One might have thought that the apothecary’s shop, the House at the Archangel in Prague, the refuge of scholars and philosophers, a temple of thought and progress, would be the last place one could learn how to manufacture magical incendiary bombs. But anyone who thought that would have been in error. It was possible to learn all kinds of arcana and skills at the House at the Archangel. And as luck would have it, Reynevan had personally participated in the process of building a powerful incendiary bomb.

Teggendorf and Radim Tvrdík, furious with a dishonest rival—the former parish priest at Saint Stephen’s, a dilettante magician who functioned outside the guild—had decided to manufacture a bomb, called in magical jargon Ignis inextinguibilis. At first, they had planned to inform on him anonymously, counting on the local courts to deliver justice, but they regarded that as less than honourable revenge. The sorcerer priest had a beautiful country house in Bubny, to which he would invite maidens and married women for obvious reasons. That house was Teggendorf and Tvrdík’s target. Hey, they joked reprehensibly, that damned priest will be dumbfounded when he returns from Prague with another bit of skirt to see a crater in the ground where the cottage used to stand!

The mages quickly got over their anger, however, and the bomb was never used. But the Ignis inextinguibilis was built, according to ancient Arabic prescriptions taken from books published in Constantinople. With the active involvement of Reynevan. Who now, over a year later, in Kłodzko, knew exactly what he needed.

“I need,” he declared confidently and emphatically to his companions, who were looking at him quite critically, “two small barrels of olive oil, a bucket or two of wood tar, a small pail of honey, four pounds of saltpetre, two pounds of brimstone and the same again of slaked lime. On top of that, I must have a skin of resin, ideally pine resin. And two pounds of powdered antimony. It can be had in apothecaries’ shops.”

“Is that all?”

“We’ll make five bombs, I think. Thus, we need five clay jugs with narrow necks. Straw to wrap them up in. And lots of pitch to pour over them—”

“And a sea monster?” Bisclavret asked calmly. “And the lance of Saint Maurice? And a flock of popinjays? Some apes? Won’t you need them, too? You must have fallen on your head, Reynevan. The town’s going to be besieged tomorrow; they’re already rationing bread, salt can’t be had for love nor money, and you’re sending us out to buy brimstone and antimony.”

“I’ll also need some sort of workshop.” Reynevan wasn’t to be dissuaded. “So stop bellyaching and get to work. The Vogelsang must have a resident spy in Kłodzko. Perhaps even more than one—”