“If I may: Lord Köckeritz’s and my knights and clients: Sir Mikuláš Dachs, Sir Henryk Zebant, Sir Wilrych Liebenthal, Piotr Nimptsch, Jan Waldau and Reinhold Temritz. Are we in time for the banquet?”

“Both for the banquet and for business.”

“So I see.” Ulrik of Biberstein, Lord of Frydland, cast his eyes over the captives against the wall. “Though it is a third-rate sight. Unless it’s what’s left after the Six Cities creamed off whatever decent goods there were. Greetings, Lord Gersdorf. Lord Klüx. Lord Schaff. How goes it? Has the deal been struck?”

“Not yet.”

“So conclude it.” Biberstein rubbed his hands. “And to the banquet, to the banquet! By Saint Dionysius, I’m dying for a drink!”

“That can easily be done.” Otto of Bergow nodded towards the pages.

Reynevan remembered from the accounts of the Hussite hejtmans that Mikuláš Dachs—who had arrived with the Lord of Frydland and went back to him after inspecting the captives—was a client of the Bibersteins. His expression was eloquent. A shake of the head expressed the rest.

“It gets ever worse, I see,” said Biberstein, taking a large goblet from a servant. “The goods become poorer and poorer, Sir Otto, the quality becomes more and more inferior. A sign of the times, a signum temporis, as my chaplain would say. Oh well, we’ll pay what they’re worth, so let’s talk prices. In the year of our Lord 1419, one paid in Kutná Hora sixty groschen for a Hussite seized and meant for torture and execution, and three hundred for a heretical preacher—”

“But it was a buyer’s market then,” Bergow interrupted him. “In 1419 it wasn’t difficult to catch a Hussite, for the Catholics were winning. Now the Hussites are on top and the Catholics are losing, so a Hussite captive is a rarity, a veritable rarity. And therefore dear. And the lords of the Landfried inflate the prices themselves, creating precedents. Oldřich of Rožmberk pays nine thousand groschen ransom. After the Battle of Tachov, the Bavarians and Saxons bought back their own men even more dearly. For as much as twelve thousand groschen a head.”

“As I listen,” Lothar Gersdorf said as he approached and raised his head proudly, “I truly wonder who has lost his mind: me or you. Lord Rožmberk and the Germans were paying for gentlemen, for noblemen, for knights. And what are you selling here? Motley beggars! Go on, catch and offer me Rohač of Dube, give me Ambrož, Královec, the Zmrzlíky brothers, Jan Černín, Kolúch or Čapek of Sány. I’ll spend my silver on them. But I don’t intend to waste my money on these beggars. What good are beggars to me?”

“These beggars,” Lord Bergow said without lowering his gaze, “will scream and howl for mercy in the Czech language at the stake. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”