He broke off. The visitor’s iron-grey gaze, it turned out, also had the remarkable ability to stem garrulousness.

“In February of last year,” Wendel Domarasc shifted to shorter and more precise sentences, “the Union of Strzelin was established, as you surely know. Silesian dukes, the starostas and councils of Wrocław, Świdnica, Jawor and Kłodzko. Its aim: to eliminate Czech networks operating in Silesia and then to mobilise their armies to strike Bohemia.”

The visitor nodded to indicate that he knew. But the expression didn’t change in his iron-grey eyes.

“They smote us hard,” continued the spy without emotion. “The bishop’s Inquisition and the counter-intelligence of Albrecht of Kolditz and Půta of Častolovice. The abbots of Henryków, Kamieniec and Krzeszów. The Świdnica sleeper agent and several of our people in Wrocław were arrested in the autumn. Somebody was made to testify, or somebody betrayed us, for by the second Sunday of Advent, the Jawor cell had been reeled in. Most of our agents from the Nysa region were arrested in the winter. And this year, not a month has gone by without somebody being caught… Or killed. Terror is spreading. People well disposed to us are dying. Merchants collaborating with us are dying. The people are in the grip of fear. It’s difficult to recruit new agents in these circumstances. It’s difficult to infiltrate—the risk of betrayal and entrapment is growing… Brother Prokop, I realise, isn’t interested in the difficulties, but in outcomes, results… Please report that we’re doing what we can. We’re doing our jobs. I’m observing the rules of the trade and doing my—”

“I didn’t come here to inspect you,” the man with the iron-grey eyes interjected calmly. “I have my own tasks to accomplish in Silesia. I visited you for three reasons. Primo, you’re the safest cell and my own safety matters to me somewhat. Secundo, I need your help.”

The magister breathed out, swallowed and raised his head more boldly.

“And tertio?”

“You need Prokop’s help. Here it is.”

The iron-grey-eyed man unfastened his bundle and drew from it a large package wrapped in sheepskin and tied with a leather strap. The package thumped down heavily on the table, announcing its contents with a muffled clank. The spy held out a bony hand covered in liver spots that looked like a hawk’s talons.

“This is precisely what we need,” Wendel said, feeling the package. “Gold and the spirit of victory. If Prokop gives me more gold and a few more victories like Tachov, Silesia will be his in a year.”

“Numquam tibi sanguinis huius ius erit aut magno feries impre… imperdita Tydeo pectora; vado equidem exsul… exsultans… Ow! Ouch!”

“You mentioned,” the magister scholarum said as he closed the window, “that you are counting on my help.”

“Here’s a list of what I’ll need. Please get it quickly.”

“Hmm… It’ll be arranged.”