“Farewell, Samson. Oh—I forgot to thank you for sending me the telepathic hints. Thanks to them, it went so smoothly with Smiřický.”

Samson glanced at him, and his dopey face suddenly lit up in a broad, dopey smile.

“It went smoothly thanks to your cunning and intelligence,” he said. “I didn’t help or contribute much, apart from chucking a barrel at Smiřický. And as far as suggestions go, I didn’t send you any. I just hurried you along telepathically because I was dying to take a leak.”

There really was plenty of work, and it turned out that every pair of hands with healing skill was needed and came in useful.

The wounded filled both aisles of Our Lady before Týn, and from what Reynevan had heard, there were also numerous patients at Saint Nicholas’s. Almost until dusk, Reynevan and the other physicians set fractures, stemmed bleeding and sewed back on what needed sewing on.

And when he finished, when he stood up, when he straightened his aching back, when again he fought down the nausea brought on by the stench of blood and incense, when he was finally about to go and wash, the grey character in grey hose appeared as if from nowhere, like a ghost. Reynevan sighed and followed him, neither questioning nor asking anything.

Bohuchval Neplach was waiting for him in the Bohemian Lion tavern in Celetná Street. The tavern brewed its own excellent beer and was famed for its cuisine, but its fame was calculated into the prices of its dishes, hence Reynevan didn’t frequent it, for he couldn’t afford it either during his undergraduate days or now. That day, for the first time, he had the chance to familiarise himself with the décor and the fragrances from the kitchen, which were, indeed, quite delicious.

The head of the Taborite intelligence service was dining alone in a corner, skilfully and attentively working on a roast goose, completely ignoring the fact that the grease was staining his sleeves and dripping down the front of his silver-braided doublet. He saw Reynevan and indicated for him to sit, making the gesture, incidentally, using a mug of frothing ale he was washing the goose down with, then went on eating without raising his eyes. It didn’t even occur to him to offer Reynevan any food or drink.

Flutek ate the entire goose, even the parson’s nose, which he left for last. Where does he put it, wondered Reynevan, when he’s so skinny? Though he does have the appetite of a crocodile. Ha, probably it’s his stressful work. Or parasites.

Flutek briefly inspected the remains of the goose and decided it was now so unattractive that he could direct his attention to something else. He looked up.