‘You rotten bastards!’ Ciri turned around gracefully, sweeping her gaze over the stands and benches. ‘You despicable swine! You scoundrels! You lousy whoresons! You want blood? Come here, come down, taste it and smell it! Lick it up before it clots! Bastards! Vampires!’

The marchioness groaned, trembled, fluttered her eyelashes and softly nestled up to Bonhart, without taking her hands from between her thighs. Bonhart grimaced and shoved her away from him, not bothering to be gentle. The crowd howled. Someone threw a half-chewed sausage into the arena, someone else a boot, and yet another chucked a gherkin, aimed at Ciri. She sliced the gherkin in two with a flourish of her sword, provoking an even louder roar.

Windsor Imbra and his men picked up Amaranth and Horsehide. When Amaranth was touched, he howled, while Horsehide fainted. Matted Hair and Stavro no longer showed any signs of life. Ciri moved back, to stand as far away as the arena permitted. Imbra’s men also did their best to stay away from her.

Windsor Imbra stood motionless. He waited until they had heaved out the dead and wounded. He looked at Ciri through narrowed eyes, his hand on the hilt of his sword, which–despite his promise–he had not removed on entering the arena.

‘No,’ she warned, barely moving her lips. ‘Don’t make me. Please.’

Imbra was pale. The crowd stamped their feet, roared and howled.

‘Don’t listen to her!’ Bonhart shouted over the racket again. ‘Draw your sword! Otherwise it’ll get out that you’re a coward and a turd! From the Alba to the Yaruga everyone will be talking about how Windsor Imbra ran from a slip of a girl with his tail between his legs!’

Imbra’s blade slid an inch from the scabbard.

‘Don’t,’ said Ciri.

The blade went back in.

‘Coward!’ roared someone from the crowd. ‘Shithead! Chicken heart!’

His face impassive, Imbra walked to the edge of the arena. Before seizing the hands of his comrades reaching down from above, he turned back one last time.

‘You probably know what you’re in for, wench,’ he said softly. ‘You probably already know what Leo Bonhart is. You probably already know what Leo Bonhart’s capable of. What excites him. You’ll be shoved out into the arena to kill for the amusement of the swine and scum in here. And even worse than them. And when the fact that you can kill stops amusing them, when Bonhart tires of doing violence to you, then they’ll kill you too. They’ll send so many to face you, you won’t be able to watch your back. Or they’ll set dogs on you. And the dogs will tear you apart, and the rabble in the stands will sniff blood and applaud. You’ll expire on this blood-stained sand. Like the men you slaughtered today. You’ll remember my words.’