"Hauptmann," he growled at Steefel as they both rode from the army camp to the monastery that night, "I want extra platoons sent out tomorrow. The remaining conscripts must be found and brought into training by the end of this week. No excuses, do you understand?"

"Of course, Herr Oberstleutnant," Steefel replied, checking his horse as it started at a rabbit running across the road. "I'll issue more of the lists, and assign ZugsKorporales from town to extra duty."

He got no reply, and they finished their journey in silence. It was a warm late afternoon in April and the sun was moving behind the roof of the monastery as they approached. Swallows swooped and dived, before darting off into the protection of the trees on Spilberk Hill. As if in keeping with its unsavory reputation, the castle at the top of the hill had taken on a reddish hue as the sun struck its hard gray stones at a shallow angle.

As they crossed the Pivovarska lane that ran behind the monastery they saw that soldiers were still standing outside the church as if reluctant to leave it's sanctuary. Some of them saluted the two officers, but many of the Czechs affected not to have noticed, and kept their faces turned away. One of the major problems of the Austrian Army was it's multi-ethnic composition, a problem it would never solve and one which would eventually be the cause of its defeat in an as yet undreamed of war against Russia in the next century.

Standing at the monastery gate, Reishach saw, were three monks in deep conversation. One was his uncle, Abbot Napp, and the other two were vaguely recognized members of the order, whose names Reishach had not bothered to learn. Normally he would have greeted his uncle, passed his horse off to the groom and totally ignored the other two monks. But this time, as he drew near, he could see that all three were talking about him.

Their faces turned to his, and three sets of eyes looked at him in a most brazen and curious manner. He jumped from his horse and threw his reins to the waiting Gefreite.

"What is it Onkle?" he demanded, "what is happening? Good news I hope?"

"Strange news, nephew," Abbot Napp replied slowly, taking the measure of his military relative. "Let us go inside." As the two officers and the three monks walked across the garden he started to elaborate. "I'm not sure what it means, but we have discovered that the Krautstrunk Beaker that was destroyed in the sabotage attack was, well, er - not all it seemed."

"What do you mean?" Reishach wanted to know. "That Beaker has been in our family for generations."

"That is what is strange," Napp continued carefully, "because the one that was broken was a modern fake." At which point the whole group came to a halt by the greenhouse as Mendel walked into the back of Steefel who had stopped dead in his tracks.

"Sorry," muttered Brother Gregory. Then he saw that the news had affected Steefel badly, the man was shaking and his face had drained of color.

"Impossible, totally impossible," snorted Reishach, "my mother had it valued about ten years ago, when grandmother gave it to me. Experts told her that it was Mediaeval Waldglas from the 15th century, and very valuable. Not that the money means anything to me, you understand. It's value to me is, er - was, it's long history in our family."

"Then we have a mystery," said Abbot Napp looking up and into the face of his relative, "as the glass found in your room was only made about 10 years ago."

"How do you know?" his nephew demanded, "the Beaker was totally destroyed, no one could tell anything from the remains."

"There you are wrong," Mendel said, speaking for the first time. "We have just returned from carrying out some experiments on pieces of the glass I found in the fire place hearth. Although it looks like the same glass as your Beaker, in fact it is modern and has a refractive index that is far too high for ancient Waldglas."

"Who are you?" asked Reishach, starting to lose his temper. This was too much. His commander was pressing him to complete the conscription, Czechs were burning his lists, and now his uncle and this strange monk were telling him his family heirloom was a fake - what next?

"This is Brother Gregory," his uncle told him, deflecting the coming storm, "and an excellent scientist. He has just finished telling me about the evidence, which, if a little difficult to explain, is never the less absolute and unquestionable - that beaker was a fake!"

Reishach looked about to explode and his face went very red. "Nonsense," he almost screamed, "my family would not do that to me. Do you realize what you are saying? That either my mother - your sister - or my grandmother gave me a fake Beaker, and, even worse, deceived me into thinking it was genuine. Why would they do that?"

"And, what difference does it make," said Steefel softly. "The issue of the sabotage has nothing to do with whether the criminal Klacel knew or did not know that the beaker was genuine when he smashed it. He was trying to hurt the Oberstleutnant, and cause disruption of the Imperial army, for his own reasons. Let us not confuse the two issues."

"Exactly," shouted Reishach thrusting a finger in the direction of his uncle. "Don't try and confuse this case. I know what you are doing, you are trying to raise doubts, create diversions so as to save your monk from the consequences of his crimes. Well, it isn't going to work! The tribunal will hear all the necessary evidence in two days, and then we'll see. I'm ashamed of you, Onkel, this is unworthy of you." He stamped away, followed by Steefel, whom Brother Gregory had just started to dislike.