“I don’t want to return to this matter,” he said coldly. “Ever. But so you won’t think we fought for nothing, I’ll satisfy your curiosity somewhat and tell you a little. Something about your brother, Piotr. You want to know who killed him. Well, I don’t know who, but I do know what. It’s more than certain that your romance with Adèle of Stercza killed Piotr. Which was a pretext, an excellent pretext, that almost perfectly masked the real reasons. Don’t tell me that’s never occurred to you, since you know how to put two and two together.”

Reynevan wiped the blood from under his nose. He didn’t answer. He licked his swelling lip.

“Reinmar,” added Horn. “You look terrible. Sure you aren’t feverish?”

Reynevan was cross for some time. With Horn—for obvious reasons. With Scharley—for not intervening and beating up Horn. With Koppirnig, for snoring, with Bonaventure for smelling, with Circulos, with Brother Tranquillus, with the Narrenturm and the whole world. With Adèle of Stercza, because she had behaved disgracefully towards him. With Katarzyna of Biberstein—because he had behaved hideously towards her.

To make matters worse, he felt ill. He had a cold and the shivers, was sleeping badly and waking up both wet with sweat and frozen.

He was tormented by dreams where he endlessly smelled Adèle’s scent, her powder, her rouge, her lipstick and her henna by turns with the scent of Katarzyna, her femininity, her girlish sweat and the mint and sweet flag in her hair. His fingers and hands remembered the touches that returned to him in his dreams. And endlessly compared them.

He woke up covered in sweat. And while he was awake, he recalled his dreams and couldn’t stop comparing.

His bad mood was made worse by Scharley and Horn, who since the fight had made friends and become chummy. The two old foxes often sat together at the sign of the omega for long conversations, obsessed with one topic, returning to it over and over. Even if they started somewhere else, they always came back to their prospects of getting out of clink.

“Who knows,” said Scharley softly, pensively biting a chipped thumbnail. “Who knows, Horn. Perhaps we’ll be lucky… We have, as you can see, certain hopes… Somebody on the outside—”

“Who is that?” Horn looked at him keenly. “If one may know?”

“Know? What for? Do you know what strappado is? How long do you think you’d last when they pull you up by your—”

“Very well, skip it. I was wondering if you’re pinning your hopes on Reinmar’s beloved, Adèle of Stercza. Who is, rumour has it, enjoying great popularity and influence among the Silesian Piasts.”