“Why ‘unluckily’? I regard it as obvious and normal that Bielawa will give up the ghost in the torture chamber. After having confessed to the robbery of the tax collector. But before revealing where the stolen silver is hidden.”
“Ah. Of course. I understand. But…”
“But what?”
“The people interested in the fate of that money might still have their doubts, I fear…”
“They won’t. They’ll find other irrefutable proofs of guilt. An empty trunk will be discovered, the same one the tax collector carried the money in, during a search of the house of Bielawa’s accomplice.”
“Brilliant. Who will that be?”
“I don’t know yet, but I have a list. What do you say to the papal Inquisitor, Grześ Hejncze?”
“Hey, not too fast.” The Wallcreeper frowned. “Everything in moderation. I’ve already told you a hundred times: desist from an open war with Hejncze. A war with Hejncze is a war against Rome and that antagonism can only harm you. Irritabis crabrones, you’ll stir up the hornets. Although you think yourself superior to and stronger than Fortune and don’t fear harm, it doesn’t only concern your bishop’s arse. By fighting the Inquisitor, you demonstrate to people that, firstly, there’s no unity between you, that you’re divided and conflicted. Secondly, that the Inquisition needn’t be feared. And when people stop fearing, you damn priests could be in deep trouble.”
The bishop said nothing for a while and looked at him through lowered eyelids.
“Son,” he finally said, “you are precious to us. We need you. You’re actually most good to us. But don’t growl at us, for we may lose patience. Don’t bare your fangs at us, for in spite of the truly paternal love we feel for you, when we lose patience, we’ll have your teeth knocked out. All of them. In turn. With long breaks, so that you can suitably enjoy your treatment.”
“And who, then, will solve the matter of the inconvenient witness?” replied the Wallcreeper with an unpleasant smile. “Who will lure Reynevan of Bielawa to Silesia and capture him?”
“Exactly.” The bishop lifted his mantle and scratched a hairy calf. “We’re jabbering on, bandying words, and the most important things are slipping by. See to it, son. That witness must vanish. Without a trace. Like the other one Hejncze unearthed in the Tower of Fools two years ago.”
“Consider it done.”
“What about Reinmar of Bielawa?”
“He’ll also be seen to.”
“Then let’s have a drink. Hand me a cup. But first smell the bouquet. Moldavian! I was given six barrels by way of a bribe, for the position of scholaster in Legnica.”
“Bribery for giving out prebends? Tut, tut, Papa.”
“They don’t offer monetary bribes because they can’t afford it, the paupers. Should I be filling ecclesiastical posts with paupers? Well? While we’re on the subject, would you like a church position, Grellenort?”
“No, Father Bishop, I wouldn’t. The priesthood sickens me.”
The grey-eyed man, noted Wendel Domarasc, had changed his clothes and completely changed his appearance. Today, instead of a cassock, a habit or a patrician’s doublet, he was wearing a short leather jacket, tight hose and high boots. He wasn’t carrying a visible weapon, but in spite of that looked like a mercenary. The camouflage was an effective disguise—Silesia had recently been crawling with mercenaries. There was great demand for men who could wield a weapon.
“I shall soon carry out my task,” began the grey-eyed man, “but after doing so I shall immediately vanish. Thus, I’d like to say farewell to you today.”
“May God keep you.” The magister scholarum linked his fingers. “May we meet in better times.”
“Let’s hope. I have a final request.”
“Consider it done.”
“I knew and saw for myself,” the grey-eyed man began a moment later, “that you are a master among masters in the art of underground activities, who can hide what should remain hidden. I believe you can also cause the opposite to happen.”
“Make something secret stop being secret?” Domarasc smiled. “Give out information and disinformation?”
“You read my thoughts.”
“What or whom does this concern?”
The grey-eyed man explained. Wendel Domarasc said nothing for a long time, then confirmed that he would execute it. But not using words. With a nod of his head.
Through the small open window came a chorus of voices of the pupils from the Opole Collegiate Church school, reciting the beginning of The Metamorphoses.
Aurea prima sata est aetas, quae vindice nullo,
sponte sua, sine lege fidem rectumque colebat.
Poena metusque aberant, nec verba minantia fixo
aere legebantur, nec supplex turba timebat
iudicis ora sui, sed erant sine vindice tuti…
“The words of Naso were wise.” The grey-eyed man interrupted the long silence after listening. “The first age was golden, a timeless spring of the world. But that age won’t return. And the silver age passed after it, and the bronze, too. Now has come the fourth age, the final age of hard iron, de duro est ultima ferro. The final age is one of blood and destruction. A plague of crime has erupted into the world. Faith and truth have fled before war, killing and conflagration. Treachery and violence triumph. Horrified by what is happening, Astrea, the last of the deities, is abandoning the Earth. And when the deities are gone… What then? A deluge?”
“No,” countered Wendel Domarasc. “There will be no deluge. And it won’t be the last age. A guarantee of that is, for example, those whippersnappers reciting Ovidius Naso. We, the people of the darkness, people of violence and treachery, we, indeed, will pass along with the age of bloody steel. But they will survive. They are the future and hope of the world. What we are doing, we are doing for them.”
“I thought the same once.”
“And now?”
The grey-eyed man didn’t reply. He fingered the knife kept in a sheath attached to his forearm hidden in the sleeve of his jacket.
“You were betrayed,” Tybald Raabe repeated, impatiently, bored by having to repeat it. “You were sold. You were made into bait. You’re in mortal danger. You must run away at once. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Now—only now—did Elencza of Stietencron confirm with a nod; something indeed shone in the watery blue of her eyes. Tybald was cross.
“Don’t go home,” he said firmly. “Don’t go home under any circumstances. Don’t say goodbye to anyone, don’t say anything to anyone. I’ve brought you a horse, a chestnut, it’s behind the hospital laundry. In the saddlebags there’s everything you might need on the road. Into the saddle and away, at once. It doesn’t matter that night’s falling. You’ll be safer on the road than here in Ziębice.
“Don’t go to the Strzelin nuns, they’ll look for you first on that road. Ride to Frankenstein, and from there take the main highway towards Wrocław. Head for the customs post in Muchobór. There everyone you ask will show you the way to Skałka. Ask for the stud belonging to Lady Dzierżka of Wirsing. Lady Dzierżka will recognise the horse, she’ll know I sent you. Tell her everything. Understood?”