“Hey, not too fast.” The Wallcreeper frowned. “Everything in moderation. I’ve already told you a hundred times: desist from an open war with Hejncze. A war with Hejncze is a war against Rome and that antagonism can only harm you. Irritabis crabrones, you’ll stir up the hornets. Although you think yourself superior to and stronger than Fortune and don’t fear harm, it doesn’t only concern your bishop’s arse. By fighting the Inquisitor, you demonstrate to people that, firstly, there’s no unity between you, that you’re divided and conflicted. Secondly, that the Inquisition needn’t be feared. And when people stop fearing, you damn priests could be in deep trouble.”

The bishop said nothing for a while and looked at him through lowered eyelids.

“Son,” he finally said, “you are precious to us. We need you. You’re actually most good to us. But don’t growl at us, for we may lose patience. Don’t bare your fangs at us, for in spite of the truly paternal love we feel for you, when we lose patience, we’ll have your teeth knocked out. All of them. In turn. With long breaks, so that you can suitably enjoy your treatment.”

“And who, then, will solve the matter of the inconvenient witness?” replied the Wallcreeper with an unpleasant smile. “Who will lure Reynevan of Bielawa to Silesia and capture him?”

“Exactly.” The bishop lifted his mantle and scratched a hairy calf. “We’re jabbering on, bandying words, and the most important things are slipping by. See to it, son. That witness must vanish. Without a trace. Like the other one Hejncze unearthed in the Tower of Fools two years ago.”

“Consider it done.”

“What about Reinmar of Bielawa?”

“He’ll also be seen to.”

“Then let’s have a drink. Hand me a cup. But first smell the bouquet. Moldavian! I was given six barrels by way of a bribe, for the position of scholaster in Legnica.”

“Bribery for giving out prebends? Tut, tut, Papa.”

“They don’t offer monetary bribes because they can’t afford it, the paupers. Should I be filling ecclesiastical posts with paupers? Well? While we’re on the subject, would you like a church position, Grellenort?”

“No, Father Bishop, I wouldn’t. The priesthood sickens me.”

The grey-eyed man, noted Wendel Domarasc, had changed his clothes and completely changed his appearance. Today, instead of a cassock, a habit or a patrician’s doublet, he was wearing a short leather jacket, tight hose and high boots. He wasn’t carrying a visible weapon, but in spite of that looked like a mercenary. The camouflage was an effective disguise—Silesia had recently been crawling with mercenaries. There was great demand for men who could wield a weapon.

“I shall soon carry out my task,” began the grey-eyed man, “but after doing so I shall immediately vanish. Thus, I’d like to say farewell to you today.”