‘You know what, miss?’ Hotspurn smiled slightly. ‘I’m heading towards Forgeham, and then to Metinna. See, down that track, that line of yellow sand between those young pines? Ride that way with me, and you won’t lose your way. Amnesty or no amnesty, but it will be pleasant to travel with such a charming maiden.’

Ciri measured him up with the coldest glance she could manage. Hotspurn bit his lip with a puckish smile.

‘So?’

‘Let’s ride.’

‘Bravo, Miss Falka. Wise decision. I said that you were as wise as you were beautiful. I was right.’

‘Stop calling me “miss”, Hotspurn. In your mouth it sounds insulting, and I won’t let myself be insulted with impunity.’

‘As you wish, miss.’

The day did not fulfil the beautiful dawn’s promise. It was grey and wet. The damp fog dimmed the intensity of the autumnal leaves of the trees leaning over the road, displaying a thousand shades of ochre, red and yellow.

The damp air smelled of bark and mushrooms.

They rode at a walk over a carpet of fallen leaves, but Hotspurn often spurred his black mare to a gentle trot or canter. During those moments Ciri looked on in delight.

‘Does she have a name?’

‘No.’ Hotspurn flashed his teeth. ‘I treat my mounts functionally. I change them regularly and don’t became attached to them. I think giving horses names is pretentious, if one doesn’t run a stable. Do you agree with me? Blacky the horse, Fido the dog and Felix the cat. Pretentious!’

Ciri didn’t like his gaze or ambiguous smiles, and especially disliked the slightly mocking tone he used when talking and answering questions. So she adopted a simple tactic–she remained silent, spoke in monosyllables and did not provoke him. When possible. It was not always possible. Particularly when he talked about that amnesty of his. Thus when once again–and quite sternly–she expressed her reluctance, Hotspurn surprisingly changed his approach; he abruptly began trying to prove that in her case an amnesty was not necessary, it simply did not apply to her. The amnesty concerned criminals, he said, not victims of crimes. Ciri roared with laughter.

‘You’re a victim yourself, Hotspurn!’

‘I was speaking seriously,’ he assured her. ‘Not in order to arouse your girlish glee, but to suggest a way of saving your skin in the event of being captured. Something like that won’t work on the Baron of Casadei, nor can you expect clemency from the Varnhagens. The most favourable outcome is that they would hang you on the spot, quickly and, all being well, quite painlessly. Were you, however, to fall into the hands of the prefect and stood before the austere, but just, imperial law… Ha, then I would suggest the following line of defence: break down in tears and declare that you were the innocent victim of a coincidence.’

‘And who would believe that?’