“It’s agreed,” he declared after returning. “We fetch the goods tonight. The oilmaker demands the transaction take place secretly.”

In the evening, the flames of fires could now be seen. Kościelniki, Leszczyny, Pawłów, Ruszowice and the monastery village of Podzamek were all in flames. The townspeople had been ordered off the walls and their places taken by soldiers. Bombards, catapults and other menacing-looking machines were being set up.

The town bells tolled the Angelus. Bisclavret refrained from comments, but Reynevan saw and understood the same as the others did.

“Frenchman?”

“What?”

“I presume you’re able to contact Rzehors?”

“You presume correctly.”

“And our escape route? Have you thought about it?”

“You take care of your bombs, Reynevan. And make sure they explode. And that the spells work at a distance.”

“I am taking great care. You’ve no idea how much.”

The bell at Our Lady’s announced the ignitegium, the order to douse fires and lights, with three successive, rapid strikes. It was the signal for decent burghers to go to bed.

Reynevan, Bisclavret, Scharley and Samson weren’t decent burghers. Nor could Johann Trutwein, who appeared in Milk Street at dusk, be counted among them. When darkness fell, they began to steal towards the area around the Water Gate and Butcher Street.

Though the ignitegium had been announced, the town wasn’t asleep, but remained anxiously watchful. No wonder, since to the south and west the sky was bright with the glow of fire and the enemy was almost at the gates. Outside the walls, soldiers’ campfires were burning, the guards were shouting to each other on the walls and the footsteps of patrols thudded in the streets. In such conditions, it took them much longer than they had planned. Trutwein began to worry that the oilmaker wouldn’t wait, presuming they had given up on the idea.

His fears appeared to be justified. It was dark in Butcher Street; they couldn’t see lighted candles or cressets in any of the windows. The gate in the courtyard was open, however.

“Scharley, Samson,” whispered Bisclavret. “Stay here. Keep your wits about you.”

Scharley placed a hand on the hilt of the falchion and Samson also raised his goedendag purposefully. Reynevan felt the hilt of his dagger and followed Bisclavret and Trutwein into the darkness of the gateway reeking of cat.

A candle flame flickered and shone in a window at the very end of the courtyard.

“Over there…” whispered Trutwein. “On we go…”

“Wait,” hissed Bisclavret. “Stop. Something’s not right. Something’s—”

About a dozen thugs leaped out of the darkness and fell on them.

For some time, Reynevan had been squeezing in his fist one of Telesma’s amulets, made from a chip of a belemnite guard. All he had to do was shout out the spell.

“Fulgur fragro! ”