The fellow with the iron-grey eyes, thought Wendel Domarasc, there’ll be problems because of him. As soon as I saw him, I knew. It’s clear why he was sent. He’s a murderer. An assassin, a killer. He was sent here to eliminate somebody. And after something like that there’s always a witch-hunt; panicked terror erupts. And it’s impossible to work peacefully. Espionage likes calm, it can’t bear violence and commotion. It particularly can’t bear people with special assignments.

The magister rested his chin on his interlaced hands. Why oh why did he ask about the Vogelsang?

“The Vogelsang. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Naturally.” Domarasc overcame his surprise and didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“Of course it does.”

“Go on.”

“The code name ‘Vogelsang,’” said the magister, trying to make his tone matter-of-fact, his voice indifferent, “was given to a secret group with special tasks, directly responsible to Žižka. The group had a co-ordinator and a liaison officer. When the latter met his death in strange circumstances, contact was lost. The Vogelsang simply vanished. I received orders to find the group. I made efforts. And searched. Unsuccessfully.”

He didn’t look down, although the iron-grey eyes bored into him.

“I know the facts.” The visitor’s voice didn’t betray a trace of emotion. “What I’m asking for is your opinion on this matter. And your conclusions.”

Conclusions, thought Domarasc, were drawn long ago. By Flutek, Bohuchval Neplach, who is now feverishly hunting the guilty parties. For the Vogelsang—it’s no secret—were given funds from the Tábor. Huge sums of money, meant to serve the financing of “special operations.” There was clearly too much money, and the men recruited to the Vogelsang were clearly too special. The result: the money vanished and so did the men. Probably for ever.

“As I said, the Vogelsang’s liaison officer and co-ordinator were murdered,” he said, urged on by the look. “The circumstances of the murders weren’t just mysterious, they were alarming, and then gossip literally turned them into a nightmare. Fear of death can supersede loyalty and devotion to the cause. In great terror and fear for one’s life, loyalty is forgotten.”

“Loyalty is forgotten,” the visitor repeated slowly. “Have you forgotten yours?”

“Mine is unswerving.”

“I understand.”

I hope he did, thought Domarasc. I hope he understood. Because I know the rumours circulating close to Prokop and Flutek about betrayal and a conspiracy. A conspiracy, that’s a good one. A secret “special force” is created, recruiting to it scoundrels of the deepest dye who desert at the first sign of danger, stealing the money put into their care. And then conspiracies are looked for.

And a killer is sent to Silesia.

The washerwomen by the Młynówka argued and accused each other of prostitution. The fishermen swore. The pupils recited Ovid.

“Adnue conanti per laudes ire tuorum