“Did you mark how disdainfully he said that, Sir Reinmar?” asked the tax collector with evident irritation. “In sooth, we all know that taxes are collected for worthy reasons, that they contribute to the common weal. That we must pay, because that is the order of things! Everybody knows it. And yet everyone hates tax collectors. They see me riding up and flee into the trees. They set dogs on me. They abuse me with profanities. And even those who pay look at me as though I were plague-ridden.”

“It’s a hard life,” said the goliard, winking at Reynevan. “Have you never desired to change it? Having so many opportunities?”

Tybald Raabe turned out to be a perspicacious and quick-witted fellow.

“Don’t fidget in the saddle,” he said quietly to Reynevan, riding up very close. “Put Ziębice out of your mind. Avoid Ziębice.”

“My friends—”

“You heard what the tax collector said,” interrupted the goliard. “It’s a noble thing to help one’s friends, but your friends look like people who can cope by themselves. Nothing will happen to your friends in Ziębice, but that town will be your undoing. Ride with us to Bardo, m’Lord Reinmar, and I’ll take you from there to Bohemia in person. Why are you staring so? Your brother was a close comrade of mine.”

“Close?”

“Very close. You’d be astonished how much we shared.”

“Nothing astonishes me now.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“If you and Peterlin really were comrades,” Reynevan said a moment later, “you’ll be happy to hear that his murderers have been punished. Kunz Aulock and his entire company are dead.”

“When you live by the sword, you die by the sword,” Tybald Raabe repeated the adage. “Did they die by your hand, m’Lord Reinmar?”

“Never mind whose.” Reynevan blushed slightly, detecting a note of mockery in the goliard’s voice. “The main thing is they’re dead, and Peterlin is avenged.”

Tybald Raabe said nothing for a long time and watched a raven flying over the treetops.

“I’m far from mourning Kyrie-eleison or bewailing Stork,” he said at length. “May they burn in Hell, they deserve it. But they didn’t murder Sir Piotr.”

“Who—” Reynevan spluttered. “Who then?”

“Plenty would like to know.”

“The Sterczas? Or somebody they incited? Who? Speak!”

“Quiet, m’lord, quiet. Be discreet. Better for it not to reach the wrong ears. I can’t tell you more than I heard myself—”

“And what did you hear?”

“That… dark forces are mixed up in it.”

Reynevan was silent for a while.

“Dark forces,” he repeated with a sneer. “Yes, I’ve also heard that. Peterlin’s rivals said it, that he prospered because the Devil helped him in return for selling his soul. And that the Devil would one day carry him off to Hell. Dark and devilish powers, indeed. And to think I considered you, Master Tybald Raabe, a serious and rational fellow.”