The realistic and detailed images of Katarzyna also triggered other associations. The rooms in the house at the corner of Saint Stephen’s Street and Na Rybníčku Street that Reynevan shared with Samson Honeypot had a landlady, Mistress Blažena Pospíchalová, a widow rich in womanly charms with kind, blue eyes. Those eyes had come to rest on Reynevan in such an eloquent way that he suspected in Mistress Blažena desires that Scharley usually described punctiliously as a “union based only on lust and not the result of a Church-sanctioned alliance.” The rest of the world defined the activity much more concisely and bluntly. And the Hussites treated such bluntly defined activity with great severity. They usually did it for effect, admittedly, but no one ever knew who or what they might make an example of. So even though Reynevan understood Mistress Blažena’s glances, he pretended he didn’t. Partly out of fear of getting into hot water and partly—and even more so—out of a desire to remain faithful to his beloved Nicolette.

A furious caterwauling shook him out of his reverie as a large ginger cat dashed out of the dark alley on his right and ran off down the street. Reynevan immediately speeded up. It might have been Flutek’s spies who had scared the cat. But it might also have been common cutpurses lying in wait for a lonely passer-by. Dusk was falling, there was almost no one around, and when the backstreets of the New Town were dark and deserted, they stopped being safe. Particularly now, when most of the castle guard had joined Prokop’s army, it wasn’t advisable to roam around the New Town alone.

So Reynevan decided not to be alone. Two locals were walking about a dozen paces ahead of him. He had to make quite an effort to catch them up as they were walking fast and on hearing his footsteps had clearly speeded up. And suddenly turned into a backstreet. He followed them.

“I say, brothers! Fear not! I only wanted to—”

The men turned around. One had a suppurating chancre just beside his nose and a butcher’s knife in his hand. The other—shorter and thickset—was armed with a cleaver with a curved cross guard. Neither of them was Flutek’s spy.

The third one, who’d been following him and had scared the cat, had greyish hair and wasn’t the spy, either. He was carrying a dagger, slender and razor-sharp.

Reynevan stepped back, pressing himself against the wall. He held out his doctor’s bag towards the thugs.

“Gentlemen…” he gibbered, teeth chattering. “Brothers… Take it… It’s all I have… I… I beg… I beg you… Don’t kill me…”

The thugs’ faces, at first hard and set, relaxed and melted into contemptuous grimaces. Scornful cruelty appeared in their previously cold and vigilant eyes. They advanced, raising their weapons, towards an easy and abject victim.