In which Reynevan removes a stone from a kidney and becomes a father as a reward. As part of that same reward, he also becomes a spy. And takes the rough with the smooth.

White Mountain was the name of a treeless hill west of Prague, a short distance from the Premonstratensian monastery in Strahov. Armies marching on Prague had used the foot of the hill several times as a camp. As a result, the residents of neighbouring villages, tired of requisitions and robbery, got the hell out and the area became deserted. Armies came and went, but White Mountain had its own permanent residents. Bohuchval Neplach, called Flutek, turned White Mountain into the headquarters and training centre of the Hussite intelligence service. Flutek could have resided in Prague itself, but didn’t want to. He didn’t like the capital and was afraid of it. Prague—let’s face it, even in moments of peace and quiet—was like a slumbering but unpredictable bloodthirsty monster. Praguians were easily moved to anger and their outbursts were terrible to those they didn’t like.

Few in Prague liked Flutek.

Which was why Flutek preferred White Mountain. He liked to say that because he, Bohuchval Neplach, resided there, the name “White Mountain” would go down in the history of Bohemia. Children, he liked to say, would learn that name.

The day was dawning and it was beginning to rain as Reynevan passed the once wealthy but now plundered and desolate Strahov monastery. When he reached White Mountain, the day had fully dawned and it was raining steadily. The drenched sentries on the stockade ignored him completely, while the guard at the gate waved a hand towards the parade ground. Without being accosted by anyone, he led his horse to the stable. Some men in the stable eyed him up, but none of them asked him anything.

The espionage centre was being enlarged. The rain further intensified the pervasive smell of recently sawn planks and planed beams, and shavings littered the ground. Behind the old cottages and barns peeped new buildings, bright with fresh planks and beams, oozing resin from their ends. Without arousing anybody’s curiosity, Reynevan went over to one of the new buildings, which was long and low and resembled a large granary. He entered the hallway, then a large room full of smoke, steam and damp. And men, eating, talking and drying their clothing. They stared at him. Wordlessly. He withdrew.

And looked into another large room. Around forty men were sitting on benches, listening attentively to a lecture. Reynevan knew the lecturer, an elderly man, a spy, rumour had it, who’d been in the service of Charles IV. The old codger was so decrepit that the rumour was plausible. Why, judging from his age and appearance, the old man could even have spied for the House of Přemyslid.