“In that case, so that you won’t think badly of me,” declared Lord Bergow, clearly appeasing them, “there’ll be a rebate. A special price, as I’d give a brother. Like it was in Kutná Hora eight years ago. Sixty groschen a head. I’ll throw the women and youngsters in for nothing.”

“And let’s not beat each other down but divide them among us,” suggested Gersdorf. “Bautzen, Zgorzelec, Löbau, Frydland and Jelenia Góra. First of all, we’ll divide up the women and striplings evenly, two a head, and the rest—”

“The rest can’t be divided evenly.” Köckeritz quickly reckoned up. “It won’t be fair.”

“It will, upon my soul,” said Bergow, beckoning his soldiers towards him. “It will be bloody fair, no one will lose out. Hey, take them! Those three! Bind them!”

Before Pimple-Face’s martahuzes could react, they were tied up. Only when they had been shoved over to join their recent captives did they begin to struggle, yell and rage, but blows from truncheons, whips and spear shafts quickly and brutally quelled them.

“Sire…” whined Pimple-Face, whom no one had touched. “What… What… Why, they’re my men—”

“Perhaps you’d like to join them? Do you wish to?”

“No, not a bit of it.” Pimple-Face’s mouth twisted into a broad and repulsive grimace. “Not at all! Do they mean anything to me? I’ll find new ones.”

“Indeed, one always can. So go. Ah, I almost forgot…”

“Eeeh?”

Otto of Bergow smiled at him, then nodded towards Douce of Pack, who was holding a javelin across her saddle. Douce flashed her teeth and her blue-green eyes.

“You brought a spy and a murderer to my castle. Run to the gate. Fly! Swiftly!”

Pimple-Face blanched, turning as white as a fish’s belly. He quickly recovered his senses, spun on his heel and dashed towards the gate like a whippet. He ran fast. Very fast. It looked like he might make it.

But he didn’t.

Chapter Ten

In which it turns out that nothing sharpens mental processes like hunger and thirst. But when it becomes necessary to solve a mystery, pissing on human remains gives the best results. Especially on All Souls’ Day.

“Reinmar of Bielawa from Silesia.” Otto of Bergow, Lord of Trosky Castle, eyed Reynevan from head to foot and back again. “Sorcerer. Alchemist. Hussite spy. And on top of that a hired killer. A wide range of skills, if I may say so. Which skill did you bring to my castle? You do not answer? Never mind. I know anyway.”