“I’m being followed. Which is why I can’t go down Soukenická Street.”

“Being followed,” said Radim Tvrdík. “By the usual chaps?”

“Probably. Cheerio.”

“Wait.”

“What for?”

“It isn’t wise to try to lose your tail.”

“What?”

“To the tailers, attempts to lose the tail are a clear sign that the tailee has a guilty conscience and something to hide,” the Czech explained most astutely. “Only a thief fears the truth. It’s sensible not to go down Soukenická Street. But don’t dodge, don’t weave around, don’t hide. Do what you usually do. Attend to your daily activities. Bore the trackers with your boring daily routine.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ve developed quite a thirst digging up sludge. Come to the Crayfish. Let’s have a beer.”

“I’m being followed,” Reynevan reminded him. “Aren’t you afraid—”

“What’s there to be afraid of?” The wizard picked up his pail.

Reynevan sighed. Not for the first time, a Prague magician had surprised him. He didn’t know if it was their admirable calm or simply a lack of imagination, but some of the local wizards often appeared unbothered by the fact that Hussites could be more dangerous than the Inquisition to anyone who indulged in black magic. Maleficium—witchcraft—was among the deadly sins punishable by death in the Fourth Article of Prague. The Hussites were no laughing matter where the Articles of Prague were concerned. Self-proclaimed “moderate” Calixtines from Prague were the equal of radical Taborites and fanatical Orphans in that respect. Any sorcerer who was caught was put in a barrel and burned at the stake in it.

They turned back towards the town square along Knifemakers Street, then Goldsmiths Street and finally St. Giles Street. They walked slowly. Tvrdík stopped by several stalls and shared some gossip with the stallholders he knew. As was standard, sentences were cut short more than once with “times being what they are…” which was received with wise expressions, sighs and knowing nods. Reynevan looked around but couldn’t see his pursuers. They were keeping well out of sight. He didn’t know how it was for them, but he was beginning to find the boring routine deadly boring.

Fortunately, soon after, they turned from St. Giles Street into a courtyard and passed through a gateway to emerge opposite the House at the Red Crayfish. And a small tavern named identically by the innkeeper without a scrap of imagination.

“Well I never! Just look! Why, if it isn’t Reynevan!”