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with ginger and cinnamon from the Levant, costly spices kept under lock and key. Hampelmann hadn’t particularly enjoyed the sweets, a cloying indulgence to his abstemious palate. But serving pastries containing expensive spices was a sign that the Prince-Bishop approved of the commission’s work – despite Father Herzeim’s complaints.
    Sitting to the right of Hampelmann, the Jesuit had eaten almost nothing, though he’d emptied his wine goblet again and again. His face was downcast, and he’d hardly contributed a word to the jovial banter during the meal. It was clear the priest’s thoughts were far away from Marienberg Castle, andHampelmann wondered if they were still in the Prisoners’ Tower with those whom the Prince-Bishop’s bailiff had arrested early that morning. The final confessor for witches seemed far too concerned for the earthly welfare of the accused, too little concerned for the fate of their eternal souls.
    The Prince-Bishop stood and bent toward the silver cage behind his ornately carved chair. Cooing to the birds, he slipped a brocade cloth over the cage. Herr Doktor Johann Brandt, the Prince-Bishop’s chancellor, rolled his eyes, then carefully recomposed his face when his hooded gaze met Hampelmann’s across the table. Hampelmann looked long at the chancellor, to be sure that Brandt understood that he had seen his indiscretion.
    The Prince-Bishop sat down and picked at his front teeth with a long thumbnail. “Good news, gentlemen. I’ve heard that General Wallenstein has gathered an enormous army for the emperor. He’ll put the Protestants to rout.”
    â€œI’ve heard, though, that he’s ruthless in requisitioning men and supplies,” said Herr Doktor Lindner, the ruddy-faced physician who’d served on the commission. His bulbous nose glowed red from too much wine. “Wallenstein simply takes what he wants. Let’s hope he keeps the war in the north.”
    â€œThere’s little enough in Würzburg to take,” sniffed Chancellor Brandt. “Plenty of extra men. He could requisition all the beggars. But there’s no supplies to be had.”
    Judge Steinbach, who sat beside Chancellor Brandt, raised a frail palsied hand. “Even so, there are the taxes the emperor is demanding. How can Würzburg possibly pay them? The council has been debating the question for days.”
    Hampelmann dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, then held it in place to hide his clenched jaw. Steinbach was Judge of the Würzburg Court and first burgomaster of the Upper City Council only because of his wealth and reputation in the city, not because the old man was competent – at anything. The UpperCity Council ended up debating nearly everything for days because the timid judge could not maintain order at the meetings. As second burgomaster, Hampelmann always had to intervene.
    The Prince-Bishop waved a hand dismissively. “Increase the wine tax.”
    â€œWe’ve considered that,” said Judge Steinbach. “But the harvests in the vineyards have been nearly as poor as those in the fields.”
    â€œMark my words,” said Lindner. The physician’s voice was overly loud, his words slurred. “With soldiers travelling about, there’ll be outbreaks of plague everywhere.”
    Hampelmann studied the dark freckles sprinkled across Lindner’s face and wondered if the drunken boor had been listening to anyone but himself. How could anyone take seriously the opinions of a man who had freckles, as if he worked in the fields like a common peasant?
    â€œWar. Famine. Plague. It’s all punishment from God.” Father Streng’s high-pitched lilt was ill-suited to the harshness of his pronouncement. The young Jesuit, who sat to the left of the Prince-Bishop and across from Hampelmann, was so slight, his fair skin so smooth, that he looked and sounded like a boy, though he was at least