It kept on raining. Reynevan was bored. He dropped in on the lectures of the elderly man who had once been a spy for Charles IV. He visited the men writing letters from Heaven and the Apocalypse and was forced to listen to a few. He looked into the barn where the Stentorians practised, a special intelligence service department consisting of bruisers with loud—or Stentorian—voices. The Stentorians were trained for psychological warfare: they were tasked to undermine the morale of the defenders of besieged castles and towns. They practised far from the main camp because when they trained, their voices were deafening.

“Surrender! Lay down your arms! Otherwise! You! Will all! Perish!

“Louder!” yelled their instructor, directing them with hand gestures. “All at once and louder! One-two! One-two!”

“Your! Daughters! Will be! Dishonoured! Your! Children! Will be! Slaughtered! We will! Impale! Them! On spears!”

“Brother Bielawa.” One of Flutek’s adjutants tugged him by the sleeve. “Brother Neplach asks to see you.”

“We will! Flay! You! Alive!” yelled the Stentorians. “We will! Cut! Off! Your balls!”

Bohuchval Neplach was now feeling splendid, nothing was bothering him, and so he was back to his nasty and arrogant old self. He listened to what Reynevan had to tell him. The expression he wore while listening didn’t augur particularly well.

“You’re an idiot,” was his comment about the brief and general account of the to-do in the gambling den. “To take such a risk and for whom? A common prostitute! They could have cut all your throats; I’m actually astonished they didn’t. Huncleder had probably given his best bodyguards the day off. But don’t worry, my physician, so dear to my heart and kidneys. The swindler won’t endanger you or your company of misfits. He will be warned of the consequences.

“And regarding the other matter,” continued Flutek, interlacing his fingers, “you’re even greater idiots. The Podkrkonoší is in flames, the Lusatian borderland is burning. The Vartenberk, Biberstein and Dohn families and various Catholic magnates are relentlessly waging what they call a ‘gallows’ war with us. Otto of Bergow, the Lord of Trosky, has already acquired the nickname of ‘Hussite-killer.’ And my promise to fulfil your request? I revoke it. Primo, you tricked me despicably; secundo, your request is idiotic; et tertio, you refuse to tell me what you mean to search for there. Having considered everything, I decline. Your death on a Catholic gibbet would be a loss to us, all the worse for being senseless. And we have plans for you. We need you in Silesia.”

“As an intelligence agent?”

“You declared your support for the cause of the Chalice. You asked to join the ranks of the Warriors of God. Good for you! Everybody should serve the best he can.”

“Ad maiorem Dei gloriam?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll serve the cause much better as a physician than as a spy.”

“Leave that to my judgement.”