The Jodłownik turned out to be a small, fast-flowing river, and the bridge was totally thronged. Reynevan and company didn’t wait for the road to free up but copied other riders by urging their mounts into the water and crossed the stream without difficulty. Further on, cottages, shacks and sheds stood on either side of the road and their dwellers busied themselves with everyday tasks, not gracing the travellers with anything more than a passing glance. They rode quite briskly for some time, but soon another obstruction stopped them. This time it was impassable.

“The bridge over the Nysa,” said Bisclavret, standing up in the stirrups. “That’s what is causing the hold-up. There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to wait.”

They waited. The queue moved forward slowly, at a speed that allowed them to admire the landscape.

“Oho,” muttered Rzehors. “I see many changes. Walls and towers renovated, new earthworks, chevaux-de-frise and stockades on the banks of the Młynówka… Sir Půta hasn’t been idle. He clearly smelled a rat.”

“Ambrož’s plundering raid of three years ago taught him something,” mumbled Scharley. “Do you see that?”

Wagons laden with foodstuffs, stones and bundles of bolts increased the crush on the road.

“They’re making ready the defence… But what’s happening over there? Are they knocking down buildings?”

“It’s the Franciscan monastery,” explained Bisclavret. “They’re sensibly destroying it. In a siege, it would be an ideal breaching tower and it’s built of stone to boot. Cannons are most accurate at four hundred paces, so balls shot from the monastery wall would strike the centre of the town, at the very town hall. It’s sensible of them to knock it down.”

“The men demolishing it most energetically are the Franciscans themselves,” observed Scharley. “I see they’re working with great joy and gusto. Quite the symbolic twist of fate. They are smashing up their own monastery and enthusiastically, what’s more.”

“As I said, they are acting sensibly,” Bisclavret replied. “What a throng by the bridge… Dammit… Could they be searching?”

“If word has got out about—” Rzehors looked at Reynevan, who was still saying nothing.

“It hasn’t.” Scharley cut him off. “It can’t have. Don’t panic.”

“I won’t, because I’m not accustomed to doing so,” Rzehors replied. “And now I bid you farewell. I won’t enter the town; you’ll need someone outside the walls. Bisclavret? The usual signals?”

“Naturally. Farewell.”

Rzehors urged on his horse, melted into the crowd and vanished. The others crept on slowly towards the stone bridge. Reynevan was silent. Scharley rode closer and their stirrups clinked.

“You did what you did,” he said coldly. “It can’t be undone. For a few nights, instead of sleeping you’ll be staring at the ceiling ravaged by your conscience. But right now, get a grip.”