It had to be admitted that the knight with the shield divided diagonally into silver and black fields saved himself using good sense and invention. Firstly, while still in the Old Town Square, he discarded the shield identifying him. When the horsemen who had been driven back from the barricades in the Fruit Market regrouped behind the Church of Saint Leonard to attack the Praguians again, the silver and black knight confidently turned his horse around and darted into the narrow streets, tearing off his richly embroidered cloak as he galloped. He rode into the small Puddle Square, frightening ducks and beggars. Hearing the cries of his pursuers, he leaped from the saddle, slapped his steed on the rump and dived into a narrow, dark alley leading towards Swordsmiths Street. The yelling Praguians followed the clatter of hooves towards the Dominican monastery and the Vltava. The river in whose waters—as the shouts of the mob were boringly and monotonously proclaiming—every rebel and traitor would soon meet his end.

The sounds grew fainter and more distant. The knight sighed in relief and smiled faintly to himself. He was already almost certain he would make it. And who knows, perhaps he would have, were it not for the fact that Reynevan knew the area very well. Swordsmiths Street and the backstreets leading from it had been home, in pre-revolutionary times, to several cosy and reasonably priced little brothels, so every student and scholar of Charles University was very familiar with the area. On top of that, Reynevan and Samson Honeypot were using magic—telepathic amulets, very simple ones, but sufficient for rudimentary telecommunication—for tracking and stalking.

The silver and black knight waited for a moment, using the time to drape a piece of cloth he’d found over his armour. He pressed himself against the wall on hearing the thud of horseshoes, but it was only a riderless horse, a dun with blood running down its side. Following the horse came a spotted cow, rocking and mooing—how it got there, God alone only knew.

When it grew silent, the knight quickly headed towards Swordsmiths Street, where he stopped for a moment and looked around, listening to the fading sounds of fighting and slaughter. Then he entered the first arcade and courtyard he came to, where he began removing the treacherous armour. He took down a very frayed and baggy blouse from among other garments on a washing line. It had clearly been made for a pregnant woman or one with a naturally rotund physique. Pulling the blouse down over his head, he couldn’t see anything for a moment.

And Reynevan and Samson took advantage of that.