I can’t say. Plenty of individuals enter the darkness—”

“So the monastery simpleton entered the darkness,” asked Reynevan, “and a negotium perambulans became incarnated in his corporeal body? They changed places?”

“Balance,” Circulos confirmed with a nod. “Yin and yang. Or, if the Kabbalah means more to you, Kether and Malkuth. If a peak exists, then a trough must also.”

“But can it be reversed? Revoked? Can the exchange be repeated? So that he would return…”

“I don’t know.”

They sat for a moment in a silence disturbed only by Koppirnig’s snoring, Bonaventure’s hiccoughing, the gibbering of the lunatics, the murmur of voices conversing at the Sign of the Omega and the Benedictus Dominus, quietly rattled off by the Camaldolite.

“He,” said Reynevan finally, “I mean Samson, calls himself the Wanderer.”

“Most apt.”

They were silent for some time.

“Such a cacodaemon,” Reynevan finally said, “must certainly possess some… superhuman powers…”

“Are you wondering whether you can expect him to rescue you?” asked Circulos, showing his perspicacity. “And whether, now that he’s free, he’s forgotten about his captive companions? You wish to know if you can expect his help. Don’t you?”

“I do.”

Circulos said nothing for a while.

“I wouldn’t,” he finally declared with brutal frankness. “Why should demons differ from people in that respect?”

It was their last conversation. Whether Circulos managed to activate the amulet smuggled in up his arse and summon the demon Mersilde would remain forever a secret. But beyond reasonable doubt, nothing came of the teleportation. The following morning, Circulos was still in the tower, lying on his back on his pallet, stiff, both hands pressed against his chest and fingers digging into his clothing.

“O Blessed Virgin Mary…” grunted the Institor. “Cover his face…”

Scharley draped a bit of rag over the ghastly visage, contorted in a paroxysm of horror and pain, the twisted mouth, flecked with dried-on foam, the grinning teeth and the dull, glassily goggling eyes.

“Call Brother Tranquillus.”

“Oh, Christ…” groaned Koppirnig. “Look…”

Martin the rat was lying belly-up nearby, convulsed in agony, its yellow teeth showing.

“The Devil broke his neck,” judged Bonaventure with a knowing expression, “and took his soul to Hell.”

“Aye, no doubt,” the Institor replied, nodding. “He painted devilish signs on the walls and got his comeuppance. The old wizard summoned up the Devil, to his own undoing.”

“An evil power, touch wood…” said Bonaventure. “We should rub out all those scribblings and pour holy water over them. Say a Mass before the Evil One gets his hooks into us. Call the monks… What are you laughing at, Scharley, may I ask?”

“Have a guess.”