Radim Tvrdík was—as the enlightened few knew—a sorcerer. Radim Tvrdík was also—as even fewer members of that enlightened circle knew—obsessed with the idea of creating an artificial person, a golem. Everybody—even the more poorly enlightened—knew that the only golem ever to have been created was the work of a certain Prague rabbi whose name, probably misspelled, was given as “Bar Halevi” in surviving documents. Long ago, that Jew, so the story went, used clay, sludge and mud scooped from the bottom of the Vltava to make the golem. However, Tvrdík—and he alone—presented the view that the causative factor was played here not by ceremonies and spells, which were in any case well known, but rather by a specific astrological configuration that acted on the sludge and clay in question and their magical properties. However, having no idea what the precise planetary configuration might be, Tvrdík operated using trial and error, gathering clay as often as he could, hoping one day to finally chance upon the right kind. He also took it from various places. But that day he had gone too far; judging from the stench, he had taken it straight from near some shithouse or other.
“Not working at the hospital, Reinmar?” he asked, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I took the day off. There was nothing to do. It was a quiet day.”
“Let’s hope it’s not one of the last,” said the magician, putting down his pail. “Times being what they are…”
Everybody in Prague understood, knew what “times” were being discussed. But they preferred not to talk about it and would cut short their speech. Cutting off one’s speech suddenly became widespread and fashionable. The custom demanded that the listener assume a thoughtful expression, sigh and nod meaningfully. But Reynevan didn’t have time for that.
“On your way, Radim,” he said, looking around. “I can’t stop here. And it’d be better if you didn’t, either.”
“Eh?”
“I’m being followed. Which is why I can’t go down Soukenická Street.”
“Being followed,” said Radim Tvrdík. “By the usual chaps?”
“Probably. Cheerio.”
“Wait.”
“What for?”
“It isn’t wise to try to lose your tail.”
“What?”
“To the tailers, attempts to lose the tail are a clear sign that the tailee has a guilty conscience and something to hide,” the Czech explained most astutely. “Only a thief fears the truth. It’s sensible not to go down Soukenická Street. But don’t dodge, don’t weave around, don’t hide. Do what you usually do. Attend to your daily activities. Bore the trackers with your boring daily routine.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve developed quite a thirst digging up sludge. Come to the Crayfish. Let’s have a beer.”
“I’m being followed,” Reynevan reminded him. “Aren’t you afraid—”
“What’s there to be afraid of?” The wizard picked up his pail.
Reynevan sighed. Not for the first time, a Prague magician had surprised him. He didn’t know if it was their admirable calm or simply a lack of imagination, but some of the local wizards often appeared unbothered by the fact that Hussites could be more dangerous than the Inquisition to anyone who indulged in black magic. Maleficium—witchcraft—was among the deadly sins punishable by death in the Fourth Article of Prague. The Hussites were no laughing matter where the Articles of Prague were concerned. Self-proclaimed “moderate” Calixtines from Prague were the equal of radical Taborites and fanatical Orphans in that respect. Any sorcerer who was caught was put in a barrel and burned at the stake in it.
They turned back towards the town square along Knifemakers Street, then Goldsmiths Street and finally St. Giles Street. They walked slowly. Tvrdík stopped by several stalls and shared some gossip with the stallholders he knew. As was standard, sentences were cut short more than once with “times being what they are…” which was received with wise expressions, sighs and knowing nods. Reynevan looked around but couldn’t see his pursuers. They were keeping well out of sight. He didn’t know how it was for them, but he was beginning to find the boring routine deadly boring.
Fortunately, soon after, they turned from St. Giles Street into a courtyard and passed through a gateway to emerge opposite the House at the Red Crayfish. And a small tavern named identically by the innkeeper without a scrap of imagination.
“Well I never! Just look! Why, if it isn’t Reynevan!”
Four men were sitting at a table on a bench behind the pillars on the ground floor. They were all moustachioed, broad-shouldered and dressed in knightly doublets. Reynevan knew two of them, so he also knew they were Poles. Even if he hadn’t, he could have guessed. Like all Poles abroad, these men were conducting themselves noisily and arrogantly, with ostentatious boorishness that in their opinion would emphasise their status and elevated social position. The funny thing was that since Easter, the status of Poles in Prague was extremely low and their social position even lower.
“Good day! Welcome, noble Asclepius!” One of the Poles, whom Reynevan knew as Adam Wejdnar, bearing the Rawicz coat of arms, greeted him. “Sit you down! Sit you down, both of you! Be our guests!”
“Why are you inviting him so readily?” said another of the Poles, grimacing with feigned disgust. He was also a Greater Pole, known to Reynevan as Mikołaj Żyrowski and sporting the Czewoja coat of arms. “Do you have a surfeit of cash or something? And besides, the quack works with lepers! He’s liable to infect us with leprosy—or something even worse!”
“I’m not working in the lazaretto now,” explained Reynevan patiently, not for the first time. “I’m working at Bohuslav’s hospice now, here in the Old Town by the Church of Saints Simon and Jude.”
“Yes, yes.” Żyrowski, who knew everything, waved a dismissive hand. “What are you drinking? Oh, blow it, forgive me. Let me introduce you. My lords Jan Kuropatwa of Łańcuchów bearing the Szreniawa arms and Jerzy Skirmunt bearing the Odrowąż. Excuse me, but what is that fucking smell?”
“Sludge. From the Vltava.”
Reynevan and Radim Tvrdík drank beer. The Poles were drinking Austrian wine and eating stewed mutton and bread. They were talking ostentatiously loudly in Polish, telling each other funny stories and responding to each one with thunderous guffaws. Passers-by turned their heads away, swearing under their breath. And occasionally spitting.
Since Easter, specifically since Maundy Thursday, the Czechs’ opinion of the Poles hadn’t been too high. Indeed, their position in Prague was also pretty low and evincing a downward trend.
Around five thousand Polish knights the first time, and around five hundred the second, had come to Prague with Sigismund Korybut, Jogaila’s nephew, pretender to the Bohemian crown. Many had seen in Korybut hope and salvation for Hussite Bohemia, and the Poles had fought valiantly for the Chalice and Divine Law, shedding blood at the Battles of Karlštejn, Jihlava, Retz and Ústí. In spite of that, even their Czech comrades-in-arms didn’t like them, in part because the Poles routinely found hilarious the Czech language in general and Czech names in particular, but also because Korybut’s treachery had seriously damaged the Polish cause. The hope of Bohemia was thus a total failure: for the Hussite king in spe was in cahoots with Catholic lords, had betrayed the matter of sub utraque specie Communion and broken the Four Articles he had sworn to uphold. The plot was uncovered and foiled, Jogaila’s nephew found himself in prison rather than on the Bohemian throne, and the people began to treat Poles with downright hostility. Some of them left Bohemia at once. But some remained, thereby apparently showing their disapproval of Korybut’s treachery and their support for the Chalice, and declaring their readiness to fight on for the Hussite cause. And what of it? The Czech people continued to dislike them. It was suspected—not without reason—that the Poles couldn’t give a stuff about the Hussite cause. It was claimed they’d stayed because, primo, they had nothing and nowhere to go back to. They had marched to Bohemia as wastrels pursued by courts and warrants, and now, to make matters worse, they had all—Korybut included—been saddled with curses and infamy. And because, secundo, they were only fighting in Bohemia in the hope of lining their pockets and gaining spoils and land. And because, tertio, they weren’t actually fighting, but rather taking advantage of the absence of the Czechs to fuck their wives.