Two of them were obscured by the smoke and steam pouring from the cauldron. The third, sitting on the right, looked quite old. Although her dark hair was densely shot with grey, her face—tanned by the sun and rainy weather—was a little misleading; the woman could have lived three dozen years as easily as six. She was sitting in a carefree pose, swaying and turning her head around unnaturally.

“Greetings,” she croaked, then belched thunderously and long. “Greetings, O Thane of Glamis!”

“Stop talking nonsense, Jagna,” said the second woman, the one in the centre. “You’re drunk again, dammit.”

A gust of wind dispersed the smoke and steam a little, allowing them to see things more clearly.

The woman sitting in the middle was tall and quite well built, with wavy, flame-red hair tumbling around her shoulders from beneath a black hat. She had prominent cheekbones flushed bright red, a shapely mouth and very bright eyes. A dirty green woollen scarf was draped around her neck. Her stockings were knitted from the same material—the woman was sitting with legs casually sprawled apart and her skirt raised quite freely, allowing them to admire not only her stockings and calves but also an impressive eyeful of things normally kept covered.

The third one, sitting on her right, was the youngest, barely a girl. She had sparkling eyes with dark rings under them and a thin, foxy face with a sallow complexion. Her fair hair was adorned with a garland of verbena and clover.

“Well, just look,” said the red-haired one, scratching her thigh above the green stocking top. “There was nothing to eat, and blow me, the grub’s turned up all by itself.”

The swarthy one addressed as Jagna belched and the black cat meowed. The feverish eyes of the wench in the garland lit up with an evil flame.

“We request forgiveness for the intrusion,” Scharley said, bowing. He was pale, but working hard to keep control. “We apologise to you, dear and honourable ladies. But let us not disturb you. We wish no trouble. We’re here by accident, and we’ll be off immediately. If we may, dear ladies—”

The red-haired witch picked up a skull from the pile, lifted it high and loudly chanted a spell. Reynevan thought he could make out Chaldean and Aramaic words in it. The skull snapped its jaws, shot upwards and whistled over the pine tops.

“Grub,” repeated the red-haired witch in a voice devoid of emotion. “And talking grub to boot. There’ll be a chance to chat before our meal.”

Scharley swore under his breath. The woman licked her lips suggestively and fixed him with her gaze. There was no time to delay. Reynevan inhaled deeply.