They passed down Weavers Street, then Coopers Street—which echoed with the sound of hammers—and finally the High Street, which led to the town square. Reynevan was itching to stop at the celebrated apothecary’s shop The Golden Lindworm, for he was friendly with the apothecary, Christoph Eschenloer, with whom he had once studied the basics of alchemy and white magic. But he abandoned his plan; the last three weeks had taught him much about the principles of clandestine activity. Furthermore, Scharley was hurrying him along. He didn’t even slow down beside any of the beer cellars where they served the world-famous Świdnica March ale. They moved quickly through the busy vegetable market under the arcades directly opposite the town hall and squeezed past the wagons filling Kraszewice Street.

Reynevan and Samson followed Scharley under a low stone lintel into the dark tunnel of an entryway smelling as though the ancient tribes of the Ślężanie and the Dziadoszanie had been pissing there since time immemorial. The entryway exited into a courtyard, a narrow space cluttered with rubbish, scrap iron and enough cats to compete with the temple of the Egyptian goddess Bastet in Bubastis.

The courtyard ended in a horseshoe-shaped cloister with a wooden sculpture bearing faint traces of centuries-old paint and gilding, standing beside the steep steps leading up to the entrance.

“Some saint or other?”

“Luke the Evangelist,” explained Scharley, setting foot on the wooden staircase. “The patron saint of painters.”

“But why are we visiting these artists?”

“For various items.”

“We’re wasting time,” Reynevan pronounced impatiently, yearning for his beloved. “What items? I don’t understand—”

“We’ll find you some new footwraps,” interrupted Scharley. “You’re in urgent need of some, believe me. And we’ll also breathe more freely when you get rid of the old ones.”

Some cats reclining on the steps reluctantly moved out of their way. Scharley knocked and the solid door opened to reveal a short, scrawny, elderly gentleman with dishevelled hair and a blue nose, wearing a smock spattered with an explosion of colourful spots.

“Master Justus Schottel is absent,” he announced, narrowing his eyes comically. “Come back later, good… My God! I don’t believe my own eyes! The honourable—”

“Scharley,” the penitent quickly interjected. “Don’t make me stand on the threshold, Master Unger.”

“Indeed, indeed… Do come in…”

The interior smelled strongly of paint, linseed oil and resin and work was in full swing. Several youths in greasy, blackened aprons were bustling around two curious-looking machines equipped with screw mechanisms which turned out to be printing presses. In front of Reynevan’s eyes, a sheet of paper depicting the Madonna and the Infant Jesus was pulled out of a platen pressed down by a wooden screw.

“Interesting,” said Reynevan.

“Eh?” The blue-nosed Master Unger tore his gaze away from Samson Honey-Eater. “What’s that, young sir?”

“I said, it’s interesting.”