The visitor shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was a man of around forty, short, pot-bellied, very broad-shouldered and seemingly bowed over under the weight of his shoulders. The clothes he wore were the grey, simple and none-too-clean apparel of a servant. But Reynevan would have bet any money that the stranger was not a servant.

“Do you give your word,” the visitor asked again, feeling his nose, “that you won’t attack me again?”

“No.”

“Eh?”

“I have to get out of here.”

The man said nothing for a while.

“I understand,” he finally said, hoarsely. “You’re in an oubliette and I know its purpose. I shall supply you with vittles and beverages. But don’t read too much into that.”

Reynevan devoured the bread, sausage and cheese almost without taking a breath and almost choked on the watery ale. Having appeased the first pangs of hunger, he ate more slowly, chewing more thoroughly. The man in the grey servant’s costume watched him with interest. After Reynevan had eaten and drunk his fill, he also began to take interest in his visitor.

“Otto of Bergow,” said the man. “The man who imprisoned you in here. Is he aware of your magical abilities?”

“Only sketchily.”

“How long have you been here?”

“What day is it today?”

“Samh—” the man stammered. “I mean All Souls’. Commemoratio animarum.”

Reynevan drained the last drops of ale from the jug and stowed away a bread crust in his jacket.

“You can come clean,” he declared. “When you went to get the food, I had a look at the objects you brought, the ones lying over there—mistletoe, birch bark, a sprig of yew, a candle, an iron ring, a black stone, typical attributes of a ceremony for the dead. And today, as you let slip, is the Feast of Samhain. You passed through this wall to pay your respects to those bones according to the ritual of the Older Tribes.”

“Correct.”

“So he was your kinsman. Or friend.”

“Incorrect. But let’s attend to more important things. I’ll advise you how to avoid death by starvation. You aren’t the first. Plenty have been put in this oubliette, and you see yourself that there’s only one skeleton, not counting those very ancient bones. Listen carefully. Are you?”

“I am.”

“The son of Otto of Bergow, Jan, is an Utraquist and hejtman in the Tábor. Otto somehow got the crazy idea that his Hussite son is plotting against him and wants to take his life and fortune. Although to me it’s utter rot, it has acquired the characteristics of a persecution complex. He senses paid killers around every corner, smells poison at every meal. He sees his parricide son in every Hussite, which explains his hatred of the Calixtines. The matter is simple: you’ll have to confess to being an assassin hired by Jan of Bergow who has come to Trosky to murderer Otto.”