“Are you playing the fool, Bielawa?” asked Ebersbach, without raising his voice. “Kantner would certainly drive you away, and perhaps also send you in chains to the castellan, if he knew somebody had dropped dead in Oleśnica. Yes, yes, don’t goggle at me. Young Nicolaus of Stercza is dead. Cuckolding Gelfrad is one thing, but the Sterczas won’t ever forgive you for killing their brother.”

“I never…” Reynevan said after a series of deep breaths, “I never laid a finger on Nicolaus, I swear.”

Ebersbach was clearly unimpressed by Reynevan’s oath. “And to complete the set, the lovely Adèle has accused you of witchcraft, saying you bewitched and took advantage of her.”

“Even if she did,” replied Reynevan after a short pause, “she was compelled to. On pain of death. She is in their grasp, after all—”

“No, she isn’t,” countered Ebersbach. “The lovely Adèle fled from the Augustinian priory, where she publicly accused you of devilish practices, to Ligota and the safety of the Cistercian nuns’ convent.”

Reynevan sighed with relief. “I don’t believe those accusations,” he repeated. “She loves me. And I love her.”

“Beautiful.”

“If you only knew how beautiful.”

“That’s as may be,” said Ebersbach, looking him in the eyes, “but it got quite ugly when they searched your workshop.”

“Ah. I was afraid of that.”

“You ought to be. In my humble opinion, the only reason the Inquisition isn’t on your back already is because they still haven’t finished cataloguing the devilry they found there. Kantner may be able to protect you from the Sterczas, but not, I fear, from the Inquisition. When news of that sorcery gets out, he’ll hand you over to them himself. Don’t come to Wrocław with us, Reynevan. Take my advice—split off before we get there and flee, hide somewhere.”

Reynevan didn’t reply.

“And by the by,” Ebersbach threw in casually, “are you indeed versed in magic? Because, you see, I recently met a maiden…

And… How can I put it…? An elixir would come in handy…”

Reynevan didn’t reply.

A cry sounded from the head of the entourage.

“What is it?” asked Ebersbach.

“Byków,” guessed Ciołek Krompusz, urging on his horse. “The Goose Inn.”

“And thanks be to God,” Jaksa of Wiszna added in hushed tones, “because I have a dreadful hunger after that sodding hunting.”

Reynevan still said nothing. The rumbling coming from his guts was all too eloquent.

The Goose was roomy and probably famous, for there were plenty of guests, both locals and visitors, judging by the horses, servants and soldiers bustling about. When Duke Kantner’s retinue rode into the courtyard with great flourish and noise, the innkeeper, who had been forewarned of their imminent arrival, dashed out through the doorway like a ball from a bombard, scattering poultry and splashing muck around. He hopped from foot to foot, bowing and scraping.