“I shall not leave undefended a single one of you, even the most meagre servant,” added Prior Vogsdorf, without emphasis. “Not a single one of you. I swear on this Holy Cross.”
“We’re out of luck,” said Bisclavret unemotionally. “It couldn’t be worse for us. That sodding Půta sans peur et sans reproche and a bloody valiant and honest priest. What were the chances of that? Bad luck!”
“Bad luck,” Scharley calmly agreed. “We simply don’t have any fucking luck. Let’s sum it up. Not a chance of opening any of the gates, and it will be difficult to sow panic among the defenders. What does that leave?”
“Murder.” The Frenchman grimaced. “Assassination. An act of terror. We can try to eliminate Půta and the prior. In that regard, we can count on Reynevan, who in Żelazno yesterday demonstrated hitherto—”
“Enough.” Reynevan cut him off. “Not another word about it. I’m waiting for serious suggestions. What’s left to us?”
“Fire.” Bisclavret shrugged. “To start a fire—or rather several fires. In several locations at once. But that’s impossible. Count me out of that.”
“Why?”
“Reynevan.” The Frenchman’s voice was cold and his expression even colder. “Play the idealist if you wish, or if you think it suits you. You may, if that’s your will, fight for Wycliffe, Huss, God, the sacrament sub utraque specie, the good of the people and social justice. But I am a professional. I want to do my job and get out alive. What, don’t you understand? Strategic fires, to be effective, must be started at the very moment of the attack. Understand?”
“I understand,” said Scharley, “at the very moment of the attack. When there’s no chance of fleeing. The men who capture the town with our help will cut us down during the customarily joyful bloodbath.”
“Perhaps we could agree on a signal—”
“By hanging a cord made of scarlet thread like Rachab at Jericho? You’ve listened to too many sermons, laddie. Don’t mix literature up with serious matters. I’m with Bisclavret and say: I won’t take part in any insane schemes like that. I am also a professional, may I remind you. And have several professions. Each of them dear to me. Dear enough to make me love and value life.”
“There may be a way,” said Reynevan after a long pause, “to start fires here without risking the precious skin of our gentlemen professionals.”
“Oh! Might there?” Scharley said.
“Indeed. For I, gentlemen, am also a professional.”
One might have thought that the apothecary’s shop, the House at the Archangel in Prague, the refuge of scholars and philosophers, a temple of thought and progress, would be the last place one could learn how to manufacture magical incendiary bombs. But anyone who thought that would have been in error. It was possible to learn all kinds of arcana and skills at the House at the Archangel. And as luck would have it, Reynevan had personally participated in the process of building a powerful incendiary bomb.
Teggendorf and Radim Tvrdík, furious with a dishonest rival—the former parish priest at Saint Stephen’s, a dilettante magician who functioned outside the guild—had decided to manufacture a bomb, called in magical jargon Ignis inextinguibilis. At first, they had planned to inform on him anonymously, counting on the local courts to deliver justice, but they regarded that as less than honourable revenge. The sorcerer priest had a beautiful country house in Bubny, to which he would invite maidens and married women for obvious reasons. That house was Teggendorf and Tvrdík’s target. Hey, they joked reprehensibly, that damned priest will be dumbfounded when he returns from Prague with another bit of skirt to see a crater in the ground where the cottage used to stand!
The mages quickly got over their anger, however, and the bomb was never used. But the Ignis inextinguibilis was built, according to ancient Arabic prescriptions taken from books published in Constantinople. With the active involvement of Reynevan. Who now, over a year later, in Kłodzko, knew exactly what he needed.
“I need,” he declared confidently and emphatically to his companions, who were looking at him quite critically, “two small barrels of olive oil, a bucket or two of wood tar, a small pail of honey, four pounds of saltpetre, two pounds of brimstone and the same again of slaked lime. On top of that, I must have a skin of resin, ideally pine resin. And two pounds of powdered antimony. It can be had in apothecaries’ shops.”
“Is that all?”
“We’ll make five bombs, I think. Thus, we need five clay jugs with narrow necks. Straw to wrap them up in. And lots of pitch to pour over them—”
“And a sea monster?” Bisclavret asked calmly. “And the lance of Saint Maurice? And a flock of popinjays? Some apes? Won’t you need them, too? You must have fallen on your head, Reynevan. The town’s going to be besieged tomorrow; they’re already rationing bread, salt can’t be had for love nor money, and you’re sending us out to buy brimstone and antimony.”
“I’ll also need some sort of workshop.” Reynevan wasn’t to be dissuaded. “So stop bellyaching and get to work. The Vogelsang must have a resident spy in Kłodzko. Perhaps even more than one—”
“You saw those bodies hanging from the gate?” Bisclavret cut him off. “They were the Vogelsang’s resident spies. But yes, you’re quite right, that wasn’t all of them, we have one more. But contacting him now would mean he’ll also hang. People speak during torture, Reynevan. And betray others.”
“Gentlemen.” Scharley joined in. “You can’t assume it’ll end in disaster before we even give it a try. Hand over the list, Reinmar. We’ll scour the town and see which of those ingredients we can conjure up. We’ll find a workshop, too. We have money, we have time—”
“Things aren’t so good regarding time,” retorted Bisclavret. “Today is the twenty-second of March, the Monday after White Sunday. Královec’s Orphans will be here on Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.”
“We’ll manage,” said Reynevan with conviction. “To work, gentlemen.”
The Vogelsang’s resident sleeper in Kłodzko turned out to be the altarist at the Church of Our Lady, a man by the name of Johann Trutwein. He almost fainted at the sight of Bisclavret. However—and respect is due—he overcame his nerves quickly enough to be able to answer questions coherently. His teeth chattered somewhat when he talked about the fate of the other agents who were first tortured in the town hall’s cellars and then in the town square, in full view of the common folk. The altarist himself survived only because the unfortunates didn’t know anything about him, the Vogelsang being too shrewd to put all their eggs in one basket. But be that as it may, Johann Trutwein still got the fright of his life.
Bisclavret, however, had a reliable remedy for states of anxiety. At the sight of a pouch stuffed with money, the altarist brightened up, and having heard what they wanted from him acted admirably efficiently. He immediately offered the conspirators a workshop, the chambers in Milk Street of a merchant who had fled the town, entrusting Trutwein with the key and its supervision. He immediately also offered help in the purchase of the raw materials. He didn’t ask what purpose they would serve. Just as well, as no one would have told him anyway. The same day, Reynevan, aided by spells and amulets, began to make the magical fuses, called Ignis suspensus, in the merchant’s chambers. The rest of the squad headed to town to buy what was needed. And then a problem occurred.