A lie can travel halfway around the world before the truth can get its boots on—spending time with the Vogelsang categorically proved the aptness of that proverb. All three of them lied continuously, always, in every circumstance, day and night, during the working week and on Sundays. They were simply pathological liars, men for whom the concept of truth simply didn’t exist. Without doubt, it was the result of a long life embroiled in clandestine activities—feigning, lying and masquerading.

As a consequence of that, one couldn’t be sure of them, their life stories or even their nationality. Lying pervaded everything. Bisclavret, for example, introduced himself as a Frenchman, a French knight and a Gallic warrior, a miles gallicus. The other two loved to misspeak it as morbus gallicus, which didn’t bother Bisclavret, who was evidently accustomed to it. He had once belonged, he claimed, to one of the gangs of the notorious Écorcheurs, or Flayers, cruel brigands who not only robbed their victims of their riches, but also flayed them alive. That version was, however, contradicted a little by his accent, which was more Cracovian than Parisian. But who knew if his accent was genuine, either?

The cadaverous Drosselbart didn’t conceal the fact that he bore an assumed name. Verum nomen ignotum est, as he grandly said. Asked about his nationality, he described himself rather vaguely as de gente Alemanno. It might have been true. Assuming it wasn’t a lie.

Regarding his birth, Rzehors didn’t state either the country or the region; he said nothing at all about it. But when he talked about anything else, his accent and colloquialisms formed a mess and hotchpotch so chaotic, so confused and confusing that his listeners were lost after the first few sentences. Which was doubtless the intention.

The trio displayed certain telltale habits, but Reynevan was too inexperienced to decipher them. All three members of the Vogelsang suffered from chronic conjunctivitis, often involuntarily rubbed their wrists, and when they ate always shielded their plates or bowls with a crooked arm. When Scharley saw them later, he deciphered the signals in no time. Drosselbart, Rzehors and Bisclavret had spent a considerable amount of their time behind bars. In dungeons. And fetters.

When the conversation shifted to professional matters, the Vogelsang stopped lying and became horrifyingly businesslike and focused. During several conversations lasting deep into the night, the trio reported to Reynevan and Horn on what they had accomplished in Silesia. In turn, Drosselbart, Rzehors and Bisclavret supplied details about the active and sleeping agents they had in most Silesian towns, especially those in the vicinity of the routes the Hussite armies would most likely choose. The Vogelsang were also happy to report on their financial state—exhibiting a certain pride in their trustworthiness—which, in spite of their huge expenses, was still more than satisfactory.