‘For the moment. For we’ll soon be pulling it down. The rafters and planks will serve us for a granary. The inn’s no use to anyone. We toil in the fields and don’t visit the inn. The inn only serves travellers, mostly of a sort that aren’t to our liking. Some of that kind are drinking there now.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Remiz, blanching somewhat. ‘Not from the stronghold in Sarda, by any chance? Not the Honourable Varnhagens?’

The settler grimaced and moved his lips around, as though intending to spit.

‘Unfortunately not. They’re the Lords Barons’ militiamen. The Nissirs.’

‘The Nissirs?’ frowned Skomlik. ‘Where did they come from? Under whose command?’

‘Their commander is tall and black-haired, with whiskers like a catfish.’

‘Eh!’ Skomlik turned to his companions. ‘We’re in luck. We only know one like that, don’t we? It’s sure to be our old comrade “Trust Me” Vercta. Remember him? And what are the Nissirs doing here, mate?’

‘The Lords Nissir,’ explained the settler grimly, ‘are bound for Tyffi. They honoured us with a visit. They’re moving a prisoner. They’ve caught one of those of Rats.’

‘Of course they have,’ snorted Remiz. ‘And why not the Nilfgaardian emperor?’

The settler frowned and tightened his grip on the shaft of his lance. His companions murmured softly.

‘Go to the inn, sirs,’ said the settler, the muscles in his jaw working, ‘and talk to the Lords Nissir, your comrades. You claim to be in the prefect’s service, so ask the Lords Nissirs why they’re taking the criminal to Tyffi, rather than impaling him on a stake right here, right now, as the prefect ordered. And remind the Lords Nissirs, your comrades, that the prefect is in command here, not the Baron of Tyffi. We already have the oxen yoked up and the stake sharpened. If the Lords Nissirs don’t want to, we’ll do the necessary. Tell them that.’

‘I’ll tell them. Rely on me,’ said Skomlik, winking meaningfully at his comrades. ‘Farewell, gentlemen.’

They set off at a walk between the cottages. The village appeared deserted; there was not a soul around. An emaciated pig was rooting around by one of the fences and some dirty ducks were splashing around in the mud. A large black tomcat crossed the riders’ path.

‘Ugh, ugh, bloody cat,’ said Remiz, leaning over, spitting and making a sign with his fingers to protect himself from black magic. ‘He ran across our path, the son of a bitch!’

‘I hope he chokes on a mouse!’

‘What was it?’ said Skomlik, turning back.

‘A cat. As black as pitch. He crossed our path, ugh, ugh.’

‘To hell with him,’ said Skomlik, looking all around. ‘Just look how empty it is. But I saw the people in their cottages, watching. And I saw a lance blade glint in that doorway.’

‘They’re guarding their womenfolk,’ laughed the man who had wished ill on the cat. ‘The Nissirs are in the village! Did you hear what that yokel was saying? It’s obvious they don’t like them.’