Until one day in July, on the eve of Saint James the Apostle’s Day, it so happened that a sawyer was brought from a nearby lumber mill, seriously wounded by a saw blade. Blood was gushing out and Fraundinst, Reynevan and a pre-revolutionary Benedictine nun were doing what they could to staunch the flow. It was going poorly, perhaps because of the wound’s size, perhaps because they were simply having a bad day. When, yet again, blood from an artery squirted into his eye, Doctor Svatopluk swore so crudely that the Benedictine nun first reeled and then ran away. After her departure, the doctor used a ligating spell, also called “Alcmena’s charm.” He did it with a single gesture and word and Reynevan had never in his life seen a spell cast so efficiently. The artery closed up immediately and the blood began to darken and clot. Fraundinst turned his blood-spattered face towards Reynevan. It was obvious what he wanted. Reynevan sighed.

“Quare insidiaris animae meae? ” he muttered. “Why layest thou a snare for me, Saul?”

“I’ve revealed myself, so you must, too,” the wizard said, grinning. “Come on, O cautious Witch of Endor. Fear not. Non veniet tibi quicquam mali.”

They both cast the spell simultaneously, and the power of the collective magic ligated and sealed up all the blood vessels.

“And that same doctor medicinae,” Scharley said, “introduced you to the congregation of sorcerers who gather at the House at the Archangel apothecary’s shop. The one we are approaching right now.”

Scharley had guessed right. They were in Soukenická Street and the apothecary’s shop was now visible behind a row of spinners’ and weavers’ workshops and mercers’ shops. Over the entrance, high above the door, hung a bay window with narrow panes decorated with the wooden figure of a winged archangel. The figure was quite battered by age and it was impossible to say which archangel it was. Reynevan had never asked. Neither the first time, when he was taken there by Fraundinst in August 1426, on a Thursday falling on the day of the Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, nor subsequently.

“Before we enter, one more thing.” Reynevan stopped Scharley again. “A request. I’d be grateful if you would restrain yourself.”

Scharley stamped to dislodge from his boot some shit—at first glance probably canine, although there was no certainty, as some children were hanging around the area.

“We owe it to Samson,” Reynevan continued with emphasis.

“Firstly,” Scharley raised his head, “you’ve already said it. Secondly: it is beyond question. He is our comrade, and those four words suffice.”