“Both. The Inquisitor-priests reside at the Dominican monastery, a stone’s throw from here, and it’s as if the Devil himself has got into Starosta Kolditz. And all because they once caught a few Czech emissaries with heretical writings and declarations. When the municipal torturer gave them the red-hot irons, they revealed the names of their associates and accomplices. In Świdnica alone, eight of them were burned at the stake on the common outside the Lower Gate. But the real trouble began a week ago, when at high noon on Saint Bartholomew the Apostle’s Day, someone murdered a wealthy merchant, Master Mikołaj Neumarkt, on the Wrocław Road. It was a strange affair, most strange—”

“Strange?” Reynevan asked, suddenly taking an interest. “Why?”

“Because, young sir, no one could understand who would have killed Master Neumarkt or why. Some said that it was robber knights, like Hayn of Czirne or Buko of Krossig. Others that it was that cut-throat Kunz Aulock. They say that Aulock is hunting all over Silesia some young blade or outlaw who dishonoured somebody’s wife with rape and sorcery. Others say that the young blade Aulock’s pursuing killed the merchant. And still others say that the murderers are Hussites with whom Master Neumarkt fell into disfavour. No one knows what really happened, but Starosta Kolditz is furious. He swore that when he catches Master Neumarkt’s killer, he’ll flay him alive. Hence, you can’t deliver any goods, because someone’s always searching you.”

Reynevan, who for some time had been scribbling in charcoal on a sheet of paper, suddenly jerked his head up and elbowed Samson Honey-Eater.

“Publicus super omnes,” he said softly, showing him the sheet of paper. “Anne de sanctimonia. Positione hominis. Voluntas vitae.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Voluntas vitae. Or perhaps potestas vitae? I’m trying to recall what was written on that charred paper of Peterlin’s, the one I pulled out of the fire in Powojowice. Have you forgotten? You said it was important. I was supposed to try to recall what was written on it, so I’m trying to do so.”

“Ah, indeed. Hmm… Potestas vitae? Alas, it means nothing to me.”

“And Master Justus is still nowhere to be seen,” Unger said to himself.

The door opened as though a spell had been uttered and an elderly gentleman stood in the doorway, dressed in a flowing black, fur-lined coat with very wide sleeves. He didn’t look like an artist. More like a burgermeister.

“Greetings, Justus.”

“By the bones of Saint Wolfgang! Paul? Is it you? At liberty?”

“Evidently. And I’m called Scharley now.”

“Scharley, hmm… And your… compagnoni?”

“Also at liberty.”