“I have...”

“With a spear on a slope?”

“With a spear.”

“Whose standard was there to the left of you?”

“The prince’s. Of Razimir of Opolie.”

“Why, you don’t lie... And what where the thoughts?”

“Whose? The prince’s?!”

“Yours.”

“When?”

“Then. On the slope.”

Peter felt irresistible need to answer the truth. This happened to him rarely and almost always ended with beating. “I felt pity. That I’m on the slope, and they are on the other shore. The Stooped Knight, and Jendrich Dry Storm, and everyone. Were I in their place... I couldn’t see well. But I was looking... I’ve been there, honestly. We were driven through the ford afterwards.”

“Killed?”

“Yes,” Peter Sliadek frowned gloomily. “My spear... In his belly, running; and he made “hah” and died. The rest I don’t remember.”

“Tell the boy, Jas,” nodded the officer, staring straight at the taverner. “I see your tongue’s dancing in your mouth. You want to, so tell him. We’ll wait upstairs. When Seingalt arrives, let somebody announce us.”

The stairs creaked under his feet.

The taverner was looking at the floor for a long time. Then he raised his eyes at the tall mage. The mage nodded subtly. Peter was nervous: he didn’t understand what was happening, and odd things always threatened to turn to bad ones. To snatch his lute and escape?

Were it not for the promised porridge that had appeared in front of him, Peter would have escaped.

But the porridge... with goose cracklings!..

“Eat, noodle. Look at him – trod on the enemy’s shade, odd-even... You saw yourself – the tavern’s empty. Today it will be empty, and tomorrow too. People know when father Misiur doesn’t want to see nobody. And then you turn up. I looked at you: skinny, ribs stick out, only the eyes burn. I think – all right, I’ll feed him. It’ll go on my account in heaven. Like this chicken you were,” the taverner nodded at the mage, and Peter wondered once more at Jas’ odd courage. And also at the strange comparison.

Nothing in common!

“Only that you disturbed me, lad. Troubled my soul. Well, listen. If there’s not enough porridge, I’ll tell to bring some more...” 

The smoke over the Pshesek’s outskirts was well seen. The tavern stood on a hill, above the crossing of the Kichora and Wrozlav roads – a busy place, and the village where Jas Misiur used to buy provision could be seen distinctly. There, shots of flame. They are burning down Pshesek, sons of bitches. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin, they are doing it reluctantly, lazily. Were it not for a skirmish at Toad Hill, they would give up on it. But now... The taverner was looking from behind his hand, racking his brains in guesses: who had risked grappling with the fighters of the Maintz margrave? Somebody from Opolie’s frontier guard that had been beaten at the border? Not likely. The frontier lads took to their heels, they’ll run away till Osobloga. But now the Maintz men, angry like a devil on Christmas, will vent their fury on this village. It will be good if they do without slaughter – rape a dozen of women, beat up some husbands, rob some cellars...

“What’s on, Jas?”

“A holiday, wife. A holiday it is. Soon we’ll be dancing kozeryika.”

His wife began crying, sweeping her tears with the apron. Never mind, let her. Better now than later on. By midday they’ll get to the tavern, the villains. Then they need to be received, pleased, doused with beer. Maybe they won’t burn it down. But first – to take Lukerda to the hideout: they’ll spoil the girl, these devil’s spawns, and who’ll need her, spoiled? And, save God, carrying a bastard, too...

Honour can’t be cleaned by a dowry.

“Jas, they’re riding!”

The taverner peered, blinking. Riding they are. The horses worn out, barely moving. Five riders on three horses. Who the hell they are? Not alike Maintz men, those have well-fed horses, and riders too...

“Jas, ‘tis Jendrich!”

What a sand-blind. Only now did Jas Misiur recognize the man sitting sideways on a chestnut mare to be Jendrich, nicknamed Dry Storm, the chieftain of a gang renown throughout Opolie. So this is the one who attacked the Maintz men! Probably he’d thought to intercept a train but ran into something else. Handsome Jendrich, known for his proud seat, now looked like a wet chicken. Had it not been for the second rider who’d helped him, he would’ve fallen from his horse. With his moustache into the dust. And his face all bloody.

Here, they’re dismounting.

“Misiur, help!”

Hanging on his companions’ hands, Jendrich hobbled to the tavern. He was broad-shouldered, stout, and his blood brothers only grunted, overstrained under their leader’s weight. Every time Dry Storm would step on his right foot he would groan and swear like a devil. Had he broken it, or what? Or was it an arrow?

“Misiur! I need a hideout! We won’t escape...”

A hideout for him! The taverner imagined the hideout where there would be hiding Lukerda, his own blood, the apple of his eye, – and this robber. Face to face, odd-even. And then she’ll deliver a little chieftain... So what that Jas himself not once had hidden smuggled goods brought by Jendrich, so what that he had his part in the booty, helping to sell it off in Rahovez or in Wrozlav?! Lukerda, the silly girl, is mad about Dry Storm – sighs about him, calls him Robin Hood. Now there’ll be Robin for her, there’ll be Hood, too – in a quiet place...

“Not enough horses, Misiur! They’ll catch us! Hide me, I won’t forget it!”

It’s good he isn’t threatening at least. That is – or else we’ll burn your tavern down. Jas glanced again at smoking Pshesek, then turned his eyes to the chieftain. Young, handsome. The twirled moustaches stick out. He’s in funds. Got his nickname for the wild temper and for the dislike of unnecessary blood. The first is bad, while the second’s good. Yet all the same – this is not the husband his daughter needs.