“Young Master Reinmar…” Tybald Raabe got his breath back, but the pallor didn’t leave his face. “Young Master Reinmar! In Silesia? I don’t believe my eyes!”

“I know him,” said the goliard’s companion, a hooded dwarf. “I’ve seen him before. Two years ago, on Grochowa Mountain, at the sabbath during the holiday of Mabon. Or, as you call it, the aequinoctium. He was with a comely maid. It turns out he’s one of ours.”

He took off his hood. Reynevan gasped involuntarily.

The creature’s oval, elongated head—there could be no doubt that it wasn’t a human being—was adorned with short, ruddy bristles as stiff as a hedgehog’s spines. The picture was completed by a nose as hooked as the Pope’s on a Hussite pamphlet and bulging eyes covered with red veins. And ears. Large ears. So large, the word “colossal” would have been more accurate.

The creature chortled, clearly amused by the impression it was causing.

“I’m a beguiler,” it boasted. “Don’t say you didn’t hear me.”

“I did. A moment ago, in the square. So it’s true what they say about you…”

“That we can direct sound from anywhere we please?” The beguiler opened its mouth, but its bass voice came from behind Reynevan, who started in astonishment.

“Indeed we can.” The beguiler smiled joyously as its voice issued from somewhere beyond the horses’ stalls. “It’s child’s play for us. Long ago, we used it to lure travellers into swamps,” the creature went on, its voice emerging from all sorts of places: behind the wall, under a pile of straw, from the attic. “For amusement. We still do it, but more seldom, for we became bored of that amusement. How fucking long can you keep that up? But the skill occasionally comes in handy…”

“I saw and heard.”

“Let’s go and have a drink,” suggested Tybald Raabe.

Reynevan swallowed. The beguiler chortled and pulled the tight hood over its head.

“Fear not,” explained the goliard with a smile. “We’ve had some practice. If anyone’s taken aback, we tell him he’s a foreigner. A stranger from distant lands.”

“From Samogitia.” The beguiler sniffed and wiped its nose on its sleeve. “Tybald even gave me a Samogitian nickname. My right name is Malevolt, Jon Malevolt. But call me ‘Brazauskas’ in company.”

The innkeeper placed another jug on the table and glanced once again with interest at the beguiler.

“What’s it like in that Samogitia?” he said, unable to restrain himself. “As dear as it is here?”

“Even dearer,” Jon Malevolt replied gravely. “They want fifteen groschen for any old bear now. I’d move permanently to these parts, but they water down the drinks a little too much.”