“That’s the first piece of good news. Thus let us pass both on this acquaintance and help from Dominicans. We’ll find the necessary funds some other way.”

“I wonder how.”

“By selling this well-crafted jug, for example.”

“It’s silver. Where did you get it?”

“I was walking around the market hall and looking at the stalls and it suddenly found itself in my pocket. It’s a mystery.”

Reynevan gasped. Samson gazed into his mug, looking longingly at the remains of the froth. Scharley, however, was busy observing a knight beneath a nearby arcade who was vehemently dressing down a Jew. The knight was wearing a crimson chaperon and a rich doublet decorated on the front with a coat of arms portraying a millstone.

“I will leave behind me Silesia as such with but one regret,” said the penitent. “Namely that five hundred grzywna the tax collector was carrying. Were it not for the circumstances, the money could have been ours. I confess I’m annoyed by the thought that a blockhead like Buko of Krossig got his hands on it, undeservedly and by accident. Or who knows, perhaps it was that Reichenbach who is presently abusing the Israelite? Or maybe one of those men by the leatherworker’s booth?”

“There’s a hell of a lot of knighthood and soldiery here today,” said Reynevan.

“Plenty. And look, more are arriving—”

The penitent broke off abruptly and sucked in air loudly. That very moment, the Raubritter Hayn of Czirne rode into the town square from Silver Mountain Street, which led from the dungeon gate.

Scharley, Samson and Reynevan didn’t wait. They leaped up from the bench, meaning to steal away without being noticed. Too late. Hayn himself saw them, as did Fryczko of Nostitz, who was riding beside him, and the Italian Vitelozzo Gaetani. At the sight of Scharley, the latter’s face, still swollen and disfigured by a fresh scar, paled in fury. The next second, the town square of Frankenstein resounded with yells and the thud of hooves. A moment later, Hayn vented his anger on the bench in the tavern, chopping it into matchwood with his battleaxe.

“After them!” he roared to his men. “Give chase!”

“Over there!” yelled Gaetani. “They went that way!”

Reynevan was running as fast as he could, barely keeping up with Samson. Scharley was leading, choosing the way, cunningly turning into a narrow lane and then weaving through gardens. The tactic appeared to be working—suddenly the rattle of hooves and shouts of the pursuers faded away. They rushed out into Lower Bath Street, its gutters full of soap suds, and turned towards the Ziębice Gate.

The Sterczas, chatting and lazily rocking in their saddles, with Knobelsdorf, Haxt and Rotkirch behind them, were riding up from the Ziębice Gate.

Reynevan stood transfixed.

“Bielawa!” bellowed Wolfher of Stercza. “We have you son of a dog!”