“So we searched alone,” Scharley said, sighing, “for quite a long time. We went beyond Ještěd, as far as Roimund and Hammerstein. Čapek found us again there, this time in the company of Štěpán Tlach of Český Dub and an emissary of Flutek who had come from White Mountain.”

Hejtman Tlach, it turned out, had received news from his informer in the Celestine convent at Oybin and the mystery of Reynevan’s disappearance was explained. Unfortunately, the company were unable to go after Biberstein’s men. The messenger from White Mountain brought with him the order to return at once. The order was categorical, and since the responsibility for its execution fell on the hejtmans, the company set off under escort. Or rather in a convoy.

At White Mountain, only Scharley was retained by Neplach. Samson was raring to head for Silesia alone, but the penitent talked him out of a one-man expedition.

“It didn’t take me long,” he said, smiling evilly. “Our friend Samson had important matters to see to in Prague. All day and every day. Promenading with the red-haired Marketa in Zderaz or Slovany. Or sitting with her in Podskalí, where the two of them spent hours looking at the Vltava and watching the sun go down. Holding hands.”

“Scharley,” said Reynevan.

“What? Isn’t that right?”

“D’antico amor senti la gran potenza…” said Reynevan, recalling the quotation and also unable to stop laughing. “How is she feeling, Samson?”

“Much better. Let’s have a drink.”

“There are rumours,” said Scharley, squinting into the sun, “that a plundering raid is in the offing. A large one. You could call it an invasion. Or better yet: a war.”

“If you were with Flutek at White Mountain you surely know what’s afoot,” Reynevan said, stretching. “Flutek certainly didn’t fail to inform you.”

Scharley wouldn’t be distracted. “There are rumours that you’ve been assigned an important role in that war. That you will, as the poet says, find yourself in the very centre of events. Which suggests that all of us will.”

They sat on the terrace of the Silver Bell Inn, enjoying the sun, which was pleasantly warm in spite of the slight frost. Snow sparkled on the forested hillside and water lazily dripped from icicles hanging from the roof. Samson appeared to be dozing. Perhaps he really was? They had talked well into the night and probably completely needlessly uncorked the last demijohn.

“It’s child’s play to get your arse kicked when you’re caught up in the centre of a war,” continued Scharley, “especially when you have an important role. Or get another part kicked. When war is waging, it’s extremely easy to lose a body part. Which may include your head. And then it’s very dangerous.”

“I know what you’re getting at. Stop.”