The cheese store had numerous openings in it, no doubt to provide free circulation of air for the drying rounds of cheese, but they also offered a panoramic view of the entire stronghold. Reynevan pressed his eye to a hole facing the tavern and the illuminated courtyard. He could see what was happening, though it was too far away to hear anything, but it wasn’t at all difficult to guess.

The council of war in the tavern was still going on, only a few men had left it. So the Sterczas were chiefly greeted in the courtyard by dogs, as well as some esquires and a handful of Raubritters, including Kuno of Wittram and John of Schoenfeld with his bandaged head. Actually, the word “greeted” is an overstatement, since few of the knights even looked up. Wittram and the other two were still devoting all their attention to a ram’s skeleton, from whose ribs they were stripping the last shreds of meat and shoving them into their mouths. Schoenfeld was quenching his thirst with malmsey, sucking it through a straw stuck between his bandages. The blacksmiths and merchants had gone to bed, the wenches, monks, goliards and Romani had prudently vanished, and the servants were pretending to be very busy. Which meant that Wolfher Stercza had to repeat his question.

“I asked,” he thundered from his elevated position in the saddle, “if you’ve seen a young man answering to the description I just gave you. Is he or was he here? Will somebody finally deign to answer my question? Have you gone deaf, damn you?”

Kuno of Wittram spat a mutton bone straight under the hooves of Stercza’s horse. Another knight wiped his fingers on his jerkin, glanced at Wolfher and slid the hilt of his sheathed sword into a better position to be drawn. Schoenfeld gurgled through the straw without looking up.

Rotkirch rode up, followed a moment later by Dieter Haxt. They both shook their heads under the enquiring stares of Wolfher and Morold. Wittich swore.

“Who has seen the fellow I described?” Wolfher repeated. “You, perhaps? Yes, you, big man, I’m talking to you. Have you seen him?”

“No,” answered Samson Honey-Eater, who was standing by the tavern. “I have not.”

“Whoever saw him and shows me where he is,” said Wolfher, leaning on his pommel, “will get a ducat. Well? Here is the ducat, in case you think I’m lying. Just point out the fellow I’m searching for. Confirm he is or was here. Whoever does it gets this ducat! Come on—who wants to earn some coin?”

One of the servants reluctantly walked over, looking around hesitantly.

“M’lord, I s—” he began. He didn’t finish, for John of Schoenfeld kicked him hard in the backside. The servant lurched forwards onto his hands and knees, then leaped up and fled, limping.