No traces of emotion appeared on the faces of the two bound men, no traces of life in their vacant eyes. Reynevan stood up and took the navaja out of the goliard’s hand.

“Who shot a crossbow at me in Ciepłowody? Who killed the monks? You?”

Not a trace of reaction. Reynevan leaned over and cut the men’s bonds, one after the other. He tossed the knife down at their feet.

“You are free,” he pronounced dryly. “You may go.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said Tybald Raabe.

“A very stupid one,” added the beguiler from the corner.

“I am Reinmar of Bielawa.” Reynevan spoke as though he hadn’t heard them. “The brother of Piotr of Bielawa, whom you once knew well. I serve the same cause as Piotr. I’m staying here, at the Silver Bell. I’ll be here all week. If the Inquisition or the bishop’s men appear, news of it will go to Bohemia. If I die one night at the hands of assassins, news of it will go to Bohemia. Prokop will know that the Vogelsang can’t be relied upon, because the Vogelsang has ceased to exist.

“If, though,” he continued a moment later, “it’s as Tybald says, make good use of these seven days. I shall not send any reports to Bohemia until a week passes. That ought to suffice you—one can ride a long way in that time. Neplach will find you in any case, sooner or later, but that’s a matter for him and you. It doesn’t interest me. Now begone.”

The freed men looked at him, but it was as though they were looking at an object, a thing which held no meaning for them, to boot. Their eyes were lifeless and vacant. They didn’t say a word, didn’t utter a sound. They simply went out.

There was a long silence.

“Just look at him, Raabe,” said Jon Malevolt, ending the silence. “He sacrificed himself for the cause. Curious, he doesn’t look like an idiot. Aren’t appearances deceptive?”

“When the Hussites get their own Pope,” added Tybald Raabe, “he ought to declare you a saint, Reinmar. If he doesn’t, it’ll mean he’s an ungrateful knob.”