“David and Jonathan,” Justus Schottel said carelessly, “but I have to rework it—”

“Rework it into David and Bathsheba,” Scharley interrupted quite coldly, “because all that’s missing here is Balaam and the she-ass. Curb your imagination a little, Justus. The surfeit of it spoils the work, like a surfeit of salt spoils the soup. Which harms business. In general, though,” he added, to mollify the somewhat offended artist, “bene, bene, benissime, maestro. In brief: better than I expected.”

Justus Schottel brightened up, as vain and greedy for praise as any artist.

“So you see, Scharley, that I don’t let the grass grow under my feet. I’m looking after the company. I’ve also established some very promising contacts that may turn out to be most beneficial for the company. For I must tell you that I met in the Ox and Lamb an extraordinary young man, a talented inventor… Oh, why tell you, when you can see and hear for yourself. I’ve invited him here—he’s arriving forthwith. I guarantee that when you meet him—”

“I won’t,” interrupted Scharley. “I wouldn’t want that young fellow seeing me here at all. Neither me nor my companions.”

“I understand,” Schottel said after a moment’s silence. “You’re in the shit again.”

“You could say that.”

“Criminal or political?”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“Oh well.” Schottel sighed. “Such are the times we live in. I understand you don’t want to be seen here, but in this case your objections are unfounded. The young man I’m talking about is a German from Mainz, a scholar from the University of Erfurt passing through Świdnica. He knows no one here and won’t meet anyone, because he’s leaving soon. It would be worth making his acquaintance, Scharley, and pondering over what he’s invented. He’s a remarkable, enlightened mind, a visionary, I’d say. Vir mirabilis, in sooth. See for yourself.”

The bell of the parish church tolled deeply and resonantly, its call to the angelus prayer taken up by the bell towers of the four other Świdnica churches. The bells definitively ended the working day—even the noisy workshops in Coppersmiths Street finally fell silent.

The artists and apprentices had also left Master Justus Schottel’s workshop to go home, hence when the expected guest finally appeared—that promising enlightened mind and visionary—only the master himself, Simon Unger, Scharley, Reynevan and Samson Honey-Eater greeted him in the press room.

The guest was a young man indeed, the same age as Reynevan. The two scholars soon recognised one another. On greeting, the guest bowed slightly less formally to Reynevan and his smile was a little more sincere.