So he didn’t see Reynevan bound nimbly over to the servant holding the crossbow and knock it upwards so that the stock thudded into his lips and teeth. Or Scharley overpower the other servant with his favourite kick to the knee and the punch that broke his nose. Or Amadej Baťa hit one of the swindlers in the lower back with a stool. Or Berengar Tauler use two daggers drawn from God knew where to warn the others not to get involved. Or Reynevan back up the warning with the crossbow he had seized from the servant. Or Jeřábek sitting in shock with his mouth foolishly open, which made him look just like a carved wooden figure from a peasant’s cottage. Or Samson walk calmly into the side room and lead out the red-haired, freckled girl. She was pale and moved with reluctance—why, even quite unwillingly—but Samson wasn’t in the least bothered by that, unceremoniously using gentle but firm force.
“Let’s go,” he said to Reynevan and Scharley. “Now.”
“Indeed,” agreed Berengar Tauler, still holding the two daggers. “Let’s go, and quickly. Amadej and I are coming with you.”
No more than half a mile from the inn, the track led them out of a dark forest onto a patch of stubble, bright beneath the stars. Berengar Tauler, who was leading the cavalcade, stopped and reined his horse around, barring the others’ way.
“Stop!” he called. “Enough’s enough! I want to know what’s going on here—what the Devil is this about?”
Scharley’s horse tossed its head, neighed and flattened its ears. The penitent calmed it down.
“What the hell was that row about?” Tauler continued. “A row we might all pay for with our lives? Why the hell do you want that wench? Where are we bloody going? And above all—”
He suddenly forced his horse straight at Samson as though meaning to ram him. Samson didn’t even flinch. Neither did the girl with the still indifferent, wooden expression and distant stare riding in front of him.
“Above all,” yelled Berengar Tauler, “who the bloody hell is that character? Who is he?”
Scharley rode over to him so aggressively that Tauler reined his mount in sharply.
“I’m not riding another furlong with you,” Tauler said, now much more calmly, “until you tell me what this is about.”
“As you wish,” said Scharley slowly. “Suit yourself.”
“We helped you in the tavern, didn’t we? We got involved, didn’t we? We’re in difficulty now, aren’t we? Don’t you think a word of explanation is called for?”
“Yes. I mean, no. It isn’t.”
“Then I…” Tauler almost choked. “I…”
“I don’t know about you,” said Amadej Baťa, staring at Samson as he walked his horse up on the other side, “but I know what I want. I want to know how the hell the ones came up on the loaded dice instead of the sixes. I’d gladly learn how to do it—for a fee, naturally. I understand it’s magic, but can anyone do it? Or does one need some special power? If so, I wonder what?”
“A mighty power!” Reynevan, who had been listening, finally got his feelings off his chest. “A great one! An unimaginable one! Such a power that I wonder if there’s any point—”
“Restrain yourself.” Scharley quietened him harshly. “You’ve said enough!”
“I’ll say what I want!”
“I observe,” Berengar Tauler snorted, “that there’s a lack of consensus regarding the event among you, too, and that a family squabble is about to erupt. And since Baťa and I aren’t family, we’ll ride away a stretch. When you’ve said all you need to say, call us and we’ll decide what to do next.”
There was a pause once they were left alone. Reynevan felt the anger draining from him but didn’t know where or how to start. Scharley couldn’t be counted on; he never spoke first in situations like that. The horses snorted.
“In the gambling den, what had to happen, happened,” Samson Honeypot finally said. “It was inevitable. It had to happen because… no other course of events was possible, since any alternative course of events would have meant indifference. Consent. Approval. Tolerance. What we saw in the gambling den, what we were witnesses to, ruled out indifference and inactivity, and thus there was really no alternative. Thus, what had to happen, happened. And the dice… Why, dice, generally speaking, are governed by similar principles when they roll. They fall as they have to fall.”
Reynevan heard the girl in front of Samson sighing softly.
“And essentially, I have nothing else to add,” continued Samson. “If you wish to ask anything… Reinmar? A moment ago, I had the impression something was vexing you.”
“One thought,” said Reynevan, surprised by his own calm. “Just one thought. The Prague mages racked their brains for a year wondering how to help you, to enable you to return to your normal form, to your normal world, element, dimension, whatever it is. They failed. Now we’ve planned quite a risky expedition through Bohemia, heading somewhere near Jičín and Turnov, almost to the very Lusatian border, since we want to help you. After what I saw today, indeed, a certain thought is vexing me. Do you actually need any help at all with anything, Samson? Do you—who’s capable of changing the fate of tumbling dice—need the help of ordinary men who are capable of so little? Do you need our help? Does it matter to you?”
“I do,” the giant answered at once, without a second’s hesitation. “And it does.” A moment later, very softly and gently, he added, “But, Reynevan, you both know that it does.”
The girl—Marketa—sighed again.
“Very well.” Scharley stepped in. “What happened, happened. Know this, Samson. Your fatalism is alien to me. I believe it’s extremely easy to protect oneself from what is inevitable: just don’t do it. It’s similar with phenomena one cannot gaze on with indifference… just look away. All the more so since they represent the norm in this world rather than the exception. But it’s done, and I can’t see it being undone. We did a good deed, but we shall pay for it because one always pays for stupidity. However, before that happens, here’s the plan: we need to place the girl somewhere safe—”
“I’ll take her to Prague,” announced Samson. “To Mistress Pospíchalová.”
Marketa shifted ostentatiously in the saddle and growled like a cat. Samson wasn’t bothered by the display. Nor, it appeared, by her squeezing his wrist very hard.
“You can’t take her there by yourself,” said Scharley. “Too bad, we’ll all go. What about Tauler and Baťa? If the plan to go to Trosky is still on, Tauler might come in useful, since he claims he has a way of getting into the castle. We can’t reveal too much to the two of them, but the fact is that they were on our side in the gambling den and may have problems because of us. Huncleder might want revenge. They both serve in the Taborite army, and the Devil only knows which notable hejtmans have gambled—and lost—at Huncleder’s place…”
“No matter how notable a hejtman is,” promised Reynevan, “he can be taken down a peg or two. The same goes for Huncleder if he kicks up a fuss, for notable men have more notable men above them.”