“Rats leaving a sinking ship,” he said pensively. “Not only in Silesia do rats conspire in granges and castles, look for foreign protection and kiss the arses of bishops and herzogs. Because their ship is sinking, because they’re shitting themselves, because it’s the end of false hopes. Because we’re on the rise and they’re falling, all the way down to the shithouse! Korybut took a tumble, there was a pogrom and a massacre at Ústí, the Austrians were beaten hands down and slaughtered at Zwettl, Lusatia is aflame right back to Zgorzelec. Uherský Brod and Pressburg are terrified, Olomouc and Trnava tremble behind their walls. Prokop is victorious—”

“For the time being.”

“What do you mean?”

“At the Battle of Stříbro… Rumour has it—”

“I know what the rumours say.”

“A crusade is marching on us.”

“Nothing new.”

“The whole of Europe, they say—”

“Not all of it.”

“Eighty thousand armed men—”

“Bullshit. Thirty, at most.”

“But they’re saying—”

“Reynevan,” Flutek calmly interrupted. “Think about it. Do you think if things were so dangerous, I’d still be here?”

They said nothing for a while.

“As a matter of fact, any moment now things will become clearer,” said the head of Taborite intelligence. “Any moment. You’ll hear.”

“What? How? Who from?”

Flutek quietened him with a gesture and pointed at the window, then signalled for him to listen carefully. The bells of Prague were speaking.

The New Town began. The Virgin Mary at Trávníček was first, followed soon after by the Emmaus Monastery, a moment later by the bells of Saint Wenceslas’s Church at Zderaz, joined by Saint Stephen’s, then Saint Adalbert’s and Saint Michael’s, and after them the melodious bells of Our Lady of the Snows. A moment later, the bells of the Old Town began to sound, first Saint Giles’, then Saint Gall’s and finally the Church of Our Lady before Týn. Then the bell towers of Hradčany: Saint Benedict’s, Saint George’s and All Saints’. Finally, the cathedral bell sounded; the most dignified, the deepest, the most brazen, spreading over the city.

The bells of Golden Prague were singing.

There was a terrible confusion and crush in the Old Town Square. People were teeming outside the town hall, pressed up against the gates as the bells tolled on. Caught in the pandemonium, people were pushing each other, shouting over each other, waving their arms; all you could see were sweaty faces flushed with effort and excitement, open mouths and feverish eyes.

“What’s happening?” Reynevan caught a tanner stinking of tanning pickle by the sleeve. “News? Any news?”

“Brother Prokop defeated the crusaders! At Tachov! He beat them hands down, crushed them!”

“Was there a regular battle?”

“Battle?” shouted a character who had clearly just run from a barber, face still half-covered in foam. “Battle? They fled! The papists ran! For their lives! In panic!”