain a secret in the case of those mysterious murders, I would advise Your Reverence—”

“Just please don’t tell me that the Jews are to blame,” said Hejncze, still looking down and drumming his fingers on the table. “Using the Urim and Thummim.”

“I would advise the apprehension—and thorough interrogation—of two individuals.”

“Names.”

“Urban Horn. Reinmar of Bielawa.”

“The brother of that murdered man?” Grzegorz Hejncze frowned, but only for a moment. “Ah. No comment, no comment, Sir Birkart, because you’re liable once again to point out my lack of knowledge of the Bible, this time with regard to the story of Cain and Abel. So those two. Can I rely on this?”

“You can.”

For a moment, they glared at each other. I shall find both of them, thought the Inquisitor, and quicker than you think. I will do my utmost.

And I will do mine, thought the Wallcreeper, to make sure you don’t find them alive.

“Farewell, Lord Grellenort. May God be with you.”

“Amen, Your Reverence.”

The apothecary Zachary Voigt moaned and groaned. He had been thrown into a corner of the cell in the town-hall crypt, into a hollow where all the water that trickled down the walls gathered. The straw there was rotten and damp. The apothecary couldn’t, however, change his location. In fact, he could barely adjust his position at all on account of his bruised elbows, dislocated shoulders, broken shins, shattered fingers and the acute pain shooting from the festering burns on his sides and feet. So he lay on his back, moaning, groaning and blinking his blood-encrusted eyelids. And was delirious.