“I’m counting on it. Because it was your kidney I removed a stone from.”

Neplach said nothing for a long time, scowling.

“Very well.” He sighed, looking away. “You’re right. You cured me. You relieved my torment. And I promised to fulfil your request. If you so desire it, if it’s your greatest dream, you can go to the Podkrkonoší. I, meanwhile, will not only not ask you what it’s all about, but will furthermore aid you in the escapade. I’ll give you men, an escort, money and contacts. I repeat: I won’t ask what you plan to deal with there. But you are to make short work of it—you must be in Silesia by Christmas.”

“You have hundreds of spies at your disposal,” Reynevan said, “trained in the trade, spying for cash or the cause, but always willingly and of their own free will. But you insisted on me, a dilettante with no expertise who is unsuitable for spying and about as effective as a lame horse. What logic is there in that, Neplach?”

“Would I bother you if there wasn’t? We need you in Silesia, Reynevan. You. Not hundreds of ideologically committed or professional spies trained in the craft. You, and you alone. For matters that no one but you is capable of accomplishing. And for which you can’t be replaced.”

“Details?”

“Later. Firstly, you’re heading into a dangerous place and may not return. Secondly, you didn’t share the details with me, so I return the favour. Thirdly, and most importantly: I don’t have time now. I’m leaving for Kolín to see Prokop. As regards the escapade, talk to Hašek Sýkora. He will give you men, a special unit. And remember: make haste. Before Christmas—”

“I’m to be in Silesia, I know. Although I don’t want to be—and it’s a poor agent who acts unwillingly under duress.”

Flutek said nothing for a while.

“You cured me,” he finally said. “You rescued me from the clutches of agony. I shall repay you. I’ll see to it you go to Silesia without being forced. Why, willingly even.”

“Eh?”

“You’ve become a father, Reinmar.”

“Whaaat?”

“You have a son. Katarzyna Biberstein, daughter of Jan Biberstein, Lord of Stolz, gave birth to a child in June 1426. To a boy, born on the holiday of Saint Vitus and christened with that saint’s name. He is now, as one can easily calculate, a year and four months old. According to my agents’ reports, a bonny lad, the spit and image of his father. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to see him.”

“Splendid,” Scharley repeated. “Splendid twice over.”