“Exactly,” Reynevan interjected when the swarthy man broke off. “And where is that Master Olbram? My would-be murderer?”
Bisclavret was silent for a long time. Rzehors softly cleared his throat. A strange grimace appeared on Drosselbart’s narrow face.
“A difference of opinion arose concerning you,” the thin man finally said, “regarding what ought to be done. We didn’t agree with him, so—”
“So he went his way,” Rzehors interrupted quickly. “Now there are three of us. Let’s not stand here, night is falling. Let’s ride to Gdziemierz.”
“Why Gdziemierz?” Reynevan asked.
“We’ve checked Gdziemierz and your Silver Bell Inn,” said Drosselbart. “It’s an entirely decent and safe haven. We want to move there. Do you have any objections?”
“No.”
“Then to horse and let’s ride.”
Night had fallen, fortunately a bright one, for the moon was shining and the snow was sparkling and glinting.
“You didn’t trust me for a long time,” said Reynevan when they left the forest for the road. “You almost killed me. I’m Peterlin’s brother, and yet—”
“A time has come,” interrupted Drosselbart, “when a man will betray his brother and become Cain to him. A time has dawned when a son will betray his father, a mother her son and a wife her husband. Subjects will betray their king, soldiers their commander and priests their God. You were under suspicion, Reinmar. There were reasons.”
“What were they?”
“In Frankenstein, you were in the Inquisition’s prison,” said Rzehors, riding on his other side. “Inquisitor Hejncze might have recruited you. Made you collaborate using blackmail or threats. Or simply by bribing you.”
“Precisely,” said Drosselbart seriously, straightening his hood. “That was the issue. And not just that.”
“What else?”
“Neplach sent you to Silesia as bait.” Bisclavret snorted from the back. “He was the angler, we the fish, while you were the worm on the hook. We were loath to believe that you were naive enough to consent to an agreement like that. Without your own hidden design, without playing a double game. We weren’t certain about your design or your game. And we had every right to suspect the worst. Didn’t we?”
“Indeed,” he reluctantly admitted.
They rode on. The moon shone. Horseshoes rapped on the frozen ground.
“Drosselbart?”
“Yes, Reinmar?”
“There were four of you. Now there are three. And at the start? Weren’t there more of you?”
“There were. But they evanesced.”
Drosselbart, Bisclavret and Rzehors made themselves comfortable at the Silver Bell Inn with the blithe ease of urbane men of the world Reynevan had only seen before in Scharley. At first, the innkeeper gave them a queer look with restless eyes, but he calmed down on receiving from Drosselbart a handsome pouch filled to metallic hardness. And after Reynevan’s assurances that everything was shipshape and in good order.
The innkeeper’s reaction and expression were nothing compared to the reaction and expression of Tybald Raabe when he appeared in Gdziemierz the following day. The goliard was literally dumbstruck. Of course, he immediately recognised Bisclavret and knew who he was dealing with, but it took him a long time to relax and shed his mistrustfulness. He needed a long, frank conversation for that. When it finished, Tybald Raabe sighed deeply. And reported the news he had brought.
Any day now, he announced, a messenger from Prokop and Neplach would arrive in Gdziemierz.
“Any day now” turned out to be the fifth of December, the Friday after Saint Barbara’s Day. The long-awaited messenger from Prokop and Flutek was—to Reynevan’s great amazement, and also great joy—an old friend: Urban Horn. The comrades greeted each other effusively, but soon after it was Horn’s turn to be amazed—at the sight of Drosselbart, Rzehors and Bisclavret lining up in front of him.
“I’d have sooner expected my death,” he admitted when they were left alone after the presentation. “Neplach sent me to help you to search for the Vogelsang. And you—whatever next?—have not only found them, but also clearly won them over. Congratulations, friend, my heartfelt congratulations. Prokop will be pleased. He’s counting on the Vogelsang.”
“Who will give him the news? Tybald?” Reynevan asked.
“Of course. Reynevan?”
“Eh?”
“This Vogelsang… There’s only three of them… Not many of them… Weren’t there more than that?”
“There were. But apparently they evanesced.”
A lie can travel halfway around the world before the truth can get its boots on—spending time with the Vogelsang categorically proved the aptness of that proverb. All three of them lied continuously, always, in every circumstance, day and night, during the working week and on Sundays. They were simply pathological liars, men for whom the concept of truth simply didn’t exist. Without doubt, it was the result of a long life embroiled in clandestine activities—feigning, lying and masquerading.
As a consequence of that, one couldn’t be sure of them, their life stories or even their nationality. Lying pervaded everything. Bisclavret, for example, introduced himself as a Frenchman, a French knight and a Gallic warrior, a miles gallicus. The other two loved to misspeak it as morbus gallicus, which didn’t bother Bisclavret, who was evidently accustomed to it. He had once belonged, he claimed, to one of the gangs of the notorious Écorcheurs, or Flayers, cruel brigands who not only robbed their victims of their riches, but also flayed them alive. That version was, however, contradicted a little by his accent, which was more Cracovian than Parisian. But who knew if his accent was genuine, either?
The cadaverous Drosselbart didn’t conceal the fact that he bore an assumed name. Verum nomen ignotum est, as he grandly said. Asked about his nationality, he described himself rather vaguely as de gente Alemanno. It might have been true. Assuming it wasn’t a lie.
Regarding his birth, Rzehors didn’t state either the country or the region; he said nothing at all about it. But when he talked about anything else, his accent and colloquialisms formed a mess and hotchpotch so chaotic, so confused and confusing that his listeners were lost after the first few sentences. Which was doubtless the intention.
The trio displayed certain telltale habits, but Reynevan was too inexperienced to decipher them. All three members of the Vogelsang suffered from chronic conjunctivitis, often involuntarily rubbed their wrists, and when they ate always shielded their plates or bowls with a crooked arm. When Scharley saw them later, he deciphered the signals in no time. Drosselbart, Rzehors and Bisclavret had spent a considerable amount of their time behind bars. In dungeons. And fetters.
When the conversation shifted to professional matters, the Vogelsang stopped lying and became horrifyingly businesslike and focused. During several conversations lasting deep into the night, the trio reported to Reynevan and Horn on what they had accomplished in Silesia. In turn, Drosselbart, Rzehors and Bisclavret supplied details about the active and sleeping agents they had in most Silesian towns, especially those in the vicinity of the routes the Hussite armies would most likely choose. The Vogelsang were also happy to report on their financial state—exhibiting a certain pride in their trustworthiness—which, in spite of their huge expenses, was still more than satisfactory.