“Go, then, m’lord,” he said. “But if you happen to change your plans, if you prefer Bardo and the way to Bohemia, you’ll easily catch up with us. We’ll be riding slowly, and we mean to stop for a long break near Ścibor’s Clearing. Will you remember it?”

“I shall.”

The farewell was perfunctory, the customary good wishes for happiness and divine auxilia. Reynevan reined his horse around. Seared into his memory was the look Stietencron’s daughter gave him on parting. A childish, cow-eyed look, from watery eyes full of longing under badly plucked eyebrows.

What a fright, he thought as he galloped through the wind and the rain. What a freak. But at least she can discern and appreciate a good-looking man.

His horse had gone about a furlong before Reynevan thought it over and realised how stupid he was.

When he ran into them near a large oak, he wasn’t even especially surprised.

“Oh! Oh!” yelled Scharley, reining in his prancing horse. “God bless my soul! If it isn’t our Reynevan!”

They dismounted and a moment later, Reynevan was groaning in the warm-hearted but rib-threatening embrace of Samson Honey-Eater.

“Well, I never,” said Scharley in a slightly altered voice. “He escaped from the Ziębice assassins, and from Lord Biberstein and Stolz Castle. All credit to you. What a talented young man he is, Samson. He’s barely been with me a fortnight, and see how much he’s learned! He’s become as crafty as a Dominican, the bugger!”

“He’s travelling to Ziębice,” observed Samson, his cool tone tinged with a hint of emotion, “which testifies conclusively against cunning. And good sense. Well, Reinmar?”

“I consider the Ziębice affair over,” said Reynevan, clenching his teeth. “Nothing connects me to Ziębice now, or links me to the past. But I feared they had caught you there.”

“Them? Catch us?” said Scharley. “You must be joking!”

“I’m glad to see you,” Reynevan said. “I’m really delighted.”

“We’ll have a good laugh when we share our stories, no doubt.”

The rain had grown stronger and the wind was tossing the trees around.

“Scharley,” said Samson. “I don’t think there’s any point continuing to follow the trail. What we planned no longer has either purpose or sense. Reinmar is free, nothing is holding him back, so let’s spur our horses and ride towards Opava and the Hungarian border. I suggest we leave Silesia and everything that’s Silesian behind us. Including our desperate plans.”

“What plans?” asked Reynevan curiously.

“No matter. Scharley, what do you say? I advise abandoning our plans. And terminating the contract.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Later, Reinmar. Scharley?”

The penitent cleared his throat loudly.

“Terminate the contract?” he said, parroting Samson.

“Indeed.”

Scharley was evidently fighting against himself.