“Rats leaving a sinking ship,” he said, more to himself than to the knight. “After Tachov, in the face of the growing power of Prokop and Tábor, it was your only chance. The coup, the seizure of power, the release and placement of Korybut on the throne, the negotiations with the papacy and the Landfried. You staked everything on one card. But it didn’t work.”

“Aye, it didn’t,” the knight replied without much emotion, still staring not at Reynevan, but at Samson. “I lost. Whichever way you look at it, it appears I’ll lose my life. Very well, let what will be, be. Kill me, turn me over to Neplach, throw me to the mob, as you wish. I’ve had enough of all this. I shall make but one request, beg for one thing… I have a maiden in Prague. A commoner. Give her my ring and cross. And this pouch. I know, these things are your spoils… But she’s a poor wench—”

“Answer my questions,” Reynevan said, again following Samson’s telepathic instruction, “and you can give her everything yourself. Today.”

Smiřický lowered his eyelids in order to hide the glint in his eye.

“You’re ensnaring me. You won’t forgive me. You won’t renounce your revenge for your brother—”

“You only betrayed him. Others stabbed him with their swords. I want to know their names. Go on, betray them, gain something for something. Give me the opportunity to take my revenge on them and I’ll renounce revenge on you.”

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t deceive me?”

“You have none.”

The knight said nothing for some time, and all that could be heard was him swallowing.

“Ask,” he finally said.

“Hvězda and Švamberk. They were murdered, weren’t they?”

“They were…” stammered Smiřický. “Unless… I don’t know. I have suspicions, but I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“Black magic?”

“Probably.”

“One other person took part in the conversation with the bishop. Tall. Slender. Black, shoulder-length hair. Birdlike face.”

“The bishop’s advisor, assistant and confidant. Don’t stare at me. You must know or have guessed. He does the bishop’s dirty work for him. There’s no doubt he murdered Piotr of Bielawa. And many others. Remember the Ninetieth Psalm—”

“The arrow that flieth by day. Timor nocturnus. The destruction that wasteth at noonday…”

“You said it,” Smiřický replied, grimacing. “You uttered that word. And I think you hit the target. Do you want some good advice, lad? Stay well away from him. From him and from—”

“The black horsemen calling ‘Adsumus.’ Intoxicating themselves like assassins, with mysterious Arabic substances. Using black magic.”

“You said it. Don’t go after them. Believe me and follow my advice. Don’t even try to go near them. And if they try to get near to you, flee. As fast and as far away as you can.”