The men in the leather jerkins guffawed. The rest of those present didn’t manifest their merriment, no doubt having already heard Huncleder’s joke many times. The beanpole with a red chalice on his doublet at the counter didn’t laugh, nor did the bearded man standing next to him wearing black, the absolute archetype of a Hussite preacher. Unsurprisingly, none of the scantily dressed young women moving around the room carrying flasks and pitchers smiled.

Neither did the man with a dark, several-day-old beard nursing a mug, in a jerkin rusty from armour, the man Scharley had greeted as Berengar Tauler right after they entered. The penitent headed towards Tauler’s table, where three other men were sitting.

“Welcome and sit you down.” Berengar Tauler gestured to a bench and cast a curious glance towards Reynevan and Samson. “Introduce us to your… friends.”

“No need,” a fat, ginger-haired man said over his mug. “I’ve seen the younger gentleman before. At the Battle of Ústí, with the hejtmans. They said he was their personal physician.”

“Reinmar of Bielawa.”

“We are honoured. And’im?”

“’Im,” replied Scharley with his usual carefreeness, “is’im. He does no harm, doesn’t interfere.’Im works with wood.”

Indeed, Samson Honeypot had assumed the expression of an idiot, sat down by the wall and begun whittling a stick.

“If the presentations are underway,” said Scharley as he sat down, “then be so good, Berengar…”

The three men at the table bowed. The fat, ginger-haired man was accompanied by a proud-looking young lord dressed quite richly and colourfully for a Hussite, and a short, thin-faced, swarthy character of Hungarian appearance.

“Amadej Baťa.” The fat man introduced himself.

“And I am Sir Manfred of Salm,” pronounced the colourful lordling, and the exaggerated conceit with which he said it revealed that it was utter balderdash, that he’d probably been christened “Zdeněk,” and had probably never stood near, much less sat beside, a member of the house of Salm.

“István Szécsi.” The dark man confirmed his identity as a Hungarian. “Will you take a drink? I warn you the prices are outrageous here: a pint of wine costs three groschen and a half-pint of beer five skojeces.”

“But the wine is good.” Tauler sipped from his mug. “For a secret brothel and gambling den. While we’re on the subject, which of those diversions brings you to Huncleder’s?”

“None of them, actually.” Scharley nodded towards a wench with a jug and sized her up when she approached. “Which doesn’t mean we won’t sample one of them. Will there be a performance today, for example? A tableau vivant?”

“Naturally.” Tauler smiled. “Naturally there will. I’m largely here for that reason. I’m not even going to play, out of fear they’ll fleece me for the florin I need for the price of the show.”

“The others.” The penitent nodded. “Who are they?”