Trent leaped for him and Geralt struck him very fast in the face with the broom: once, twice, three times. Then hit him with the handle on one temple, then on the other and then very hard in the neck. The Witcher shoved the broom handle between his legs, stepped in close, seized Trent by the wrist, twisted it, took the sword from his hand and threw it upwards. The sword sank into a rafter and remained there. Trent stepped back, tripped over a bench and fell down. Geralt decided there was no need to harm him any further.

Ligenza got to his feet, but stood motionless, with arms hanging limp, staring upwards at the swords stuck high up in the rafters, out of reach. Fryga attacked.

She whirled her blade, feinted, then made a short reverse stroke. The style was well-suited to tavern brawls, at close quarters and in poor lighting. The Witcher wasn’t bothered by lighting or the lack of it, and was only too familiar with the style. Fryga’s blade cut through the air and the feint wheeled her around so the Witcher ended up behind her back. She screamed as he put the broom handle under her arm and twisted her elbow. He yanked the sword from her fingers and shoved her away.

“I thought I’d keep this one for myself,” he said, examining the blade. “As compensation for the effort I’ve put in. But I’ve changed my mind. I won’t carry a bandit’s weapon.”

He threw the sword upwards. The blade plunged into the rafters and shuddered. Fryga, as pale as parchment, flashed her teeth behind twisted lips. She hunched over, snatching a knife from her boot.

“That,” he said, looking her straight in the eyes, “was a singularly foolish decision.”

Hooves thudded on the road, horses snorted, weapons clanked. The courtyard outside the station suddenly teemed with riders.

“If I were you I’d sit down on a bench in the corner.” Geralt addressed the three of them. “And pretend I wasn’t here.”

The door slammed open, spurs jangled and soldiers in fox fur hats and short black jerkins with silver braiding entered the chamber. Their leader was a man with a moustache and a scarlet sash.

“Royal forces!” he announced, resting his fist on a mace stuck into his belt. “Sergeant Kovacs, Second Squadron of the First Company, the armed forces of graciously reigning King Foltest, the Lord of Temeria, Pontaria and Mahakam. In pursuit of a Redanian gang!”

Fryga, Trent and Ligenza, on a bench in the corner, examined the tips of their boots.