“Why, Scharley,” said Samson, also throwing the dog some bread, “we are only a little over twenty miles from Opava, and from Opava to Hungary, it’s about eighty miles all told. It isn’t that much.”

“You studied the geography of the eastern marches of Europe in the beyond, I see.”

“I studied various things, but that’s not the point. The point is to think positively.”

“I always think positively.” Scharley sipped his beer. “Seldom is my optimism shaken. And then only by something serious. Something like, let’s say, the prospect of a long journey with a total lack of cash. With two horses—one of which has founder—between three men. And the fact that one of us is injured. How is your arm, Samson?”

The giant didn’t reply as he was busy with his beer, just moved his bandaged arm to show that it was in working order.

“I’m glad.” Scharley looked up at the sky. “One problem less. But the others won’t go away.”

“They will. At least partially.”

“What do you mean by that, dear Reinmar?”

“This time,” Reynevan raised his head proudly, “not your—but my—connections will help us. I have friends in Frankenstein.”

“Do you mean some married woman or other, may I ask?” said Scharley with a straight face. “A widow? A wealthy marriageable heiress? A nun? Or any other daughter of Eve?”

“Feeble jests. And vain fears. My friend here is the deacon of the Church of the Elevation of the Holy Cross. A Dominican.”

“Ha!” Scharley vigorously put his mug down on the bench. “If so, I think I’d prefer another matron. My dear Reinmar, do you by any chance suffer from persistent headaches? Do you feel nauseous or dizzy? Are you seeing double?”

“I know what you mean,” said Reynevan, brandishing a hand. “Domini canes, dogs, just a pity they’re rabid. At the Inquisition’s beck and call. Predictable, sir, predictable. Furthermore, you ought to know that the deacon I refer to is indebted to me, greatly indebted. Peterlin, my brother, once helped him out of grave financial difficulties.”

“So you think that means something. What is this deacon called?”

“What, do you know them all?”

“I know plenty. What’s his name?”

“Andrzej Kantor.”

“Financial difficulties appear to run in the family,” said the penitent a moment later. “I’ve heard of Paweł Kantor, whom half of Silesia was chasing for debts and swindles. And Mateusz Kantor, a curate from Długołęka, was imprisoned with me in the Carmelite priory. He lost a ciborium and a thurible at dice. I dread to think what your deacon lost.”

“That’s an old case.”

“You misunderstand me. I dread to think what he’s lost lately.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Reinmar, Reinmar. You’ve already met this Kantor, I presume?”

“I have indeed. But I still don’t—”

“How much does he know? What did you tell him?”

“Practically nothing.”