“I understand,” said Reynevan, raising his head with a proud look. “That has been made clear. In which case, I bid you farewell, gentlemen.”

“Wait,” said Jan Kuropatwa, getting up from the table. “Wait, Reynevan, why so hasty? Let’s talk. You said you need help. Why, we’re happy to offer you help if you also help us in our venture—”

“What venture? In a robbery?”

“And are you so honourable?” asked Nadobny. “Eh? Giving yourself airs? And what profits has soldiering brought you? What this revolution? Wounds, bruises, anathema and infamy, as it has us. Isn’t it time to think about your own good, health and happiness, physician?”

“What will benefit us,” Kuropatwa declared emphatically, “will also benefit you. If you help us in our venture, we will give you a cut, you’ll fill your purse. Am I right, M’Lord Ostrog?”

“Farewell to you, sirs,” said Reynevan, not waiting for the prince’s confirmation. “God be with you.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Fedor of Ostrog asked coldly. “To inform to Prokop? No, my lad, nothing doing. Take him, Kuropatwa!”

Reynevan ducked and pushed Kuropatwa onto Nadobny. As Wejdnar leaped up from the bench, Reynevan kicked him in the knee in the style of Scharley and punched him in the nose as he fell. Tłuczymost of the Bończa coat of arms went for him and seized him. Daniło, the boyar from eastern Poland, lunged across the table to assist, knocking off and smashing plates and dishes. Ostrog, Skirmunt and Jakubowski didn’t move from their seats.

A knife flashed in the boyar’s hand. Reynevan tore himself from Tłuczymost’s embrace and reached for his own dagger, but Wejdnar pulled down on his elbow and Kuropatwa grabbed his left wrist. The peasant Daniło stabbed. But Reynevan recalled Bruno Schilling, the renegade from the Company of Death.

He tilted his torso back, feeling on his chest the elbow of the armed hand. He bent it with a quick movement of his body, twisted it, turned it around and shoved with his shoulder as hard as he could. Astonishingly, it worked, although not as he had planned. Instead of plunging into his throat, the reversed blade only slit open his cheek. The boyar bellowed like a wild thing, splashing blood over himself and everything else. Fedor of Ostrog roared.

Tłuczymost screamed and fell, struck by the pommel of a short sword. Nadobny, cut in the hand, screamed. Kuropatwa, on the receiving end of a punch and a kick, flew onto the table among the broken bowls and spilled beer.

“Run for it, Reynevan!” shouted Urban Horn, swinging his short sword and knocking Wejdnar back down with a kick. “Run for it! To the stairs! Follow me!”

Reynevan didn’t need to be told twice. They heard from below the howling of the boyar. And the furious yelling of Prince Fedor of Ostrog.