“That was only a joke.” Huncleder’s half-pockmarked face broke into a grin. “Just a little joke.”

“Indeed.” Scharley retaliated with a smile. “A tasteful little joke. Most diverting. Once, in Nuremberg, I witnessed a swindler’s hands being broken for the same ‘little joke’ during a game for money. On a stone threshold, using a blacksmith’s hammer. We laughed our heads off, let me tell you.”

Fridusz Huncleder’s eyes flared up unpleasantly. But he regained control and the grin returned to his pockmarked face.

“A joke’s a joke,” he repeated, “and it’ll stay a joke. We’ll use other dice for the game. I’ll put these away—”

“But not into your pocket, by the Devil,” growled Manfred of Salm. “Put them on the table. As an exhibit. We’ll compare the others with them from time to time.”

“As you wish.” Huncleder raised his hands to indicate he agreed and accepted everything and that the client was indeed king. “What game suits you? Fifty-six? Sixes and sevens?”

“Glückhaus, perhaps,” suggested Scharley.

“Let it be Glückhaus. Make haste, Jeřábek!”

Jeřábek wiped the table with his sleeve and drew a rectangle divided into eleven fields in chalk.

“Ready.” Huncleder rubbed his hands. “Faites vos jeux… And you, Brother Berengar? Won’t you do us the honour? Pity, pity—”

“Your pity’s not sincere enough, Brother.” Berengar Tauler took pains for the “brother” to sound anything but fraternal. “You can’t have forgotten that last Saturday you fleeced me like a tup in May. I shall sit out for a lack of funds, wait for the tableau vivant and amuse myself with this beaker. And possibly discourse, since m’Lord Reinmar isn’t keen on dice, either, I see.”

“As you will.” Huncleder shrugged. “But for us, m’lords, here is the plan: we’ll first play dice. Then, when there are fewer of us, we shall play piquet or another ludus cartularum. And during it we’ll have the spectacle. I mean the artistic interlude. And now, come on, m’lords! Glückhaus! Place your bets. Fortune, smile on us!”

For some time, all that could be heard were curses, the chink of coins thrown onto the fields, the rattle of acozzamento and the sound of the dice rolling on the table.

“Something tells me,” said Berengar Tauler, taking a sip from his beaker, “that Amadej will lose his shirt in a trice and return here. So if you have anything to say in confidence, do it now.”

“And why do you suppose I do?”

“Intuition.”

“Ha. Very well. Trosky Castle, in the Jičín hills, near Turnov—”

“I know where Trosky Castle is.”

“Have you been there? Do you know it well?”

“I’ve been there many times; I know it very well. Why do you ask?”

“We want to gain access.”

Berengar Tauler took a sip. “What for?” he asked, seemingly carelessly.