“Der Totentanz…” Tybald Raabe gasped. “La Danse Macabre…”
The procession of skeletons went around the cemetery three times and then, still holding hands, they passed into the forest on the hillside, dancing all the while, jiggling and swaying. They walked, hopping and clattering, in a cloud of leaves and ash blown up from the burned-down houses. The flocks of black birds accompanied them the whole time, and even when the ghastly dancers vanished among the thicket, the confusion of birds above the treetops signalled their route.
“It’s a sign…” mumbled the goliard. “An omen! A plague will come… Or a war…”
“Or both,” said the grey-eyed man, shrugging. “It turns out that the chiliasts were right. This world has no chance of surviving to the end of the second millennium. Judging by all the visible signs, it will be destroyed long before that. Quite soon, I’d even say. To horse, Tybald. I’ve changed my mind. Let’s search for an inn. Well away from here.”
“Why, m’lord,” said Tybald Raabe, his mouth full of peas and cabbage. “Where will I get my hands on information like that? I shall indeed tell you what I know, in detail. About Peterlin of Bielawa. About his brother Reynevan and Reynevan’s romance with Adèle Stercza and what came out of it. About what happened in the Raubritter settlement of Kromolin and at the tournament in Ziębice. About when Reynevan… How is Reynevan, anyway, m’lord? Is he well? What of Samson? And Scharley?”
“Don’t change the subject. But since you mention him, who is he, that Scharley?”
“Don’t you know, m’lord? He’s said to be a monk or fallen priest, reportedly fled from a monastery prison. A certain Tassilo of Tresckow told me that Scharley took part in the Wrocław sedition of 1418. You know, the eighteenth of July, when the rebellious butchers and shoemakers killed Burgermeister Freiberger and six councillors. Thirty rebellious heads rolled for that in Wrocław town square and thirty were banished. And the fact that Scharley’s head is still on his shoulders suggests he was one of those banished. I think—”
“Enough,” interrupted the grey-eyed man. “Give me the information I asked for, about the attack on the tax collector and his convoy. The convoy Reynevan was part of. And you, too, Tybald.”
“Aye, aye.” The goliard ladled up a spoonful of peas. “What I know, I know. And I’ll tell you, why not? But about those other things—”
“Like black horsemen screaming: ‘Adsumus’? Clearly under the influence of the Arabic substance called hash’eesh.”
“Indeed. I didn’t see that and know naught at all about it. Where am I to obtain information like that? How?”
“Try looking in the bowl you have in front of you.” The grey-eyed man’s voice grew menacing. “Among the peas and pork pieces. If you find it, it’ll be your gain. You’ll save time and effort.”
“I understand.”
“Very good. All the information, Tybald. Everything you can find. Facts, gossip, rumours, what’s talked about at markets and fairs, in taverns, monasteries, barracks and whorehouses. What priests prattle on about in sermons, the faithful during processions, councillors in town halls and women by town wells. Clear?”
“As the day.”
“It’s Saint Hedwig’s Eve today, Tuesday, the fourteenth of October. In five days, we will meet in Świdnica on Sunday after Mass, outside the parish church of Saints Stanislaus and Wenceslaus. When you see me, don’t approach me. I’ll walk away and you’ll follow. Understood?”
“Yes, Master Vlk… Ahem… I beg your pardon…”
“I’ll forgive you one last time. Next time I’ll kill you.”
“Tempora cum causis Latium digesta per annum lapsaque sub terras ortaque signa canam…”
The pupils of the Collegiate School at the Church of the Holy Cross in Opole were studying Ovid’s Fasti that day. The shouts of fishermen and shrieks of washerwomen arguing could be heard from the Młynówka. Wendel Domarasc, magister scholarum, put some reports from agents in a hiding place. The content of most of them was worrying.
Something was afoot.
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.