“It’s easy to see that you’re a worldly wise and shrewd fellow. You wouldn’t by any chance know which noble family has estates in the vicinity of Brzeg?”

“And where does your curiosity—so dangerous nowadays—come from?” Urban Horn’s eyes narrowed.

“Where it usually comes from: curiosity.”

“How could it be otherwise?” Horn raised the corners of his mouth in a smile, but the suspicious gleam didn’t leave his eyes. “Oh well, I shall satisfy your curiosity as far as I am able. In the vicinity of Brzeg, you say? Konradswaldau belongs to the Haugwitzes. The Bischofsheims own Jankowice, Hermsdorf is the property of the Galls… While Schönau, from what I know, is the seat of Cup-Bearer Bertold of Apolda…”

“Does one of them have a daughter? Young, fair-haired—”

“My knowledge doesn’t extend that far,” Horn cut him off, “and I don’t usually let it. And I advise you against it, Lancelot. Noblemen can tolerate ordinary interest, but they dislike it greatly when anybody shows too much interest in their daughters. Or wives…”

“I understand.”

“Good for you.”

Chapter Seven

In which Reynevan and company arrive in Strzelin on the Eve of the Assumption, just in time for a burning. Then those who ought to do so listen to the teachings of the Canon of Wrocław Cathedral. Some more willingly than others.

Outside the village of Höckricht, near Wiązów, the previously empty highway was a little busier. Aside from peasants’ carts and merchants’ wagons, there were also horsemen and soldiers, hence Reynevan considered it advisable to put his hood up. Beyond Höckricht, the road, winding among picturesque birch woodland, became empty again, and Reynevan heaved a sigh of relief. A little prematurely.

Beelzebub once again demonstrated his impressive canine intelligence. Up until then, he hadn’t even growled at the soldiers passing them, but now he gave a short, sharp warning bark, unerringly sensing the intentions of some knights who unexpectedly emerged from the birch woodland on both sides of the road. The mastiff also snarled ominously when one of the servants attending them took a crossbow from his back on seeing him.

“Hey, you there! Stand still!” yelled one of the knights, as young and freckled as a quail’s egg. “Stand still, I say! Don’t move!”

The mounted servant riding next to the knight slipped a foot into the stirrup of the crossbow, nimbly cocked it and mounted a bolt. Urban Horn walked his horse forward a little.

“Don’t you dare shoot at the dog, Neudeck. Take a good look at him first and you’ll recognise him.”

“Zounds!” The freckled knight shielded his eyes with a hand against the flickering confusion of birch leaves being tossed around by the wind. “Horn? Can it truly be you?”

“In person. Order your man to put the crossbow down.”