For a long time, Reynevan said nothing.

“Samson,” he said at last. “Tell me—truthfully, if you are able—are you really…? Is what you said about yourself—”

“Ego sum, qui sum,” Samson interrupted gently. “I am who I am. Let’s spare each other the farewell confessions. They achieve nothing, excuse nothing and change nothing.”

“Scharley is a worldly wise and resourceful fellow,” Reynevan said quickly. “You’ll see, he’ll doubtless manage to contact somebody in Hungary who—”

“It’s time you left. Go, Reinmar.”

The entire valley was blanketed in thick fog. Fortunately, it was low-lying, right by the ground, so there was no risk—at least not for the moment—of getting lost. It was clear which way the highway ran, for it was marked by a row of crooked willows, wild pear trees and hawthorn bushes protruding from the white shroud. Far away in the dark, a small, indistinct, dancing light—the lamp of Hayn of Czirne’s troop—flickered and indicated the way.

It was very cold. When Reynevan crossed the bridge over the Jadkowa and entered the fog, he felt as though he were lowering himself into icy water. Oh well, he thought, it is September after all.

All in all, by reflecting light, the white sea of fog spreading all around offered decent visibility to the sides, but Reynevan rode in complete darkness and could barely see his horse’s ears. Paradoxically, it was darkest on the highway itself, in the avenue of trees and dense bushes. More than once, the bushes’ outlines were so evocatively demonic that the young man shuddered out of terror and involuntarily yanked at the reins, frightening his already timid steed. Each time, he rode on, laughing to himself at his own fearfulness. How on earth can one be afraid of bushes?

Two bushes suddenly barred his way, a third caught the reins and a fourth pressed what could only have been a spear blade to his chest.

Hooves stamped and the odour of horses and human sweat intensified around him. A flint and steel clanged, sparks showered around and lamps flared up. Reynevan squinted and leaned back in the saddle as one was shoved almost right into his face.

“Too pretty for a spy,” said Hayn of Czirne. “Too young for a paid killer. But appearances can be deceptive.”

“I am—”

He broke off and cowered in the saddle as something hard struck him in the back.

“For now, I decide what you are,” stated Czirne coldly, “and what you are not. For example, you’re not a corpse torn apart by crossbow bolts lying in a ditch. For the moment, thanks to my decision. Now be quiet, because I’m thinking.”

“What is there to think about?” asked Vitelozzo Gaetani. He spoke fluent German, but his sing-song accent gave away his Italian heritage. “Slit his throat and be done with it. And let’s go, because it’s cold and I want to eat.”