Bancz opened his mouth again, and again could utter nothing except a soft croak. The Wallcreeper moved fluidly towards him. Now quite close, he smiled, winked and pursed his lips, blowing the seminarist a very erotic kiss. Before the seminarist knew what was happening, he glimpsed the flash of a blade as he was stabbed in the belly and blood spurted onto his thighs. He was stabbed a second time in the side, the knife crunching on his ribs. His back slammed against the wall as a third blow almost pinned him to it.

Before Bancz could find it in himself to yell, the Wallcreeper leaped forward and slit open his throat with a sweeping slash.

Some beggars found the corpse curled up, lying in a black puddle. Before the town guard appeared, merchants and stallholders had sped over from the Poultry Market.

A ghastly, choking, gut-wrenching air of dread hung above the scene of the crime.

A dread so terrible that while the crowd waited for the guard to arrive, no one dared to steal the pouch protruding from the victim’s slashed-open mouth.

“Gloria in excelsis Deo,” intoned Canon Otto Beess, lowering his touching palms and bowing his head before the altar. “Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis…”

The deacons stood on either side, joining him in song with hushed voices. Otto Beess continued to celebrate the Mass, mechanically, routinely, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Laudamus te, benedicimus te, adoramus te,

glorificamus te, gratias agimus tibi…

The seminarist Gwibert Bancz has been murdered. In broad daylight, in the centre of Wrocław. And Bishop Konrad, who dropped the investigation into the murder of Peterlin of Bielawa, will also likely drop the investigation into his secretary’s murder. I don’t know what’s happening here. But one needs to take care of one’s own safety. Never, under any circumstances, give a pretext or opportunity, and never allow oneself to be taken by surprise.

The singing soared up to the high vault of Wrocław Cathedral.

Agnus Dei, Filius Patris, qui tollis peccata mundi,

miserere nobis;

Qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe deprecationem

nostram…

Otto Beess knelt down before altar.

I hope, he thought, crossing himself, I hope that Reynevan made it to… That he’s safe now. I truly hope…

Miserere nobis…

The Mass continued.

Four horsemen galloped over the crossroads, beside a stone cross, one of Silesia’s numerous reminders of crimes past and belated contrition. The wind howled, the rain lashed down and mud splashed up from hooves. Kunz Aulock swore, wiping water from his face with a wet glove. Stork of Gorgowice echoed him still more crudely under his dripping hood. Walter of Barby and Sybek of Kobylagłowa didn’t even feel like swearing. Let’s ride as quickly as possible, they were thinking, to any old tavern, into the warm and dry for a mug of mulled ale.