“You saw those bodies hanging from the gate?” Bisclavret cut him off. “They were the Vogelsang’s resident spies. But yes, you’re quite right, that wasn’t all of them, we have one more. But contacting him now would mean he’ll also hang. People speak during torture, Reynevan. And betray others.”

“Gentlemen.” Scharley joined in. “You can’t assume it’ll end in disaster before we even give it a try. Hand over the list, Reinmar. We’ll scour the town and see which of those ingredients we can conjure up. We’ll find a workshop, too. We have money, we have time—”

“Things aren’t so good regarding time,” retorted Bisclavret. “Today is the twenty-second of March, the Monday after White Sunday. Královec’s Orphans will be here on Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.”

“We’ll manage,” said Reynevan with conviction. “To work, gentlemen.”

The Vogelsang’s resident sleeper in Kłodzko turned out to be the altarist at the Church of Our Lady, a man by the name of Johann Trutwein. He almost fainted at the sight of Bisclavret. However—and respect is due—he overcame his nerves quickly enough to be able to answer questions coherently. His teeth chattered somewhat when he talked about the fate of the other agents who were first tortured in the town hall’s cellars and then in the town square, in full view of the common folk. The altarist himself survived only because the unfortunates didn’t know anything about him, the Vogelsang being too shrewd to put all their eggs in one basket. But be that as it may, Johann Trutwein still got the fright of his life.

Bisclavret, however, had a reliable remedy for states of anxiety. At the sight of a pouch stuffed with money, the altarist brightened up, and having heard what they wanted from him acted admirably efficiently. He immediately offered the conspirators a workshop, the chambers in Milk Street of a merchant who had fled the town, entrusting Trutwein with the key and its supervision. He immediately also offered help in the purchase of the raw materials. He didn’t ask what purpose they would serve. Just as well, as no one would have told him anyway. The same day, Reynevan, aided by spells and amulets, began to make the magical fuses, called Ignis suspensus, in the merchant’s chambers. The rest of the squad headed to town to buy what was needed. And then a problem occurred.