The problem, astonishingly, turned out not to be sulphur or saltpetre, which could fairly easily be bought from the local apothecaries; not resin, which the local tar makers who had sought protection in the town had in abundance; nor powdered antimony, which was sold to them by an alchemist fleeing from Bystřice, at an admittedly quite extortionate price. The ingredient you’d have thought would be the least complicated caused the most problems: oil. There was no oil in Kłodzko. It had all been bought.
There were very few specialised oil merchants in Kłodzko since demand for oil was met entirely by the town presses. The manufacture of oil intra muros occurred in mills and was carried out by millers’ apprentices as a sideline. Now, facing the threat of a siege, some of the apprentices had gone to fight, while those that remained were milling flour for bread day and night.
The invaluable altarist from Our Lady had a solution to that, too. In the parish church, he’d heard the whispered news that one of the local oilmakers had some reserves but was hiding them in order to make a killing at the right moment. Perhaps he might agree to sell a barrel or two. Having declared his readiness to intercede in the negotiations, the altarist went home, for dusk was falling.
The next day, there was a hubbub and excitement in the town. People were hurrying to the Green Gate, so the company also went there. The crowds squeezed onto the walls were pointing at columns of smoke rising to the south. Rengersdorf, Martinov, Hannsdorf and Železno were all burning, the news had it. The black smoke, dispersed by the wind into a ragged plume, soon rose to the west of the town over Schwedeldorf and Roszyce. The townspeople’s anxiety rose to fever pitch. Combined with the earlier tidings about the burning down of Kunzendorf, the smoke to the west could mean only one thing: the Hussites were approaching Kłodzko from two sides.
“Tomorrow,” said Bisclavret, looking meaningfully at Reynevan after they returned. “Královec will reach the town tomorrow.”
“I’ll manage.” Reynevan pointed to five jugs wrapped up in straw. “All we do is add the oil, mix it, bung it and cover it in pitch and it’ll be ready. Then all that’s left is to plant them in the right places. Have you decided where?”
Bisclavret smiled wolfishly. “Indeed,” he drawled malevolently. “It’s all planned.”
“Trutwein should be here any moment now. With good news, God willing.”
Johann Trutwein only showed up at the tenth hour of the day, an hour after the Nones were rung at the Augustinian monastery. But he did indeed have good news. The oilmaker, he announced, would sell the oil. But he was asking…
Bisclavret scowled furiously when Trutwein whispered in his ear. He took the altarist to one side and the two of them argued at length.
“It’s agreed,” he declared after returning. “We fetch the goods tonight. The oilmaker demands the transaction take place secretly.”
In the evening, the flames of fires could now be seen. Kościelniki, Leszczyny, Pawłów, Ruszowice and the monastery village of Podzamek were all in flames. The townspeople had been ordered off the walls and their places taken by soldiers. Bombards, catapults and other menacing-looking machines were being set up.
The town bells tolled the Angelus. Bisclavret refrained from comments, but Reynevan saw and understood the same as the others did.
“Frenchman?”
“What?”
“I presume you’re able to contact Rzehors?”
“You presume correctly.”
“And our escape route? Have you thought about it?”
“You take care of your bombs, Reynevan. And make sure they explode. And that the spells work at a distance.”
“I am taking great care. You’ve no idea how much.”
The bell at Our Lady’s announced the ignitegium, the order to douse fires and lights, with three successive, rapid strikes. It was the signal for decent burghers to go to bed.
Reynevan, Bisclavret, Scharley and Samson weren’t decent burghers. Nor could Johann Trutwein, who appeared in Milk Street at dusk, be counted among them. When darkness fell, they began to steal towards the area around the Water Gate and Butcher Street.
Though the ignitegium had been announced, the town wasn’t asleep, but remained anxiously watchful. No wonder, since to the south and west the sky was bright with the glow of fire and the enemy was almost at the gates. Outside the walls, soldiers’ campfires were burning, the guards were shouting to each other on the walls and the footsteps of patrols thudded in the streets. In such conditions, it took them much longer than they had planned. Trutwein began to worry that the oilmaker wouldn’t wait, presuming they had given up on the idea.
His fears appeared to be justified. It was dark in Butcher Street; they couldn’t see lighted candles or cressets in any of the windows. The gate in the courtyard was open, however.
“Scharley, Samson,” whispered Bisclavret. “Stay here. Keep your wits about you.”
Scharley placed a hand on the hilt of the falchion and Samson also raised his goedendag purposefully. Reynevan felt the hilt of his dagger and followed Bisclavret and Trutwein into the darkness of the gateway reeking of cat.
A candle flame flickered and shone in a window at the very end of the courtyard.
“Over there…” whispered Trutwein. “On we go…”
“Wait,” hissed Bisclavret. “Stop. Something’s not right. Something’s—”
About a dozen thugs leaped out of the darkness and fell on them.
For some time, Reynevan had been squeezing in his fist one of Telesma’s amulets, made from a chip of a belemnite guard. All he had to do was shout out the spell.
“Fulgur fragro! ”
There was a deafening roar, a blinding flash and the air imploded with a piercing whistle. Reynevan bolted, hard on Trutwein’s heels. Bisclavret dashed after them, having first managed to slash several of the bruisers—who were temporarily blinded and deafened—with his Andalusian navaja.
The trap had been carefully laid, however, and their escape route was cut off. When they rushed out into the street, they ran straight into a fierce brawl. Scharley and Samson were resisting a massed attack by more thugs.
“Take them alive! Alive!” thundered a command. Reynevan knew that voice.
He felt somebody seize him by the shoulder. He drew his dagger, slashed vigorously, twisted the hilt in his hand, stabbed from above, spun around, made a powerful reverse cut right after it, using his momentum and position, from right to left. He heard a cry; blood splashed his face and two bodies fell at his feet. Blood spattered his face again, but this time it was the work of Scharley and his curved falchion. Someone grabbed him again, at the same time seizing his wrist above the dagger. There was a hollow thud and the grip loosened. It was Samson, who had appeared at his side, felling the assailants one after another with vicious blows of the goedendag. But more attackers kept coming.
“Run for it!” yelled Bisclavret, stabbing and slashing with the navaja. “Fast! Follow me!”
Scharley darted after the Frenchman, wielding the falchion as he ran, attackers quailing before him. Reynevan was grabbed again, but the man howled and recoiled as the dagger plunged into his eye. As Reynevan fought off another attack, knife grated against knife, steel against steel, sending up sparks. Fortunately, the knifeman fell like an ox in a slaughterhouse after a blow from the goedendag.