“You did,” replied Scharley. “So, the Inquisition is busy wringing testimonies out of those captives. And so you think they won’t have time for us for the present?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

The conversation that had to happen took place that evening.

“Horn.”

“I’m listening to you, laddie, most attentively.”

“You don’t have a dog now, no matter how it grieves you.”

“That cannot be denied.” Urban Horn’s eyes narrowed.

Reynevan cleared his throat loudly to attract Scharley’s attention, who was nearby playing chess with Tomasz Alpha using pieces formed from clay and bread.

“Neither will you find here,” he continued, “any hollow, or humours, or fluids. In short, nothing that could protect you from the necessity of giving me answers to my questions. The same ones I asked you in Balbinów, in the stable of my murdered brother. Do you remember what I asked you?”

“I don’t usually have problems with my memory.”

“Splendid. So giving me the answers you owe me shouldn’t cause you any problems, either. I’m ready. Start talking.”

Urban Horn placed his hands under his neck and stretched, then looked Reynevan in the eyes.

“Well, well,” he said. “How fierce. ‘Start talking.’ And if I don’t, what then? What will happen if I don’t answer your questions? Assuming, as I rightly believe, that I don’t owe you anything? What then? If I may ask?”

“Then you may get a beating.” Reynevan glanced to see if Scharley was listening. “Before you can say credo in Deum patrem omnipotentem.”

Horn said nothing for some time, continuing to lie with his fingers interlaced under his head.

“I’ve already said it didn’t completely surprise me to see you here,” Horn finally replied. “You blatantly ignored the warnings and advice of Canon Beess, mine also, which had to end badly for you. It’s a miracle you’re still alive. But you’re in prison, laddie. If you haven’t realised it yet, it’s time you did: you’re locked up in the Tower of Fools. And you’re expecting—nay, demanding—from me answers to questions. You want information. And what, may I ask, do you mean to do with it? What do you expect? That they’ll release you to celebrate the anniversary of the discovery of Saint Smaragdus’s relics? That somebody will mercifully free you as a penance? No, Reinmar of Bielawa. You can expect the Inquisitor and an interrogation. Do you know what strappado is? How long do you think you’ll last when they pull you up by your arms twisted behind your back? With a forty-pound weight hanging from your ankles? And burning torches held under your armpits? Well? How long do you think you’ll last before you begin to sing? I’ll tell you: before you can even say the Veni Sancte Spiritus.”

“Why was Peterlin killed? Who killed him?”