From some way off along the jetty, he heard men’s irate, raised voices. He couldn’t tell if it was a quarrel or passionate haggling. However, he easily recognised the language they were speaking. For it was Polish.

Before he left the osier grove and saw the jetty from the hillside, Reynevan knew to whom the voices and the small vessels moored to stakes belonged. They were Water Poles, Odra rafters and fishermen, who were more of a clan than a guild. The Water Poles controlled a large slice of fishing in Silesia, a considerable stake in floating timber and an even more significant one in ferrying, in which line of work they rivalled the Hanseatic League. The Hanseatic League hadn’t got further up the Odra than Wrocław, while the Water Poles shipped goods as far as Racibórz and beyond the mouth of the Warta.

The smell of fish, mud and pitch drifted over from the jetty.

Reynevan struggled to lead the limping horse down the slippery clay of the hillside. They passed between shacks, huts and drying nets, heading towards the sound of feet thudding and slapping on the jetty as goods were loaded and unloaded under the watchful eye of a bearded merchant. A bull lowed and stamped on its way to one of the punts, making the entire jetty shake. The rafters swore in Polish.

Things soon calmed down as the wagons carrying hides and barrels trundled off, but not for long as the bull tried to destroy the cramped enclosure it had been driven into. The Water Poles began their customary quarrelling. Reynevan knew enough Polish to understand it was an argument about nothing.

“Is anyone sailing downstream, may I ask? To Wrocław?”

The Water Poles stopped bickering and examined Reynevan with a none too friendly gaze. One of them spat in the water.

“And if so, what then?” he grunted. “Honourable master?”

“My horse is lame, and I have to get to Wrocław.”

The Pole bridled, hawked and spat again.

“Well,” said Reynevan, not giving up. “What’s it to be?”

“I don’t take Germans.”

“I’m not German. I’m Silesian.”

“Aha?”

“Aha.”

“Then say: She sells seashells on the seashore.”

“She sells seashells on the seashore. And you say: red leather, yellow leather.”

“Red leather, le… lello… yellow leather… Jump aboard.”

Reynevan didn’t need to be told twice, but the boatman bluntly curbed his enthusiasm.

“Hey! Not so fast! Firstly, I’m only going as far as Oława. Secondly, it costs five skojeces. And another five for the horse.”