“In the fight for a good cause there are no ethics.” Rzehors straightened up proudly when, a short time later, Reynevan reproached him, particularly for the boy. “When the cause demands killing, one must kill. The spirit of destruction is at the same time the spirit of creation. An execution in a good cause isn’t a crime, hence one may not shirk from it. Thus, with head held high and a sure step, we enter the stage of history. We are changing and shaping history, Reinmar. When the New Order comes, children will be taught about it in school and all the world will learn the name of what we are doing. The word ‘terrorism’ will one day be on the lips of the whole world.”
“Amen,” Bisclavret added.
Rzehors and Bisclavret found out the name of the Namysłów agent who had turned the cooper and set out to kill him. They stabbed him to death as he returned from a tavern one night and were reunited with Reynevan in two days.
Day by day, it had to be admitted, the spirit of destruction was becoming more and more creative.
“Stop whingeing.” Bisclavret grimaced at the sight of Reynevan’s expression. “One day we’ll get an order from Flutek and we’ll head off together, the three of us, to stick a knife in the belly of that Grellenort who killed your brother. Or Duke Jan of Ziębice. Or the Bishop of Wrocław himself. Will you be whingeing then, talking nonsense about ethics and honour?”
Reynevan didn’t answer.
On the night of the seventh of November, the required individuals came to a meeting at an agreed place, which was a penitentiary cross at the edge of an oak wood in the Tąpadła Pass that separated the Ślęża massif from Radunia. They were the “reactivated” agents that the Vogelsang considered the most reliable and were needed to accomplish a special assignment. Precautions were taken, naturally—the presence of a turncoat among the agents could still not be ruled out. Only one member of the Vogelsang was waiting for the agents at the Tąpadła Pass—Rzehors was selected by drawing lots. If it went off without any surprises, Rzehors was to lead the group eastwards, to some shepherd huts where Reynevan would be waiting. If there wasn’t an ambush there, either, the group would continue to the village of Będkowice, where Bisclavret would be waiting. He had drawn the shortest straw.
But everything went smoothly and in the course of just a single night the Vogelsang had increased to nine men. Nine very different men. A bookkeeper from Wrocław; a stallholder from Prochowice; a carpenter from Trzebnica; an apprentice mason from Środa Śląska; a teacher from Kąty; the steward at the monastery grange in Lubiąż; an esquire once in the service of the Bolz family from Zeiskenberg; a former monk from Jemielnica, currently a seller of indulgences; and on top of that—in some ways the crowning achievement—the priest of the Church of the Heart of Jesus in Pogorzela.
Travelling by night—the unit was too large to be able to ride by day without arousing suspicion—they reached Rychbach, and from there headed to Lampersdorf and the Jugów Pass in the Owl Mountains. There, in a forest clearing outside the village of Jugów which gave its name to the pass, they met a squad that had come from Bohemia. The squad consisted of fourteen professionals. It wasn’t difficult to guess what profession they were members of. Reynevan didn’t actually have to guess. He knew two of them by sight from White Mountain, where they were being trained in the execution department.
The group leader was a friend of his.
“Urban Horn,” said Łukasz Bożyczko. “The squad was led from Bohemia by Urban Horn. In person.”
Gregorz Hejncze, Inquisitor a Sede Apostolica specialiter deputatus at the Wrocław Diocese, nodded to indicate he had guessed as much and that it came as no surprise. Łukasz Bożyczko cleared his throat, judging he could continue with his report.
“It concerned Kłodzko, naturally. Our man was a witness to a conversation between Horn and Reinmar of Bielawa and those other two Vogelsang agents, Rzehors and Bisclavret. Kłodzko, Horn told them, is the gateway and key to Silesia. And added that Sir Půta of Častolovice is becoming an inconvenient icon, a threat to us… I mean to them… I mean to the Hussites… And this time Kłodzko has to fall.”
“Were those our man’s exact words?” The Inquisitor raised his head.
“His very words,” confirmed the deacon. “Our man conveyed those words to our agent in Kłodzko. Who then told me.”
“Go on.”
“The Vogelsang agent Bisclavret said that their colleague Trutwein had survived the turmoil and was again active. Said that he was gathering oleum, resin and other ingredients, and this time they wouldn’t be short of anything and would start such a blaze in Kłodzko that—these are his words—Sir Půta’s whiskers would be singed. And this time, not them but Sir Půta would escape by diving into a shithole. That’s what he said, those very words: by diving into a shithole—”
“So the group has been redeployed to Kłodzko,” Hejncze guessed. “When did the redeployment begin?”
“On the Friday after Saint Martin’s Day. They weren’t all redeployed at once, but gradually, two or three at a time, in order not to arouse suspicion. Fortunately, our man was in one of the first groups to be deployed, which is why we know that it’s true about Trutwein. This Trutwein—Johann Trutwein—is an altarist at the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary and has been a Hussite spy for years. And it turns out that a fledgling espionage and sabotage cell has been operating around him in Kłodzko since the summer.”
The Inquisitor pushed away a seal he had been playing with. “Am I to understand that, at this moment, the entire group is in Kłodzko? All of them?”
“All of them apart from Horn, Bielawa, Bisclavret and three more. That group left Jugów on Saint Martin’s Day. Our man doesn’t know where they went. What are my orders, Your Reverence? What are our next steps?”
The clamour of the town, stallholders quarrelling in the Poultry Market, could be heard through the window. The papal Inquisitor said nothing, rubbing his nose.
“That man of ours,” he finally asked. “Who is it?”
“Kacper Dompnig. A bookkeeper. From here in Wrocław.”
“Dompnig… He hasn’t been blackmailed. I’d recall it if he had, I don’t forget blackmail… But I don’t believe we’ve been paying him, either. Could he by chance be an idealist?”
“He may indeed.”
“Then keep an eye on him, Łukasz.”
“Amen, Your Reverence.”
“You asked what we’re going to do.” Gregorz Hejncze stretched. “Nothing, for the time being. But should a raid begin, should the Hussites come to Kłodzko, should the town be threatened, our man is to give the whole group away. He is to turn them all in at once to Sir Půta’s counter-intelligence.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for us to take the credit?” asked Łukasz Bożyczko, smiling. “Bishop Konrad—”
“Bishop Konrad holds no interest for me. And it isn’t the Holy Office’s job to take credit. I repeat: our man is to turn the group over to Kłodzko counter-intelligence. It will be Sir Půta of Častolovice who eliminates the saboteurs, and he will thereby grow into an even more terrifying symbol among the Hussites. Clear?”