“Rumours are circulating,” answered the goliard. “It’s possible that somebody is deliberately spreading them. Duke Jan has doubled the guard in Ziębice—it’s said the court astrologer warned him of a possible attempt on his life. In the city, people are talking openly about an avenger, about revenge being taken for Adèle. The killings carried out in Ciepłowody are being discussed widely. The affair of the attack on the tax collector is coming back to haunt you. Diverse strange people are appearing and asking diverse strange questions. Suffice it to say,” Tybald Raabe concluded, “it’d be more prudent to ditch your Silesian escapade. And keep well away from Schönau.

“The Vogelsang is no more, but you, Reinmar, still have a mission to accomplish in Silesia. You can expect one of Flutek’s messengers before Christmas. There’ll be things to do, important things; you ought not to bungle them. And if you do and it gets out it was because of your romancing, you’ll answer with your life. Which would be a pity.”

Tybald rode away. But Reynevan—who had previously been undecided—now began to think endlessly about Nicolette.

Jon Malevolt, the anarchist beguiler, appeared in Gdziemierz on the twenty-eighth of November with quite an astonishing proposition. In the nearby forests, he announced, winking and licking his lips meaningfully, reside two sylvan witches, young, curvaceous and friendly, having great needs and scorning monogamy. And serving excellent bigos, what’s more. He, Malevolt, was setting off to the witches for a social visit, but, as they say, the more, the merrier. Seeing Reynevan sighing, hesitating and generally squirming, the beguiler ordered a demijohn of three-year-old mead and took him to one side.

“So you’re in love.” He summed up what he’d discovered, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “You adore and long for her, quite in vain, to make things worse. It appears to be a familiar matter, particularly among you humans. I think you even like it and your poets appear unable to pen a couplet without it. But, brother, you’re Toledo, after all. What—I ask you—is the purpose of love magic? What is the purpose of philia?”

“It would be an insult both to me and to her if I used philia to allure her.”

“What matters is the result, young man, the result! It’s ultimately a question of sexual attraction, which is usually satisfied—forgive my bluntness—by sticking one thing into another. Don’t make faces! There’s no other way, Nature didn’t plan any other. Well, if you’re so virtuous, such a preux chevalier, I won’t insist. Draw her to you, then, in the classical manner. Conjure up some flowers in the winter, a dozen red roses, purchase a dozen iced buns in town and a-courting you will go.”

“The snag is that… I simply don’t know where to search for her.”