“And if something should go wrong…” he lectured, coughing. “If you are ever cornered, then remember: it’s best to start yelling in a crowded place that it was the Jews, the Jews caused it all, it was a Jewish plot. Put a piece of soap in your mouths, get a good lather up with water at the town well, spit and cry: ‘Save me, help, I’m dying. The Jews have poisoned me, it’s the Jews.’ The people will at once attack the Jews, a disorderly confusion will begin and the Inquisition, having abandoned your trail, will pursue the Jews instead, while you can flee in peace. Do the same if you are captured and taken to be tortured. In that instance, play the fool, protest your innocence, say that you’re an unwitting instrument and that the Jews are guilty. ‘They forced me, they bribed me with gold.’ You will be believed, be sure. They always fall for it.”

“My, my! Reynevan!”

The man who shouted to him was Slavík Candát, whom Reynevan knew from his university days. When Reynevan was just beginning his education, Slavík Candát had already been studying for at least eight years and was older than most of the doctors, never mind the magisters. “Studying” was actually stretching it a bit—Slavík Candát did visit the academy from time to time and was even seen there occasionally. But he could be found much more often in one of the whorehouses in Na Perštýně or Krakow Street. Or in the town jail, where he was often put for taking part in drunken brawls and causing disturbances after dark. Although no longer a youngster, Candát adored brawling, so it was no surprise when he enthusiastically joined the revolutionary movement after the Defenestration. Reynevan hadn’t been at all surprised to see him working for Flutek in the spring of 1426, during his first visit to White Mountain.

“Greetings, Slavík. What, have you become a secretary?”

“Eh? You mean these?” Candát indicated the sheets of paper and quill pens he was carrying. “They’re letters from Heaven.”

“From where?”

“I’ve been promoted,” boasted the eternal student, pulling his fingers back over a bald pate as though combing his hair. “Brother Neplach transferred me to the propaganda department. I’ve become a scribe. An artist. Almost a poet. I write letters that fall from Heaven. Do you understand?”

“No.”