Fog was rising from the bog as it sagged and squelched under the horses’ hooves. Frogs croaked, bitterns boomed and wild geese gaggled. Ducks quacked anxiously and took off, splashing water. Something large, probably an elk, was cracking branches in the backwoods.

“What Scharley did,” said Samson, “he did for you. You wrong him with your condemnation.”

“A crime…” Reynevan cleared his throat, “is always a crime. Nothing can justify it.”

“Indeed?”

“Nothing. One cannot—”

“Do you know what, Reynevan?” For the first time, Samson manifested something like impatience. “Go and play chess. That will be to your taste—black here, white there and all the fields square.”

“How do you know I was meant to be murdered at Stolz? Who told you?”

“A masked young woman, swathed tightly in a cloak, came to us at the inn during the night, escorted by armed servants. Does that surprise you?”

“No.”

Samson left it at that.

Even from a distance, it was apparent that there wasn’t a living soul in Ścibor’s Clearing. The Raubritters immediately gave up the stealthy approach they had planned and galloped into the clearing, thudding, stamping and yelling. Which only frightened some rooks feasting beside a fireplace ringed with stones.

The troop split up and ferreted about among the shacks. Buko of Krossig turned around in the saddle and fixed Reynevan with a dangerous look.

“Let him be,” Notker of Weyrach said. “He wasn’t lying. Somebody clearly made a stop here.”

“There was a wagon,” said Tassilo of Tresckow, riding closer. “Look, wheel tracks.”

“The grass was dug up by horseshoes,” Paszko Rymbaba reported. “There were plenty of horses!”

“The ash in the campfire is still hot,” announced Buko’s page, Hubert, a fellow advanced in years. “Mutton bones and pieces of turnip strewn around.”

“We’re too late,” Woldan of Osiny concluded gloomily. “The tax collector stopped here then moved on. We came too late.”

“Clearly,” snapped Buko. “Assuming the youth didn’t lie to us. For I don’t like the look of him, that Hagenau. Who pursued you in the night, boy? Who set those bats on you? Who—”

“Drop it, Buko,” Weyrach interrupted again. “You keep changing the subject. Go on, comitiva, ride around and search for tracks. We need to decide what to do next.”

The Raubritters split up again, some of them dismounting to search the huts. To Reynevan’s slight surprise, Scharley joined in the hunt. The white-haired mage, however, ignoring the commotion, spread out a sheepskin, sat down on it and removed a loaf of bread, a strip of dried meat and a wineskin from his saddlebags.

“M’Lord Huon,” said Buko, frowning, “don’t you consider it meet to aid in the search?”

The mage took a sip of wine and a mouthful of bread.

“I do not.”

Weyrach snorted. Buko swore under his breath. Woldan of Osiny rode over.