Neither did the man with a dark, several-day-old beard nursing a mug, in a jerkin rusty from armour, the man Scharley had greeted as Berengar Tauler right after they entered. The penitent headed towards Tauler’s table, where three other men were sitting.
“Welcome and sit you down.” Berengar Tauler gestured to a bench and cast a curious glance towards Reynevan and Samson. “Introduce us to your… friends.”
“No need,” a fat, ginger-haired man said over his mug. “I’ve seen the younger gentleman before. At the Battle of Ústí, with the hejtmans. They said he was their personal physician.”
“Reinmar of Bielawa.”
“We are honoured. And’im?”
“’Im,” replied Scharley with his usual carefreeness, “is’im. He does no harm, doesn’t interfere.’Im works with wood.”
Indeed, Samson Honeypot had assumed the expression of an idiot, sat down by the wall and begun whittling a stick.
“If the presentations are underway,” said Scharley as he sat down, “then be so good, Berengar…”
The three men at the table bowed. The fat, ginger-haired man was accompanied by a proud-looking young lord dressed quite richly and colourfully for a Hussite, and a short, thin-faced, swarthy character of Hungarian appearance.
“Amadej Baťa.” The fat man introduced himself.
“And I am Sir Manfred of Salm,” pronounced the colourful lordling, and the exaggerated conceit with which he said it revealed that it was utter balderdash, that he’d probably been christened “Zdeněk,” and had probably never stood near, much less sat beside, a member of the house of Salm.
“István Szécsi.” The dark man confirmed his identity as a Hungarian. “Will you take a drink? I warn you the prices are outrageous here: a pint of wine costs three groschen and a half-pint of beer five skojeces.”
“But the wine is good.” Tauler sipped from his mug. “For a secret brothel and gambling den. While we’re on the subject, which of those diversions brings you to Huncleder’s?”
“None of them, actually.” Scharley nodded towards a wench with a jug and sized her up when she approached. “Which doesn’t mean we won’t sample one of them. Will there be a performance today, for example? A tableau vivant?”
“Naturally.” Tauler smiled. “Naturally there will. I’m largely here for that reason. I’m not even going to play, out of fear they’ll fleece me for the florin I need for the price of the show.”
“The others.” The penitent nodded. “Who are they?”
“The one by the bar,” said Amadej Baťa, shaking beer foam from his moustache, “with the Chalice on his chest is Habart Mol of Modřelice, one of Rohač’s captains. The bearded man who looks like a priest is his comrade—they arrived together. The men at the table with Huncleder are his dealers, I only remember the name of one. They call him Jeřábek…”
“Come on, gentlemen!” Huncleder called from the table, rubbing his hands together vigorously and enthusiastically. “To the table, let us play! A fortune awaits!”
Manfred of Salm was the first to be seated, Scharley followed his example, and István Szécsi and Amadej Baťa pulled chairs over. They were joined by Rohač’s captain with the Chalice tabard, and his comrade resembling a priest moved away from the bar. Reynevan, mindful of Scharley’s warning, stayed put. Berengar Tauler didn’t move from the table, either, but gestured towards the nearest wench with his head. She was red-haired and freckled; even her exposed forearms were covered in freckles. She didn’t appear as worn out as the others, but her face was strangely hardened.
“What shall we play?” Huncleder, dexterously shuffling the cards, asked the men gathered at the table. “Piquet? Ronfle? Trentuno? Menoretto? It’s your choice, your choice, whatever you want, it can be cricca, or bassetta… Or it can be trappola, or buffa aragiato, or perhaps you prefer ganapiérde? I know all the genera ludorum fortunae! I’ll agree to any. The customer is king. You choose.”
“There are too many of us for cards,” said Baťa, “and we should all join in. I suggest dice. To begin with, at least.”
“Dice? The noble tesserae? The customer is king. I’m ready for any game—”
“Especially using the dice you’re turning over in your hand,” István Szécsi said unsmilingly. “Don’t treat us like idiots, friend.”
Huncleder laughed hollowly, tossed the distinctively yellow dice he’d been fiddling with into a mug and shook them. His hands were small and squat, his fingers short and lumpy. Quite the opposite of what one expected from the hands of a cheat or a swindler. But once in action they were skilful and nimble—as agile as a monkey’s.
The yellow dice, tossed with a dexterous movement from the mug, rolled a short distance and both came to rest with sixes uppermost. Face still twisted in a grimace that mimicked a smile, Huncleder gathered up the dice in a single, swift movement, as though catching flies. He shook the mug in a sudden acozzamento and tossed them again. Two sixes again. Jeřábek chuckled. Rohač’s captain swore.
The quick movement, the acozzamento, the throw. Again, the double sexta stantia, twice sex puncti. The throw. A double six. The throw. Same again. The throw. The captain swore again.
“That was only a joke.” Huncleder’s half-pockmarked face broke into a grin. “Just a little joke.”
“Indeed.” Scharley retaliated with a smile. “A tasteful little joke. Most diverting. Once, in Nuremberg, I witnessed a swindler’s hands being broken for the same ‘little joke’ during a game for money. On a stone threshold, using a blacksmith’s hammer. We laughed our heads off, let me tell you.”
Fridusz Huncleder’s eyes flared up unpleasantly. But he regained control and the grin returned to his pockmarked face.
“A joke’s a joke,” he repeated, “and it’ll stay a joke. We’ll use other dice for the game. I’ll put these away—”
“But not into your pocket, by the Devil,” growled Manfred of Salm. “Put them on the table. As an exhibit. We’ll compare the others with them from time to time.”
“As you wish.” Huncleder raised his hands to indicate he agreed and accepted everything and that the client was indeed king. “What game suits you? Fifty-six? Sixes and sevens?”
“Glückhaus, perhaps,” suggested Scharley.
“Let it be Glückhaus. Make haste, Jeřábek!”
Jeřábek wiped the table with his sleeve and drew a rectangle divided into eleven fields in chalk.
“Ready.” Huncleder rubbed his hands. “Faites vos jeux… And you, Brother Berengar? Won’t you do us the honour? Pity, pity—”
“Your pity’s not sincere enough, Brother.” Berengar Tauler took pains for the “brother” to sound anything but fraternal. “You can’t have forgotten that last Saturday you fleeced me like a tup in May. I shall sit out for a lack of funds, wait for the tableau vivant and amuse myself with this beaker. And possibly discourse, since m’Lord Reinmar isn’t keen on dice, either, I see.”