“In Frankenstein, you were in the Inquisition’s prison,” said Rzehors, riding on his other side. “Inquisitor Hejncze might have recruited you. Made you collaborate using blackmail or threats. Or simply by bribing you.”

“Precisely,” said Drosselbart seriously, straightening his hood. “That was the issue. And not just that.”

“What else?”

“Neplach sent you to Silesia as bait.” Bisclavret snorted from the back. “He was the angler, we the fish, while you were the worm on the hook. We were loath to believe that you were naive enough to consent to an agreement like that. Without your own hidden design, without playing a double game. We weren’t certain about your design or your game. And we had every right to suspect the worst. Didn’t we?”

“Indeed,” he reluctantly admitted.

They rode on. The moon shone. Horseshoes rapped on the frozen ground.

“Drosselbart?”

“Yes, Reinmar?”

“There were four of you. Now there are three. And at the start? Weren’t there more of you?”

“There were. But they evanesced.”

Drosselbart, Bisclavret and Rzehors made themselves comfortable at the Silver Bell Inn with the blithe ease of urbane men of the world Reynevan had only seen before in Scharley. At first, the innkeeper gave them a queer look with restless eyes, but he calmed down on receiving from Drosselbart a handsome pouch filled to metallic hardness. And after Reynevan’s assurances that everything was shipshape and in good order.

The innkeeper’s reaction and expression were nothing compared to the reaction and expression of Tybald Raabe when he appeared in Gdziemierz the following day. The goliard was literally dumbstruck. Of course, he immediately recognised Bisclavret and knew who he was dealing with, but it took him a long time to relax and shed his mistrustfulness. He needed a long, frank conversation for that. When it finished, Tybald Raabe sighed deeply. And reported the news he had brought.

Any day now, he announced, a messenger from Prokop and Neplach would arrive in Gdziemierz.

“Any day now” turned out to be the fifth of December, the Friday after Saint Barbara’s Day. The long-awaited messenger from Prokop and Flutek was—to Reynevan’s great amazement, and also great joy—an old friend: Urban Horn. The comrades greeted each other effusively, but soon after it was Horn’s turn to be amazed—at the sight of Drosselbart, Rzehors and Bisclavret lining up in front of him.

“I’d have sooner expected my death,” he admitted when they were left alone after the presentation. “Neplach sent me to help you to search for the Vogelsang. And you—whatever next?—have not only found them, but also clearly won them over. Congratulations, friend, my heartfelt congratulations. Prokop will be pleased. He’s counting on the Vogelsang.”

“Who will give him the news? Tybald?” Reynevan asked.

“Of course. Reynevan?”

“Eh?”

“This Vogelsang… There’s only three of them… Not many of them… Weren’t there more than that?”

“There were. But apparently they evanesced.”