Wojtowicz gave his friend a sideways glance. "Well. Yes, actually. I'm afraid the hetman's not going to like what I have to say. Or you, for that matter."

"Can't be any worse than what my brother tells me. To hear him, I'm the devil's minion, whose life is devoted to the sole and unswerving pursuit of making the lot of serfs as miserable as possible."

Jozef chuckled. "And where is Krzysztof, by the way? I half-expected him to be here along with you."

Opalinski shrugged. "I'm afraid my older brother keeps his own counsel, these days. I haven't seen much of him for the past year, and nothing at all for the past two months or so. At a guess, he's off somewhere with his new radical friends and their American mentor. A man by the name of Red Sybolt."

He spotted Jozef's slight grimace. "Ah. You know the fellow?"

"By reputation only. I've never met him."

"And his reputation is…"

"Depends on who you ask. That of a champion for the downtrodden or that of a detestable troublemaker. Or somewhere in between. But whatever the variations, the one thing all accounts have in common is that everyone agrees the man Sybolt is very good at what he does, whatever you choose to call it." He gave Lukasz another sideways glance. "And you say Krzysztof is associating with him, these days?"

"Oh, yes. Along with that young friend of his. You know, that poor szlachta from somewhere"-he gestured vaguely toward the south-"down there."

"Jakub Zaborowsky."

"Yes. Him."

They walked a little further in silence. Then, Lukasz sighed. "So, I imagine-you'll be much more polite, of course-you'll be telling me the same thing my brother does. We szlachta, especially we magnates, either mend our wicked ways or others will do it for us."

"And do it quite rudely, I'm thinking. Yes, that's the gist of it."

Opalinski sighed again. Then, spread his hands before his face and gazed upon their palms. "Do calluses hurt?"