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.

Well, a man must pay his debts.

“I’ll hide you, Jendrich! Hey, drag your chieftain into the cellar!”

He turned to his wife: “Run for Lukerda. Let her go to the hideout, too.”

The wife twisted her finger at her temple significantly. O yes, women understand shameful affairs quickly.

“Go, go. Let Lukerda take with her this... dependant. He’s old, doesn’t care about no wenches. He’ll look after her. Tell him: you, Giacomo, are our only hope. Guard and protect. If, odd-even, they take us...”

It was true – Giacomo Seingalt was not interested in wenches. He was worn out, the old hook. Though it was seen he had had a good time in his youth. When Lukerda got crazy and started demanding teachers, to be noble-like – dance-mance-reverence – Jas thanked God that this old reveller was found. He knew dances, and languages, and was trained in the etiquette too. He was more than sixty, yet only last year he began stooping. A noble bearing he had. People said he’d been a famous cavalier before: shining on tournaments, fighting the Moors under the standard of Fernando Castilian himself. Fought the Ottomans at the sea. Lies, most likely. For people to lie – as for a dog to raise its tail. Yet that the cavalier was totally broke – that could be believed. He wandered and roamed, and in the past several years he had been a librarian at Jeremy Lovich’s. Jeremy favoured him a lot. Told his servants not to mock the old man, and wouldn’t let his guests make fun of him. He himself would often sit with him, talking. But when the baron died, Giacomo fell out with young Lovich completely.

And left.

Now for a piece of bread, for a roof over his head he teaches the girl all sorts of nonsense.

“Me! Hide me too!”

The devil take this boy! He’d quite forgotten... The taverner turned heavily, with his entire body, to yesterday’s boy. Came here, the imp, asked to stay for a night. Gave a piece of silver for a supper and a bed. Where’d he get it? Stole, probably. You can’t say if the lad is sixteen or twenty. A sparrow of a boy: skinny, dishevelled, only the eyes – like live coals.

“Clear out! Good riddance, odd-even!”

“Me! Me too! If you don’t – I’ll tell the Maintz men everything! Everything!”

Jendrich the chieftain squinted inquiringly first at the taverner, then at his daredevils: to shut the chap up? Dry Storm’s face, red with pain, twisted: no, he didn’t like blood for nothing. However, the boy hadn’t even understood he was within a hairbreadth of death. He lowered his head, swept stealthily a shameful tear. “Sorry... I’m a fool. I can’t – into their hands...” Suddenly he beamed: “I have! This! Here!!!” The dirty hand dived behind his shirt. A moment – and on his palm there sparkled a ray of light: a medallion. A golden one – here the taverner couldn’t be mistaken, be it by eye or by teeth.

“I’ll pay! It’s magical!”

“Gold?” inquired Jas Misiur, just in case.

The boy lowered his eyes. “I d-don’t know. I think so. It’s really magical. This is Byarn the Pensive’s, the mage from Holne.”

Jendrich whistled, squinting. If the boy isn’t lying... The name of Byarn, the mage from Holne, was worth a lot. Jas would hide the vagabond, for such a thing he would hide him in a privy and would sit himself atop for him not to be found.

“What sort of an amulet? For luck? For love?”

“No... It’s against cockroaches. If you put it behind a shutter, there’ll never be cockroaches in your house...”

The taverner hushed at the robbers that started laughing. An expensive thing. Maybe the chap is a chatterbox. Babbled here on and on – cockroaches, Byarn... A thief. All right, one more watcher in the hideout won’t harm. There’s another thing, odd-even: two fellows, an old dependant teacher – and Lukerda alone?!

“Hey, Skwozhina!”

At the threshold there appeared a serving woman – solid, stocky, more alike a man. Her closely set eyes looked shyly and unfriendly. A little girl, about five years old, cuddled up to the woman’s skirt.

“Be ready. You’re going to the hideout. I know you: someone pokes his hand under your skirt – you’ll hit him on the ear! Or blurt something out...”

Skwozhina spat through her teeth, but didn’t say a word.

Dusty darkness. Exciting odours of smoked food, beer, onions and dried fish. Out of the crack there flows a scarcely felt string of wine’s scent. It can be heard how Jas Misiur outside, wheezing, blocks the secret door with various lumber. Even if the Maintz men poke their noses into the cellar, they won’t like rummaging in such rubbish.

“It would be extremely useful to light a candle,” rasps the displeased voice of Giacomo Seingalt. Then the old man coughs for a long time before he continues. “I have been late to examine the interior of this... hmm... apartment, so that now I’m afraid to sit on something improper.”

“With your ass on a pitchfork,” specifies Skwozhina venomously, sneezing.

“Or would you prefer to stand waiting till the Maintz men move further along, towards Wrozlav?” finishes the old teacher calmly, ignoring the serving woman’s acidity. It’s clear that the old man has long ago got used to the woman’s bad temper, paying no heed to her grumbling.

“It’s better to stand. What if they see the light?” the question is asked by the young vagabond.

“Hell they’ll see. I’m sitting in this hole not for the first time. It’ll be better for us to see one another. Especially some of us. I have a flint and tinder. Somebody’s got a candle?”

“Take it please, Jendrich. Although I don’t see anything.”

“Hold it in your hand. Now you’ll see.”

“A-ha. Let him hold it in his hand. And with this hand jerk here and there. Then the candle will grow up to the sky! Blaze without fire, it will...”

“Shut up, you fool!”

“I utterly agree with you, Jendrich. Such ugly things... when there’s a young maiden here...”

“Mommy, I want a candel! It’s vely-vely da-ak! Let uncle Zakomtzik make light...”

“Uncle’ll make, he will... Hell he’ll make, your uncle, and devil too...”

There click the strokes of flint. Sparks. More sparks. There comes the smell of smoke. A fire begins to kindle slowly in Dry Storm’s hands – at first it is dark crimson, dim, then brighter and brighter. Or rather, later on one can see that it is in the hands. At first it seemed as if an ominous red eye appeared in the dark.

“Do you see now? Give me the candle.”