The crowd roared and applauded. The narcotic was working. Ciri trembled with euphoria. Her vision and hearing were registering everything, every detail. She could hear Houvenaghel’s cackle, the marchioness’ husky laugh, the mayor’s grave voice, Bonhart’s cold bass, the yelling of the animal-loving priest, the squealing of women and the crying of a child. She could see dark patches of blood on the posts encircling the arena and a stinking grill-covered hole gaping in it. And brutishly contorted faces, glistening with sweat, above the balustrade.

A sudden commotion, raised voices, curses. Armed men jostled the crowd, but ground to a halt, stopped by a wall of guards clutching partisans. She’d seen one of the men before–she remembered the swarthy face and the black moustache like a line drawn in charcoal on his upper lip, which quivered in a tic.

‘Mr Windsor Imbra?’ It was Houvenaghel’s voice. ‘Of Geso? Seneschal of His Noble Lordship, the Baron of Casadei? Greetings, greetings to our foreign guests. Take your places, the spectacle is about to begin. But don’t forget, please, to pay at the entrance!’

‘I’m not here for the sport, Mr Houvenaghel! I’m here on matters of service! Bonhart knows of what I speak!’

‘Indeed? Leo? Do you know of what the seneschal speaks?’

‘Do not jest! There are fifteen of us here! We’ve come for Falka! Hand her over, or things will turn ill!’

‘I don’t understand your excitation, Imbra.’ Houvenaghel frowned. ‘But I observe that this is not Geso, nor is it within the lands of that mandarin, your baron. Should you make a fuss and incommode us I shall have you driven away with knouts!’

‘I wish to cause no offence, Mr Houvenaghel,’ Windsor Imbra appealed. ‘But the law is on our side! Bonhart, here present, promised Falka to His Grace, Baron of Casadei. He gave his bond. And now he must keep it!’

‘Leo?’ Houvenaghel said, jowls shaking. ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’

‘I do and I admit he’s right.’ Bonhart stood up, carelessly waving a hand. ‘I shan’t protest or cause any difficulties. The girl is here, as everybody sees. Whoever wishes to may take her.’

Windsor Imbra was dumbfounded. His lip trembled intensely.

‘How is that?’

‘The girl,’ Bonhart repeated, winking at Houvenaghel, ‘belongs to the man who wishes to take her from the arena. Alive or dead, as your taste dictates.’

‘How is that?’

‘Dammit, I’m gradually losing my patience!’ Bonhart skilfully feigned anger. ‘Nothing but “how is that”! Bloody parrot! How? However you wish! It’s up to you; poison some meat and throw it to her as you would a she-wolf. But I can’t guarantee she will devour it. She doesn’t look stupid, does she? No, Imbra. Whoever wants her must take the trouble of going down to her. Down there, into the pit. You want Falka? Then claim her!’

‘You wave Falka under my nose like a frog on a rod before a catfish,’ Windsor Imbra growled. ‘I don’t trust you, Bonhart. I can smell the iron hook hidden in that bait!’