“It concerned Kłodzko, naturally. Our man was a witness to a conversation between Horn and Reinmar of Bielawa and those other two Vogelsang agents, Rzehors and Bisclavret. Kłodzko, Horn told them, is the gateway and key to Silesia. And added that Sir Půta of Častolovice is becoming an inconvenient icon, a threat to us… I mean to them… I mean to the Hussites… And this time Kłodzko has to fall.”

“Were those our man’s exact words?” The Inquisitor raised his head.

“His very words,” confirmed the deacon. “Our man conveyed those words to our agent in Kłodzko. Who then told me.”

“Go on.”

“The Vogelsang agent Bisclavret said that their colleague Trutwein had survived the turmoil and was again active. Said that he was gathering oleum, resin and other ingredients, and this time they wouldn’t be short of anything and would start such a blaze in Kłodzko that—these are his words—Sir Půta’s whiskers would be singed. And this time, not them but Sir Půta would escape by diving into a shithole. That’s what he said, those very words: by diving into a shithole—”

“So the group has been redeployed to Kłodzko,” Hejncze guessed. “When did the redeployment begin?”

“On the Friday after Saint Martin’s Day. They weren’t all redeployed at once, but gradually, two or three at a time, in order not to arouse suspicion. Fortunately, our man was in one of the first groups to be deployed, which is why we know that it’s true about Trutwein. This Trutwein—Johann Trutwein—is an altarist at the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary and has been a Hussite spy for years. And it turns out that a fledgling espionage and sabotage cell has been operating around him in Kłodzko since the summer.”

The Inquisitor pushed away a seal he had been playing with. “Am I to understand that, at this moment, the entire group is in Kłodzko? All of them?”

“All of them apart from Horn, Bielawa, Bisclavret and three more. That group left Jugów on Saint Martin’s Day. Our man doesn’t know where they went. What are my orders, Your Reverence? What are our next steps?”

The clamour of the town, stallholders quarrelling in the Poultry Market, could be heard through the window. The papal Inquisitor said nothing, rubbing his nose.

“That man of ours,” he finally asked. “Who is it?”

“Kacper Dompnig. A bookkeeper. From here in Wrocław.”

“Dompnig… He hasn’t been blackmailed. I’d recall it if he had, I don’t forget blackmail… But I don’t believe we’ve been paying him, either. Could he by chance be an idealist?”

“He may indeed.”

“Then keep an eye on him, Łukasz.”

“Amen, Your Reverence.”