“Good. We shall draw a thick line through what has been. Let’s turn over a new leaf. Sapienti sat dictum est, to begin with let’s agree on this: next week you will send another ten to their deaths at the stake, Inquisitor Grzesiu. May Silesia hold its breath for a moment. May sinners recall the fires of Hell. May the hesitant redouble their faith, having seen the alternative. May informers recall that they must inform—actively and on anybody they can, before somebody informs on them. A time of terror and fear has come! The heretical viper must be seized by the throat in an iron hand and a spiked glove. Seized and held, not released! For it is because the grip was once loosened, because weakness was shown, that heresy is on the march now.”

“Heresy has existed in the Church for centuries,” said the Inquisitor softly. “For ever. For the Church has always been a rock and a haven for people who profoundly believe, but who also have lively minds. But also, unfortunately, always a refuge, a fertile breeding ground for the displays of such creatures as Your Eminence.”

“I admire in you your intelligence and frankness,” the bishop said after a long silence. “A true pity that I admire nothing else.”

Father Felicjan—known to the world once as Hanys Gwisdek and nicknamed Little Louse—was basking in a sunny spot at the end of the garth, observing behind a blackthorn bush the bishop and the Inquisitor deep in a hushed conversation. Who knows, he thought, perhaps soon I shall be allowed to take part in conversations like that? As an equal? For I am advancing.

Father Felicjan was indeed advancing. The bishop had promoted him for his services, which mainly consisted of informing on the previous superior, Canon Otto Beess. When Otto Beess fell out of favour after being denounced, Father Felicjan began to be treated differently at the bishop’s court. Quite differently. Father Felicjan thought it was with admiration.

I’m advancing. Ha. I’m advancing.

“Father.”

He shuddered and turned around. The monk who had approached him so soundlessly was not a Premonstratensian, but wore a white Dominican habit. Father Felicjan didn’t know him. Which meant he worked for the Inquisitor.

“Go away, Father. There’s nothing for you here. Begone!”

The Inquisitor’s man, thought Father Felicjan, as he hastily withdrew. A Dominican, one of those famous unchecked and all-powerful “white eminences.” That voice, imperious, like that of the very bishop… Those eyes…

Eyes the colour of iron.