“Well?” he asked, wiping grease from his chin. “Have anything to tell me? To pass on to me? To report to me? Let me hazard a guess: you don’t.”

“You guessed right.”

The two golden imps appeared in Flutek’s black eyes. Both leaped up and turned somersaults as soon as they appeared.

“I was trailing one fellow,” said Reynevan, pretending not to notice. “I almost had him, but I lost him near Saint Valentine’s.”

“What bad luck,” said Flutek unemotionally. “Did you at least recognise him? Would it be the one who was conspiring with the Bishop of Wrocław?”

“It would, I believe.”

“But he gave you the slip?”

“He did.”

“So you lost another chance to get your revenge,” said Flutek, taking a sip from his mug. “You really are unlucky. Fate doesn’t go your way—indeed, fate doesn’t want to favour you in any way. Many a man would break down with such endless bad luck, but I look at you and see that you put up with it manfully. All I can do is admire and envy you.

“But,” he went on, without waiting for a reaction, “I have some good news for you. I managed to do something you didn’t. I caught up with the rascal, quite close to the Church of Saint Valentine, which very nicely confirms your honesty. Are you glad, Reynevan? Are you grateful? Enough, perhaps, to talk frankly about the tax collector’s five hundred grzywna?”

“Have mercy, Neplach.”

“My apologies, I forgot that you know nothing about the affair with the tax collector, that you’re innocent and uninformed. So let’s return to the rascal I apprehended. Imagine, it’s none other than Jan Smiřický of Smiřice, Hejtman of Mělnice and Roudnice. Can you imagine?”

“I can.”

“Well?”

“Nothing.”

Reynevan thought the imps would turn a somersault. But they didn’t.

“Your reports about the involvement of Jan of Smiřice in the Silesian conspiracy are now, regrettably, old news,” Flutek went on a moment later. “A historical moment has dawned and much is happening. Every day brings change; what was significant yesterday means nothing today, and tomorrow will be worth less than dog shit. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Oh, but I do.”

“Good. Actually, in the broad scheme of things, it’s meaningless—what does it ultimately matter what Smiřický is convicted of? He’ll be condemned to death and executed, for conspiracy, treason, revolt—same bloody difference. What is to be, will be. Your brother will be avenged. Are you glad? Are you grateful?”

“I beg you, Neplach, just don’t talk about the tax collector’s five hundred grzywna.”

Flutek put down his mug and looked Reynevan straight in the eyes.

“I shan’t. It pains me to say it, but Smiřický has scarpered.”

“What?”