The door leading to the occultum opened and Vincent Reffin Axleben emerged. Gathering up the folds of his black robe, he sat down at a table and downed a glass of Alicante in a single draught. He sat in the silence, without contributing anything himself. He was pale and sweaty; the sweat had stuck his thin hair to his temples and the back of his head.

Vincent Reffin Axleben was a temporary guest in Prague. He was travelling from Salzburg, where he lived, to Krakow for a series of lectures at the academy there. From Krakow, the sorcerer was planning to go to Gdańsk, then on from there via Königsberg to Riga, Dorpat and Pernau. From what Reynevan had heard, Axleben’s ultimate destination was Uppsala. He had also heard other things. That Axleben, though a powerful, able and famous sorcerer, was not respected since he practised necromancy and demonomancy, which were deemed controversial. His fun and games with corpses and evil spirits had brought him social ostracism from many circles. Rumours attributed to him the knowledge of and ability to use Manusfortis, the Mighty Hand, an extremely powerful spell which could be cast with a single movement of the hand. Gossip had also turned Axleben into one of the leading ideologists of the eastern-European Waldensians and adherents of Joachim of Fiore, and he was also linked to the Lombardist Stregheria. Axleben’s very close ties with the Brethren and Sisterhood of the Free Spirit were also no secret—it had greatly astonished the sorcerers of the Archangel that during his stay in Prague, Axleben was staying with them and not at the House of the Black Rose, the Brethren’s secret Prague headquarters. Some people attributed it to Axleben’s amical relationship with Jan Bezděchovský. Others suspected that the necromancer wanted to pursue his own goals.

“It would be out of the question for me to have this Samson of yours for ever, would it?” asked Axleben, finally raising his head and looking around the assembled company.

Reynevan was already getting up with a sharp retort on his lips, but a poke from Scharley restrained him. The necromancer didn’t even notice and appeared only to be looking for an answer in the eyes and face of Jan Bezděchovský. He saw the answer and grimaced.

“Of course, I understand. Pity. I’d love to talk to this… gentleman. A well-read individual… An elegant speaker… And very witty. Very, very witty.”

“Bravo, Samson,” whispered Fraundinst.

“Samson treated him,” Telesma whispered back, “to the Emerald Tablet…”