But he never allowed corpses to be desecrated. Well, let’s say, almost never.
“Farewell, Reinmar. Give me the amulet. You’re liable to lose it and then Telesma will tear my head off.”
“Farewell, Samson. Oh—I forgot to thank you for sending me the telepathic hints. Thanks to them, it went so smoothly with Smiřický.”
Samson glanced at him, and his dopey face suddenly lit up in a broad, dopey smile.
“It went smoothly thanks to your cunning and intelligence,” he said. “I didn’t help or contribute much, apart from chucking a barrel at Smiřický. And as far as suggestions go, I didn’t send you any. I just hurried you along telepathically because I was dying to take a leak.”
There really was plenty of work, and it turned out that every pair of hands with healing skill was needed and came in useful.
The wounded filled both aisles of Our Lady before Týn, and from what Reynevan had heard, there were also numerous patients at Saint Nicholas’s. Almost until dusk, Reynevan and the other physicians set fractures, stemmed bleeding and sewed back on what needed sewing on.
And when he finished, when he stood up, when he straightened his aching back, when again he fought down the nausea brought on by the stench of blood and incense, when he was finally about to go and wash, the grey character in grey hose appeared as if from nowhere, like a ghost. Reynevan sighed and followed him, neither questioning nor asking anything.
Bohuchval Neplach was waiting for him in the Bohemian Lion tavern in Celetná Street. The tavern brewed its own excellent beer and was famed for its cuisine, but its fame was calculated into the prices of its dishes, hence Reynevan didn’t frequent it, for he couldn’t afford it either during his undergraduate days or now. That day, for the first time, he had the chance to familiarise himself with the décor and the fragrances from the kitchen, which were, indeed, quite delicious.
The head of the Taborite intelligence service was dining alone in a corner, skilfully and attentively working on a roast goose, completely ignoring the fact that the grease was staining his sleeves and dripping down the front of his silver-braided doublet. He saw Reynevan and indicated for him to sit, making the gesture, incidentally, using a mug of frothing ale he was washing the goose down with, then went on eating without raising his eyes. It didn’t even occur to him to offer Reynevan any food or drink.
Flutek ate the entire goose, even the parson’s nose, which he left for last. Where does he put it, wondered Reynevan, when he’s so skinny? Though he does have the appetite of a crocodile. Ha, probably it’s his stressful work. Or parasites.
Flutek briefly inspected the remains of the goose and decided it was now so unattractive that he could direct his attention to something else. He looked up.
“Well?” he asked, wiping grease from his chin. “Have anything to tell me? To pass on to me? To report to me? Let me hazard a guess: you don’t.”
“You guessed right.”
The two golden imps appeared in Flutek’s black eyes. Both leaped up and turned somersaults as soon as they appeared.
“I was trailing one fellow,” said Reynevan, pretending not to notice. “I almost had him, but I lost him near Saint Valentine’s.”
“What bad luck,” said Flutek unemotionally. “Did you at least recognise him? Would it be the one who was conspiring with the Bishop of Wrocław?”
“It would, I believe.”
“But he gave you the slip?”
“He did.”
“So you lost another chance to get your revenge,” said Flutek, taking a sip from his mug. “You really are unlucky. Fate doesn’t go your way—indeed, fate doesn’t want to favour you in any way. Many a man would break down with such endless bad luck, but I look at you and see that you put up with it manfully. All I can do is admire and envy you.
“But,” he went on, without waiting for a reaction, “I have some good news for you. I managed to do something you didn’t. I caught up with the rascal, quite close to the Church of Saint Valentine, which very nicely confirms your honesty. Are you glad, Reynevan? Are you grateful? Enough, perhaps, to talk frankly about the tax collector’s five hundred grzywna?”
“Have mercy, Neplach.”
“My apologies, I forgot that you know nothing about the affair with the tax collector, that you’re innocent and uninformed. So let’s return to the rascal I apprehended. Imagine, it’s none other than Jan Smiřický of Smiřice, Hejtman of Mělnice and Roudnice. Can you imagine?”
“I can.”
“Well?”
“Nothing.”
Reynevan thought the imps would turn a somersault. But they didn’t.
“Your reports about the involvement of Jan of Smiřice in the Silesian conspiracy are now, regrettably, old news,” Flutek went on a moment later. “A historical moment has dawned and much is happening. Every day brings change; what was significant yesterday means nothing today, and tomorrow will be worth less than dog shit. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, but I do.”
“Good. Actually, in the broad scheme of things, it’s meaningless—what does it ultimately matter what Smiřický is convicted of? He’ll be condemned to death and executed, for conspiracy, treason, revolt—same bloody difference. What is to be, will be. Your brother will be avenged. Are you glad? Are you grateful?”
“I beg you, Neplach, just don’t talk about the tax collector’s five hundred grzywna.”
Flutek put down his mug and looked Reynevan straight in the eyes.
“I shan’t. It pains me to say it, but Smiřický has scarpered.”
“What?”
“You heard. Smiřický has legged it. He escaped from prison. I don’t have all the details yet, just one thing is known: his lover, the daughter of a Prague weaver, helped him to escape. An appalling affair indeed, judge for yourself. A knight from a noble family and his mistress, a plebeian, a weaver’s daughter. She must have known she was only a plaything to him, that nothing would come of their liaison, but she still risked her life for her lover. Did he serve her lovage or something?”
“Or perhaps humanity sufficed?” Reynevan maintained eye contact. “A voice beyond him, whispering: Hominem memento te? ”
“Is everything all right, Reynevan?”
“I’m weary.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you, but on an empty stomach…”
“Ha. Precisely, Doctor. I say, innkeeper! Over here!”
On the Thursday after the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the eleventh of September, five days after the attempted coup, Prokop the Shaven, the victor of Tachov and Stříbro, reached Prague. He arrived with an entire army, the Tábor, the Orphans, Praguians and their supporters, war wagons, artillery, infantry and cavalry. There were twelve thousand soldiers in toto.
Among them was Scharley.
Chapter Three
In which Reynevan finds out he must beware of an Old Woman and a Maiden.
“Those scrambled eggs were pretty decent,” said Scharley, “although I have to say the celery spoiled it a little. It doesn’t go with eggs at all. Who, for God’s sake, puts grated celery into scrambled eggs? And why? It’s some bizarre culinary fantasy of the dear landlady. But let’s not gripe, the main thing is my belly’s full. The landlady, incidentally, isn’t at all bad-looking… Junoesque curves, pantherine movements, a gleam in her eye—ha, perhaps I’ll also rent a room and stay here for a while? I’m thinking about the winter. I won’t be here long now because if not tomorrow, then the day after, Prokop will give us our marching orders. We’re heading, so I hear, to Kolín to pay Lord Bořek of Miletínek back for his treachery… I say, Reinmar, are we going the right way? I don’t know Prague very well, but oughtn’t we to go in that direction, beyond the new town hall, towards the Carmelite monastery?”