They didn’t get as far as talking. They didn’t even reach the building where they suspected the overseer had his office. They ran straight into five horsemen in the square where the ore was being loaded onto wagons.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Angoulême. ‘Oh, shit. Look what the cat dragged in.’

‘What’s up?’

‘They’re Nightingale’s men. Here to extort protection money… and they’ve recognised me… Dammit! Now we’re in the shit…’

‘Can’t you lie our way out of it?’ Cahir muttered.

‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

‘Why?’

‘I skinned Nightingale when I escaped from the hanza. They won’t forgive me for that. But I’ll try… Be quiet. Keep your eyes open and stay alert. For anything.’

The horsemen rode up, with two of them at the head; a fellow with long, grizzly hair, wearing a wolfskin, and a young beanpole with a beard, clearly grown to cover acne scars. They feigned indifference, but Geralt noticed veiled flashes of hatred in the glances they were casting at Angoulême.

‘Flaxenhair.’

‘Novosad. Yirrel. Greetings. Nice out today. Pity about the rain.’

The grizzly-haired man dismounted, or rather leaped down from the saddle, briskly swinging his right leg over his horse’s head. The others also dismounted. Grizzled Hair handed his reins to Yirrel, the beanpole with the beard, and came closer.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Our big-mouthed little magpie. Looks like you’re alive and well?’

‘Alive and kicking.’

‘You brazen little upstart! There was a rumour you were kicking, but on a stake. Rumour has it One-Eyed Fulko caught you. Rumour has it you sang like a bird when you were tortured, told them everything they asked!’

‘Rumour has it,’ Angoulême snapped, ‘that your mother only charged her customers four shillings, but no one would give her more than two.’

The brigand spat at her feet contemptuously. Angoulême hissed again, just like a cat.

‘Listen, Novosad,’ she said insolently, arms akimbo. ‘I need to talk something over with Nightingale.’

‘Interesting. Likewise he with you.’

‘Shut your trap and listen, while I still feel like talking. Two days ago, a mile outside Riedbrune, me and these companions of mine slaughtered that witcher the contract’s out for. Get it?’

Novosad glanced knowingly at his comrades and then pulled up his sleeves, scrutinising Geralt and Cahir.

‘Your new companions,’ he drawled. ‘Ha, I see from their faces they’re no choirboys. They killed the witcher, you say? How? A stab in the back? Or in their dreams?’