‘We have you, Falka! Didn’t expect us here, did you?’

‘Oh, yes I did,’ the beggar heard. And he trembled at the sound of her voice.

He saw the slender figure move and heard a sigh of terror. The muffled scream of one of the wenches. He couldn’t see that the girl named Falka had removed her hood and shawl. He couldn’t see her hideously disfigured face. Or her eyes painted all around with a paste of soot and grease, like a demon’s.

‘I am not Falka,’ said the girl. The beggar saw again her fast, blurred movement, saw something shine fierily in the light of the cressets.

‘I’m Ciri of Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher! I’ve come here to kill you.’

The beggar, who had seen many a tavern brawl in his life, had a practiced method for avoiding injury: he ducked under the table, curled up and grabbed the table legs tightly. From that position, naturally, he couldn’t see anything. And didn’t want to. He was clutching the table tightly, and it was sliding around the room with the other furniture, amidst clattering, banging and crunching, the thudding of heavily booted feet, curses, shouts, grunts and the clanging of steel.

One of the serving wenches was yelling shrilly, unremittingly.

Someone tumbled onto the table, shifting it along with the beggar, and fell onto the floor alongside him. The beggar yelled, feeling hot blood splash onto him. Dede Vargas, the one who had at first wanted to drive him away–the beggar recognised him by the brass buttons on his jerkin–croaked horribly and thrashed about, spurting blood and flailing his arms around. One of his wild movements caught the beggar right in the eye. He could no longer see anything. The screaming serving wench choked, fell silent, took a breath and began to yell again, at a somewhat higher pitch.

Someone sprawled on the floor with a thud and blood splashed the freshly cleaned pine floorboards. The beggar couldn’t tell that the dying man was Rispat La Pointe, slashed in the side of the neck by Ciri. He didn’t see her turn a pirouette right in front of Fripp and Jannowitz’s noses, and pass through their guards like a shade, like grey smoke. Jannowitz slipped behind her with a swift, soft, feline turn. He was an expert swordsman. Standing firmly on his right foot he struck out with a long, extended thrust, aiming at the girl’s face, straight at her hideous scar. He couldn’t miss.

But he did.