‘Are you toying with me?’ she cried, voice breaking. ‘Do you mean to force me to fight? To kill? You can’t do it! I won’t fight!’

‘Hear that, Imbra?’ Bonhart’s sneering voice resounded in the silence. ‘Clear profit! And no risk! She won’t fight. Thus you can take her from the arena and deliver her alive to the Baron of Casadei, so he can freely amuse himself with her. You can take her without any danger! With your bare hands!’

Windsor Imbra spat. Stavro, still standing with his back pressed against the post, panted, gripping his sword. Bonhart laughed.

‘But I, Imbra, bet a diamond to a walnut that you can’t.’

Stavro took a deep breath. The girl standing with her back to him appeared distracted, preoccupied. He was seething with rage, shame and hatred. He couldn’t control himself. He attacked. Swiftly and treacherously.

The audience didn’t notice the swerve or reverse thrust. All they saw was the rushing Stavro making a truly balletic leap, after which–less balletically–he fell belly and face down in the sand; sand which was immediately stained red with blood.

‘Instinct takes the upper hand!’ Bonhart shouted over the crowd. ‘Reflexes come into play! Eh, Houvenaghel? What did I say? You’ll see, the mastiffs won’t be needed!’

‘What a splendid and profitable spectacle,’ Houvenaghel said, closing his eyes in bliss.

Stavro raised himself on trembling arms, jerked his head, cried out, croaked, puked blood and slumped down on the sand.

‘What’s that blow called, Mr Bonhart, sir?’ the Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar asked huskily and sensuously, rubbing her knees together.

‘That was improvised.’ The teeth of the bounty hunter–who didn’t even look at the marchioness–flashed from beneath his lips. ‘An exquisite, inspired and, I’d say, visceral improvisation. I’ve heard of a place where they teach that kind of improvised butchery. I’ll wager our maiden knows it well. Now I know who she is.’

‘Don’t make me!’ Ciri screamed, a truly ghastly note trembling in her voice. ‘I don’t want to! Understand? I don’t want to!’

‘You hellish slut!’ Amaranth nimbly vaulted the barrier, circling the arena to distract Ciri from Matted Hair, who was entering from the opposite side. Horsehide cleared the barrier behind Matted Hair.

‘That’s fighting dirty!’ roared the halfling-sized Mayor Pennycuick, who was sensitive to fair play, and the crowd yelled with him.

‘Three against one! That’s unfair!’

Bonhart laughed. The marchioness licked her lips and began to wriggle her legs more urgently.

The threesome’s plan was simple–pin the retreating girl against the posts. Then two would block and the third one kill. Nothing came of it, for a simple reason. The girl didn’t retreat but attacked.