He returned slowly, deep in thought, staring at the horse’s mane, letting the animal plod drowsily in the wet snow and virtually find the way itself. After crossing the Wrocław highway, he took a shortcut down the road he had followed on the way to find Jutta. He didn’t hurry, even though dusk was falling and the red globe of the sun was already sinking below the treetops.

The horse snorted as hooves clattered on timbers and planks, and Reynevan raised his head and tugged at the reins. Sooner than he had expected, he reached a footbridge crossing a forest ravine, along the bottom of which a swift stream boomed and seethed. The footbridge was none too wide, rickety and quite rotten. Hurrying to Jutta, he had ridden across it. This time he preferred to dismount and lead his snorting horse by the bridle.

He was halfway across when he saw a rider in a black cloak emerging from behind the beeches on the far side.

Reynevan grew anxious. He instinctively looked back, although he had no chance of turning his horse around on the bridge. His instinct didn’t disappoint him. There was also a rider behind him. He ground his teeth, cursing under his breath his frivolity and lack of vigilance.

Another rider joined the one standing at the far end. Reynevan held the horse’s reins tighter. He felt for the hilt of his dagger. And waited for events to develop.

The men barring his way were evidently also waiting for the same thing, for neither of them said anything or made any movements. Reynevan glanced downwards, under the bridge. He didn’t like what he saw. The ravine was deep and the rocks around which the water was foaming had hideously sharp edges.

“Who are you?” he asked, although he knew. “What do you want from me?”

“It is you who wants something from us,” said the one at the back, removing his hood. “It’s time to say what. And on whose orders.”

Reynevan recognised him right away. It was the tall, swarthy man with the unremarkable face and the look of a journeyman. The one who first watched him in the inn in Ciepłowody and then saved him by giving him a horse.

The others also revealed their faces. He knew one of them, too. It was the pig-like, fair-haired man with the prominent chin, the very same who two weeks before had burst into his chamber holding an Andalusian navaja. He didn’t know and had never seen the third, whose skinny, bony face resembled a skull. But he guessed who they were.

“Where’s the fourth man?” he asked imperiously. “That Master Olbram, or whatever his name was? The one who tried to stab me while I slept at the Silver Bell?”