“Try this.” Scharley held up a sheet of paper taken from the other machine, on which several rectangles were evenly arranged. They were piquet cards: aces, Obers and Unters in modern French patterns and in the suits of piques and trèfles.

“We can make a full pack of thirty-six cards in four days,” boasted Unger.

“They do it in two in Leipzig,” replied Scharley.

“But that’s mass-produced junk!” the blue-nosed man said irritably. “From third-rate woodcuts, painted slapdash, cut crookedly. Ours, just look, are so clearly drawn, they’ll be masterpieces when they’re coloured in. That’s why they play with ours in castles and palaces, and those Leipzig ones are only fit for drinking dens and brothels—”

“Enough. How much does a pack cost?”

“Ex works’ll cost you ninety groschen. Carriage is extra.”

‘Take us through to the back, Simon. I’ll wait for Master Schottel there.”

The room they passed through next was quieter and more peaceful. Three artists were sitting at easels, so absorbed by their work they didn’t even turn their heads.

There was only a sketch on the first artist’s board and it was impossible to guess what the painting would finally depict. The work of the second painter was considerably more advanced, showing Salome with John the Baptist’s head on a plate. Salome was wearing diaphanous, flowing robes, and the artist had taken pains to ensure all the details were clearly visible. Samson Honey-Eater snorted softly and Reynevan gasped. When he glanced at the third board, he gasped even louder.

The painting of Saint Sebastian was almost finished. The subject differed quite markedly from the usual depictions of the martyr. He was still standing by a post, smiling ecstatically in spite of the many arrows piercing his belly and torso, but there the similarities ended. For this Sebastian was quite naked, sporting such a huge and impressive member that the sight of it would have shamed any man.

“A special commission,” explained Simon Unger. “For the Cistercian convent in Trzebnica. Let me take you through to the back room, gentlemen.”

The sound of frantic clanking and clattering reached their ears from nearby Coppersmiths Street.

“They evidently have plenty of orders,” said Scharley, who had been busily writing something on a piece of paper. “Business is booming in the copper trade. How are you doing, Simon, dear?”

“There’s a slump,” replied Unger quite gloomily. “Orders are coming in, but what’s the use when there’s no way of transporting the goods? You can’t ride a furlong without them stopping you to ask where you’re from, where you’re heading. They want to know your business, rummage around in caskets and saddle bags—”

“Who? The Inquisition? Or Kolditz?”