‘The baron’s a miser,’ Houvenaghel cackled, wobbling his belly and bulldog’s jowls. ‘He doesn’t have an ounce of sporting spirit in him. Nor the desire to reward that spirit in others! I, though, champion sport. And hereby increase the reward. Whomsoever enters the arena alone and leaves it on his own two feet, will be paid, by this very hand, from this very coffer, not twenty but thirty florins!’

‘So what are we waiting for?’ yelled Stavro. ‘I’m going first!’

‘Not so fast!’ the short mayor roared once again. ‘The wench has but thin linen on her back! So cast off that brigandine, soldier. This is sport!’

‘A pox on you!’ Stavro stripped off the studded kaftan, then pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing a scrawny chest and arms as hairy as a baboon. ‘A pox on you, m’lords, and your sodding sport! I’ll go in the buff! Shall I take off me britches too?’

‘And your braies!’ the Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar croaked seductively. ‘Then we’ll see if you’re only manly in word!’

Rewarded by thunderous applause and naked to the waist, Stavro drew his weapon and threw one leg over the barrier, watching Ciri intently. Ciri folded her arms over her chest. She didn’t even take a step towards the sword plunged into the sand. Stavro hesitated.

‘Don’t do it,’ said Ciri, very softly. ‘Don’t make me… I won’t let you touch me.’

‘Don’t begrudge me, wench.’ Stavro clambered over the barrier. ‘I’ve nothing against you. But business is—’

He didn’t complete the sentence, for Ciri was already on him, was already holding Swallow, as she had named the gnomish gwyhyr. She used a very simple, downright childish attack and feint called ‘three little steps’–but Stavro was taken in by it. He took a step backwards and raised his sword involuntarily, and was then at her mercy–after stepping back he was leaning against a post and Swallow’s blade was an inch from the tip of his nose.

‘That move,’ Bonhart explained to the marchioness, shouting over the roaring and applause, is called “three little steps, a feint and a lunge in tierce”. A cheap trick, I’d expected something more refined from the wench. Though one must admit, if she’d wanted it, the fellow would already be dead.’

‘Kill ‘im! Kill ‘im!’ the spectators bellowed, and Houvenaghel and Mayor Pennycuick pointed their thumbs downwards. The blood had drained from Stavro’s face, and the pimples and pockmarks on his cheeks were repugnantly visible.

‘I told you not to make me,’ Ciri hissed. ‘I don’t want to kill you! But I won’t let anyone touch me. Go back where you came from.’

She moved back, turned around, put down her sword and looked up towards the box.