‘I scolded him so much he choked on his blood,’ she crowed. ‘And the others were cowed at once. That’s what you call terror!’

She was dripping in jewels as usual, and even had a diamond stud in her nose. She was not wearing leather, but a short cherry-red jacket with a fine brocade pattern. Her look was established enough to be all the rage among the gilded youth of Thurn. Like the silk scarf wrapped around Giselher’s head. Hotspurn had even heard of girls asking for ‘Mistle’ haircuts.

‘That’s what you call terror,’ he repeated pensively, still looking at the patch of blood on the floor. ‘What about the station keeper? His wife? And son?’

‘No, no,’ Giselher scowled. ‘Think we did for all of them? Not at all. We locked them in the pantry for a while. Now the station, as you see, is ours.’

Kayleigh swilled wine around his mouth, then spat it out on the floor. He took a small quantity of fisstech from the casket with a tiny spoon, meticulously sprinkled it on the spit-moistened tip of his index finger and rubbed the narcotic into his gums. He handed the casket to Falka, who repeated the ritual and passed the fisstech to Reef. The Nilfgaardian turned it down, busy looking at a catalogue of colourful tattoos, and handed the box to Iskra. The she-elf passed it to Giselher without taking any.

‘Terror!’ she growled, narrowing her flashing eyes and sniffing. ‘We have the station in the grip of terror! Emperor Emhyr holds the entire world this way, and we only this hovel. But the principle’s the same!’

‘Owww, dammit!’ yelled Mistle from the table. ‘Be careful what you prick! Do that one more time and I’ll prick you! Right through!’

The Rats–apart from Falka and Giselher–roared with laughter.

‘If you want to be beautiful you have to suffer!’ Iskra called.

‘Prick her, master, prick her,’ Kayleigh added. ‘She’s hardened between the legs!’

Falka swore copiously and threw a beaker at him. Kayleigh ducked and the Rats roared with laughter again.

‘So.’ Hotspurn decided to put an end to the gaiety. ‘You hold the station in the grip of terror. But what for? Other than the satisfaction you derive from terrorising station keepers’ families?’

‘We,’ Giselher answered, rubbing fisstech into his gums, ‘are lying in wait. Should someone stop to change horses or rest, they’ll be stripped clean. It’s more comfortable here than on a crossroads or in the thicket by the highway. But, as Iskra has just said, the principle’s the same.’

‘But today, since daybreak, only this one’s fallen into our grasp,’ Reef interjected, pointing at Master Almavera, his head almost hidden between Mistle’s parted thighs. ‘A pauper, like every artist. Had nothing to rob, so we’re robbing him of his art. Take a look at how ingeniously he draws.’