Scharley once again demonstrated that if he couldn’t actually read minds, he could unerringly hypothesise on the basis of evidence. The sight of the Sterczas had awoken in Reynevan such a savage lust for revenge that he was ready to pursue them immediately, wait for nightfall, then sneak up and cut their throats as they slept. But he was restrained not only by good sense, but also by paralysing fear. He awoke several times, covered in cold sweat, from a dream in which he was captured and taken to a torture chamber in the dungeons of Sterzendorf. The dream was horrifyingly realistic regarding the instruments assembled there, and Reynevan went hot and cold by turns whenever he recalled them. Shivers also ran down his back and his heart skipped a beat whenever dark shapes loomed up at the side of the road, until careful examination revealed them to be juniper bushes rather than the Sterczas.

Things got even worse when Scharley and Samson changed the subject and began a discussion from the fields of history and literature.

“When the troubadour Guillem of Cabestany,” said Scharley, glancing meaningfully at Reynevan, “seduced the wife of the Lord of Château-Roussillon, he had the poet killed and disembowelled, then ordered the cook to fry his heart and give it to his unfaithful spouse to eat. Then she threw herself from a tower.”

“So runs the legend, at least,” replied Samson, displaying an erudition that was stupefying when juxtaposed with his gormless expression. “You can’t always give credence to master troubadours; their verses about the amorous conquests of married ladies more often express desires and dreams than describe actual events.”

“Indeed,” Scharley agreed. “What about Lord Saint-Gilles? He had the troubadour Peire Vidal’s tongue cut out for writing a suggestive canzone about his wife.”

“According to legend.”

“And then there’s Daniel Carret. As punishment for sleeping with his wife, the Baron of Faux hired thugs to kill him and then had a goblet made from his skull, from which he still drinks.”

“That’s all true,” said Samson, nodding. “Aside from the fact that he wasn’t a baron but a count. And he didn’t kill the poet, he imprisoned him. And he didn’t have a goblet made, but a decorated pouch. For a signet ring and loose change.”

“A po—” Reynevan said, choking. “A pouch?”

“A pouch.”

“Why have you suddenly turned blue, Reinmar?” Scharley asked, pretending to sound concerned. “Are you perhaps unwell? After all, you’ve always claimed that great love demands sacrifices. And a pouch? A pouch is a trifle.”

They had just heard the sound of a bell from a nearby church—in the village of Lutom, Scharley claimed—when Reynevan stopped and raised a hand.

“Hear that?”

They were at a crossroads, beside a crooked cross and a carved figure eroded by the rain into an amorphous lump.

“They’re goliards,” stated Scharley. “They’re singing.”