The astronomical clock on the town hall tower grated as usual, tolled and indicated something—as usual, no one really knew what, why or how accurately. And judging from the sun’s position, it was only a little after Terce.

Flutek was waiting in the House of the Golden Horse, in the same room as before, this time, though, without the hanged man.

Standing by the window, the Taborite spy was listening to reports from various men, some of whom looked like agents and some of whom didn’t. He saw Reynevan. And grimaced at the sight of Samson.

“You’re here.”

“I am.”

“You didn’t bring a crossbow,” Flutek remarked sourly. “Perhaps it’s better. You might have shot something. Must that moron of yours be here?”

“No, he mustn’t. Go downstairs, Samson. And wait.”

“Stand there,” Flutek instructed him after Samson had left. “By that window. Stand there, say nothing and watch.”

He stood there, said nothing and watched. The town square was still empty. Beside the puddle under the pillory, one of the dogs scratched itself, the cat licked itself in the region of its tail, broadly speaking, and the pigeons toddled around the edge of the water. A horn sounded somewhere near Týn Yard and the Church of Saint James. A moment later, another was heard from the east, from the ransacked Church of Saint Clement, the former Dominican monastery.

An agent rushed into the room, out of breath. Flutek listened to his report.

“They’re coming,” he announced, going over to the next window. “A force of about five hundred horse. Did you hear, Reinmar? They mean to capture Prague with five hundred horse, the fools. They mean to seize power with five hundred, the conceited asses.”

“Who? Will you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Rats leaving a sinking ship. Go over to the window. Have a good look. Look closely. You know who you’re looking out for.”

The dogs suddenly fled from the pillory, swiftly followed by the cat. The pigeons flew up in a flapping cloud, frightened by the approaching clatter of horseshoes. A cavalry regiment was approaching from the south, from the moat and the unmanned Svatohavelská Gate. Soon the horsemen—including heavy cavalrymen—began to pour into the square, clanking and rattling.

“The Kolín force of Diviš Bořek,” said Flutek, recognising the livery and emblems. “Půta of Častolovice’s men. The lordlings of Jan of Městečký from Opočno. The knights of Jan Michalec of Michalovice. The cavalry of Lord Otto of Bergow, the Lord of Trosky. And at the head?”

At the head of the regiment rode a knight in full armour, but without a helmet. His white tunic bore a coat of arms—a golden lion rampant on a white field. Reynevan had seen both the knight and the crest before. At the Battle of Ústí.