A month after those events, on the sixth of September, on the Saturday before the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, as Reynevan and Samson were finishing their scrambled eggs and celery, a familiar grey character in grey hose appeared in the chamber as quietly as a grey shade.

“The master is waiting,” he said softly and succinctly, “in the Golden Horse. Shall we go, m’lord?”

The streets of Prague were unusually empty, almost deserted. There was tension in the air, the pulse of the city nervy, anxious and irregular. The roofs shimmered with the rain that had fallen before dawn.

They walked in silence.

Samson Honeypot spoke first.

“Almost exactly two years ago,” he said, “we were in Ziębice. You arrived in Ziębice on the eighth of September 1425. On a noble mission to liberate your beloved. Do you remember?”

Instead of answering or commenting, Reynevan speeded up.

“In the course of those two years, you’ve undergone profound metamorphoses,” Samson went on. “You’ve changed both your religion and world view: no small thing. To defend them, you sometimes fought with weapon in hand, and were sometimes used by politicians, spies and scoundrels. But your motive now isn’t virtuous redemption but quite the reverse: blind revenge. Revenge, which, even if by some miracle should fall upon the men who are actually guilty, still won’t bring your dead brother back to life.”

Reynevan stopped.

“We’ve been through this,” he replied firmly. “You know my motives. And you promised to help. So I don’t understand—”

“Why am I bringing this up again? Because it always bears revisiting something like this. It’s always worth trying, because perhaps it will work, and perhaps someone’s eyes will be opened and they will see the light. But you’re right. I promised to help. And I shall. Let’s go.”

Strangely, there wasn’t a guard or a soldier to be seen at the Svatohavelská Gate. This was absolutely astonishing, considering that the gate and the bridge over the moat were the main link between the New Town and the Old, and that relationships between the quarters had been tense enough to justify the gate being manned by an armed guard. But there was no sign of the sentry and the gateway stood open. Encouraging anybody to enter. Temptingly. Like a trap.

The streets beyond Saint Gall’s, which were usually crammed with stalls, were also nearly empty and a strange silence hung over the Fish Market. And the Old Town Square looked deserted. Two dogs, one cat and about thirty pigeons drank water from a puddle under the pillory in peace and harmony, not even looking back at the few passers-by hurrying around the edge of the square.

The globes on the spires of the Church of Our Lady before Týn glistened from the recent rain. The town hall tower shone like a golden trident.