The road outside the Lower Gate leading to Rychbach along the valley of the River Piława was part of the important Nysa-Dresden trade route and as such very congested. So congested, it began to irritate Scharley’s sensitive nose, which led to a discussion of Gutenberg, although surprisingly not regarding his invention of printing.

“Inventors like Master Gutenberg et consortes,” the penitent griped, shooing flies off himself, “might finally invent something practical. Another means of transport, let’s say. Some sort of perpetuum mobile, something that propels itself without the need to rely on horses or oxen. Oh, I tell you in sooth, I dream of something that travels by itself, without polluting the environment at the same time. What do you say to that, Reinmar? Or you, Samson, O philosopher from the beyond?”

“Something that propels itself and doesn’t stink,” wondered Samson. “Moves by itself, but doesn’t foul the road or poison the surroundings. A tricky dilemma, indeed. Experience suggests that the inventors will solve it, but only partially.”

Scharley might have intended to ply the giant with questions about the meaning of his comments, but he was disrupted by a rider, a scruffy man on a skinny nag, hurrying bareback towards the head of the column. Scharley brought his frightened chestnut under control, shook his fist at the scruff and sent a stream of invective after him. Samson stood up in his stirrups and looked back from where the scruff had galloped. Reynevan—who was quickly gaining experience—knew what Samson was looking for.

“A guilty person always behaves suspiciously,” Reynevan said. “Somebody frightened that fugitive. Somebody coming from the city—”

“—scrutinising every traveller,” Samson completed his sentence. “Five… No, six armed men. Several with emblems on their tunics showing a black bird with outstretched wings…”

“I know those arms—”

“So do I!” said Scharley harshly, tugging on his reins. “To horse! After that skinny mare! Ride! Like the wind!”

Close to the head of the column, the road entered a gloomy beechwood. They rode into the trees and hid themselves in the bushes, from where they watched six horsemen ride by, on both sides of the road, examining everybody, scrupulously looking into wagons and under tarpaulins. Reynevan knew them all: Stefan Rotkirch. Dieter Haxt. Jentsch of Knobelsdorf. And Wittich, Morold and Wolfher Stercza.

“Aaaye,” Scharley drawled slowly. “Yes, Reinmar. You thought you were wise and the whole world stupid. I regret to inform you that you were in error, for the rest of the world has already seen through both you and your naive plans. It knows you’re heading to Ziębice and your sweetheart. As I said, there’s no sense in going to Ziębice. None. None at all. Your plan is… what’s the word…”

“Scharley—”

“Got it! Absurd.”

The argument was brief, sharp and quite pointless. Reynevan remained deaf to Scharley’s logic, and Scharley unmoved by Reynevan’s amorous yearnings. Samson abstained.