‘Years ago,’ said Remiz, ‘this village was called White River. But when the unrest began, some locals joined the rebels. Then the Varnhagens of Sarda put it to the torch, murdered the villagers or took them prisoner. Now only Nilfgaardian settlers live here, all newcomers. And the village has been renamed Glyswen. These settlers are fierce, nasty people. I’m telling you, let’s not dally. We should ride on.’

‘We have to let the horses rest,’ protested one of the Trappers, ‘and feed them. And my belly’s rumbling like I’ve swallowed a brass band. Why worry about the settlers? They’re just rabble. Scum. We’ll wave the prefect’s order in front of their noses. I mean, the prefect’s a Nilfgaardian like them. You watch, they’ll bow down before us.’

‘I can just see that,’ growled Skomlik. ‘Has anyone seen a Nilfgaardian bow? Remiz, is there an inn in this ‘ere Glyswen?’

‘Yes. The Varnhagens didn’t burn it down.’

Skomlik turned around in the saddle and looked at Ciri.

‘We’ll have to untie her,’ he said. ‘We can’t risk anyone recognising her… Give her a mantle. And a hood for her head… Hey there! Where you going, you slummock?’

‘I have to go into the bushes—’

‘I’ll give you bushes, you slut! Squat by the track! And mark: don’t breathe a word in the village. Don’t start getting clever! One squeak and I’ll slit your throat. If I don’t get any florins for you, no one’s getting any.’

They approached at a walk, the horses’ hooves thudding on the bridge. Right away, some settlers armed with lances emerged from behind the stockade.

‘They’re guarding the gate,’ muttered Remiz. ‘I wonder why.’

‘Me too,’ Skomlik muttered back, raising himself in his stirrups. ‘They’re guarding the gate, and the stockade’s down by the mill. You could drive a wagon through there…’

They rode closer and reined in their horses.

‘Greetings, gentlemen!’ called out Skomlik jovially, but somewhat unnaturally. ‘Good day to you.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the tallest of the settlers brusquely.

‘We, mate, are the army,’ lied Skomlik, leaning back in the saddle. ‘In the service of His Lordlyship, the prefect of Amarillo.’

The settler slid his hand down the shaft of his lance and scowled at Skomlik. He clearly couldn’t recall when he and the Trapper had become mates.

‘His Lordship the prefect sent us here,’ Skomlik continued to lie, ‘to learn how his countrymen, the good people of Glyswen, are faring. His Lordlyship sends his greetings and enquires if the people of Glyswen need any kind of help.’

‘We’re getting by,’ said the settler. Ciri noticed he spoke the Common Speech in a similar way to the Winged Knight, with the same accent, as though he was trying to imitate Skomlik’s lazy speech pattern. ‘We’ve got used to looking after ourselves.’

‘The prefect will be pleased to hear it. Is the inn open? We’re parched…’

‘It’s open,’ said the settler grimly. ‘For the moment.’

‘For the moment?’