Silence fell. It felt to Reynevan as if a cold draught had blown through the room. From the window, from the Dominican monastery a stone’s throw away, where the Inquisition resided.

“When they burned Huss at the stake in Konstanz,” Unger plucked up the courage to break the long silence, “they say a dove flew up with the smoke and ashes. They say it was an omen, that a new prophet was coming—”

“Because that’s also the times we live in,” Justus Schottel suddenly exploded, “when someone can just write out a few theses and stick the fuckers up on some church door. Shoo, Luther, off the table, you cheeky cat.”

There was another long silence in which only the contented purring of the cat Luther could be heard.

Scharley interrupted the silence.

“Blow dogmas, doctrines and reforms,” he said, “I’d like to say that one thought pleases me greatly. If you print a load of books using your invention, m’lord, then perhaps people will start to learn to read, knowing there are things to read? After all, not only does demand create supply, but also vice versa. For in the beginning was the word, in principio erat verbum. Obviously, under condition that the word—meaning the book—must be cheaper than, if not a pack of cards, then at least a demijohn of vodka, since it’s a matter of choice. Do you know what, Master Johannes Gutenberg? Brushing aside its flaws, after profound analysis, I’m coming to the conclusion that this invention of yours may actually be epochal.”

“You took the words out of my mouth, Scharley,” said Samson Honey-Eater. “My thoughts entirely.”

“In that case,” the scholar’s face lit up again, “if you’d like to sponsor—”

“No.” Scharley cut him off. “I wouldn’t. It’s all well and good being epochal, but I’m running a business here, Master Gutenberg.”

Chapter Sixteen

In which Reynevan, as noble as Perceval and just as stupid, hastens to somebody’s rescue and defends them. As a result, the entire company has to flee. Very smartly.

“Basilicus super omnes,” said Reynevan. “Annus cyclicus. Voluptas? Yes, most certainly voluptas. Voluptas papillae. De sanctimonia et… Expeditione hominis. Samson!”

“Yes,”

“Expeditione hominis. Or positione hominis. On the charred paper. The one from Powojowice. Ring any bells?”

“Voluptas papillae… Oh, Reinmar, Reinmar.”

“I asked if it rings any bells!”

“No, alas. But I keep thinking about it.”

Reynevan did not comment, although in spite of Samson Honey-Eater’s assurances, he appeared to be doing more dozing than thinking as he rode along on the sturdy, mousy gelding, the horse that Justus Schottel, the master wood carver from Świdnica, had provided on the basis of the list Scharley had drawn up.