“Do I have a choice? For if not there will be unpleasant consequences. After all, Jutta is in your hands. In your dungeon—”

“She isn’t in any dungeon,” interrupted the stranger. “No one will harm her, lay a finger on her, insult her or stain her honour. Jutta of Apolda is in our care. She is, naturally, in isolation… With the knowledge, actually, and approval of her mother, Lady Agnes, the wife of the Cup-Bearer of Schönau. Miss Jutta is residing in a safe place. Removed and isolated from the perils of this world. From certain ideas that once led Maifreda of Pirovano to the stake. And from you. Especially from you. And for the time being, Miss Jutta will remain removed and isolated.”

“For the time being?”

“Until…”

“Until when? When will you free her?”

“When the time comes. And under certain conditions.”

“Go on!” snapped Reynevan, still vainly trying to move his horse. “Get to the point! Tell me! What are the conditions? Who am I to betray this time? Who am I to sell? Turn over whom to their death? And when I do what you want, you will give me Jutta, will you? And perhaps you’ll throw in thirty pieces of silver?”

“Be patient!” The stranger raised a hand. “Quell your excitement, don’t rush ahead. I have said what I had to say. Now return to your people. To the Orphans, who, rumour has it, are marching northwards hard and will be here any moment. Go back. And wait for news from us. The Reverend Hejncze asked me to give you these words of the prophet Hosea: the ways of the Lord are right, and the just shall walk in them: but the transgressors shall fall therein. It’s time you stopped falling, Reinmar of Bielawa. Time to return to right ways. We shall try to help you in it.”

“I don’t doubt you will.”

“Wait for news. We shall find you.”

“Are you so sure you will?”

“We shall.” The Inquisition’s emissary smiled. “Without difficulty. Since you are like marjoram. You often appear. In every dish. My name is Łukasz Bożyczko.”

“I shall remember.”

Łukasz Bożyczko laughed, unconcerned—apparently, at least—by the threat in Reynevan’s voice. He threw his cloak back over his shoulder. Reined the piebald around. Spurred it. And trotted off towards the Town Gate. Towards which more and more refugees were trudging.

Reynevan remained watching him for a long time. He was dying of exhaustion and lack of sleep. But he knew there was no time for either rest or sleep. He tugged at the reins and headed back towards Frankenstein. His horse snorted. The road was full of people. News about the Orphans advancing with a plundering raid had spread like lightning, and Silesia was once again seized by panic.

And Jutta was in the Inquisition’s hands.

The sky in the south was growing dark, warning of approaching snowstorms.