“Where?” asked the Ogończyk in surprise. “There’s no water around here.”

“Over there in the ditch,” Wołoszek pointed, “there’s a puddle. A small one, admittedly, but big enough for his head.”

The Głogów and Opole knights dragged Stork, yelling and struggling in his bonds, to the ditch, turned him upside down and shoved his head into the puddle, holding him by the feet. The yelling became a furious gurgling. Reynevan turned his face away.

It lasted a very long time.

Krzych of Kościelec returned, accompanied by another knight, also a Pole, with the Nieczuja coat of arms.

“He swallowed all the water in the puddle, the knave,” said the Ogończyk cheerfully. “It was the mud that choked him.”

“Time we were leaving, Your Grace,” added the Nieczuja.

“I concur,” Bolko Wołoszek agreed. “Listen, Reynevan. You can’t ride with me—I can’t hide you in Głogówek, or in Opole or Niemodlin. Neither my father nor my uncle Bernard will want a feud with Ziębice, and they’ll turn you over to Jan if he asks. And he will.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.” The young Piast squinted. “But I’m not convinced you understand. Thus, I’ll be blunt. Whatever direction you choose, avoid Ziębice. Avoid Ziębice, Comrade, I advise you as an old friend. Give the city and the duchy a wide berth. Believe me, there’s nothing for you there. Perhaps there was, but not now. Is that clear?”

Reynevan nodded. It was clear to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“Each will go his own way,” said the duke, tugging at the reins and turning his horse around. “You’re on your own.”

“Thanks again. I’m indebted to you, Bolko.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Wołoszek perfunctorily. “Anything for an old university pal. Oh, those were the days, in Prague… Farewell, Reinmar. Bene vale.”

“Bene vale, Bolko.”

Soon the sound of the Opole entourage had faded away, and Reynevan vanished into the birch wood on the dark bay castellan, until recently the property of Heinrich Hackeborn, the knight from Thuringia, who met his death in Silesia. It was now quiet at the crossroads; the magpies and jays had fallen silent and the orioles were singing again.

Barely an hour passed before the first fox began nipping at Kunz Aulock’s face.

The events on the Stolz highway became—at least briefly—a sensation, a juicy bit of gossip, a popular subject of conversation and rumour. Duke Jan of Ziębice went around frowning for several days, and prying courtiers put it about that he was cross with his sister, Duchess Euphemia, irrationally blaming her for everything. A rumour was also circulating that Lady Adèle of Stercza’s serving maid had her ears boxed for twittering and giggling when her lady was in no mood for laughter.