The first of the men was short and chubby, more resembling a halfling than a human, and was even dressed like a halfling–modestly, pleasantly, neatly and in pastel colours. The second man–though no longer young–had the outfit and bearing of a soldier and a sword at his side. Silver embroidery depicting a dragon with batlike wings sparkled on the shoulder of his black jerkin. The woman was fair-haired and skinny, with a slightly hooked nose and thin lips. Her pistachio-coloured gown had a plunging neckline. Which wasn’t very well advised. There wasn’t much cleavage to show, apart from wrinkled and parchment-dry skin covered in a thick layer of rouge and white lead powder.

‘Her Noble Ladyship the Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar,’ Houvenaghel said. ‘Lord Declan Ros aep Maelchlad, captain in the Nilfgaardian reserve horse of His Mighty Emperorship of Nilfgaard. Lord Pennycuick, Mayor of Claremont. And this is Mr Leo Bonhart, my relative and former comrade.’

Bonhart bowed stiffly.

‘So this is the little brigand who is to amuse us today,’ said the skinny marchioness, staring intently at Ciri with her pale blue eyes. Years of drinking could be heard in her husky, seductive voice.

‘Not too bad, I’d say. But nicely built… Quite a pleasant little bodikin.’

Ciri jerked, pushing off an obtrusive hand, paled with fury and hissed like a serpent.

‘Please don’t touch,’ Bonhart said coldly. ‘Don’t feed it. Don’t tease it. I take no responsibility.’

‘A little bodikin–’ the marchioness licked her lips, paying no attention to him ‘–can always be tied to a bed, to make it more amenable. Perhaps you’d sell her to me, Mr Bonhart, sir? My marquess and I like little bodikins like that, and Mr Houvenaghel is so reproachful when we seize local goose girls and peasant children. In any case, the marquess can’t hunt children any longer. He can’t run, because of those chancres and warts which have opened up in his crotch—’

‘Enough, enough, Matilda,’ Houvenaghel said softly but quickly, seeing the expression of growing disgust on Bonhart’s face. ‘We must leave for the theatre. Mr Mayor has just been informed that Windsor Imbra has reached the town with a squad of the Baron of Casadei’s infantry. Which means it’s time.’

Bonhart removed a flacon from a belt pouch, wiped the onyx table top with his sleeve and tipped out a small mound of white powder. He pulled on the chain, drawing Ciri closer.

‘Do you know how to use it?’

Ciri clenched her teeth.

‘Sniff it up. Or lick a finger and rub it into your gums.’

‘No!’

Bonhart didn’t even turn his head.

‘You’ll do it yourself,’ he said softly, ‘or I’ll do it, only in a way that will supply everybody here with a bit of entertainment. You don’t just have mucous membranes in your mouth and nose, little Rat, but in a few other amusing places. I’ll call for servants, have you stripped naked and restrained, and I’ll take advantage of those amusing places.’