Reynevan could tell that they were now riding along a road by the change in the sound and the rhythm of hooves hitting the ground. He assumed it was the highway to Frankenstein, the largest town in the locality. He had lost his bearings, though, and was unable to deduce if they were riding towards the town or away from it. He decided not to kick himself, for the moment, or dwell on his own stupidity, and began to think feverishly, devising stratagems and plans for his escape.

“Heeeyy!” somebody screamed from the front. “Heeeyy!”

Lanterns flashed, picking out of the darkness the angular outlines of wagons and the silhouettes of riders.

“He’s here,” said Czirne quietly. “Punctual and at the agreed place—I approve of men like that. But appearances can be deceptive. Weapons at the ready. Signore Gaetani, remain at the rear and be vigilant. Lord Nostitz, keep an eye on your kinsman. The rest follow me. Heeeyy! Greetings!”

The lantern from the opposite direction was dancing to the rhythm of a horse’s steps. Three horsemen were approaching. One was stout, wearing a heavy, loose-fitting coat that also covered his steed’s rump, accompanied by two crossbowmen, identical to Czirne’s bowmen, wearing brigantines, kettle hats and iron collars.

“Sir Hayn of Czirne?”

“Master Hanusz Throst?”

“I like reliable and punctual men,” said the man in the coat. “I see that our mutual friends weren’t exaggerating when giving their opinion and recommendation. I’m content to see you and pleased to be collaborating. We may set off, I believe?”

“My collaboration is worth a hundred guilders,” replied Czirne. “Our mutual friends cannot have failed to mention that.”

“Certainly, but not in advance,” snorted the man in the overcoat. “You can’t have thought, sir, that I would agree to that. I am a merchant, a man of affairs, and in business the service comes first, the payment second. Your service: to escort me safely across the Silver Pass to Broumov. If you accomplish that, you will be paid. A hundred guilders, to the haler.”

“It had better be thus,” said Hayn of Czirne, with heavy emphasis. “Verily it had, Master Throst. Do you convey anything in the wagons, may I ask?”

“Goods,” Throst replied calmly. “What kind is my business. As is the man who will pay for them.”

“Naturally.” Czirne nodded. “Indeed, it is enough for me to know that you are a trader like those other men—Fabian Pfefferkorn, Mikołaj Neumarkt and the others.”

“It is probably best that you do not know more. We’ve conversed too much already—it’s time we left. Why linger at a crossroads, tempting the Devil?”