Then the girl snatched up the surplice, jumped down from the table and vanished into the side room, pursued by the sounds of applause and cheers. Manfred of Salm and Rohač’s captain hooted and stamped, Berengar Tauler stood up and clapped and Amadej Baťa crowed like a rooster.

“Well?” Fridusz Huncleder got up, crossed the tavern and sat down at the table. “Well? Ever seen such a ginger one? Wasn’t the spectacle worth a ducat? While we’re on the subject, m’Lord Scharley, I only received two from you, but three of you came in. And here every pair of eyes counts—if you look, you pay. This is a revolution and we’re all equal, lord and servant… I say! I wasn’t talking to you, but to your master! Sit back down, go on carving your stick. As a matter of fact, do you have a ducat? Have you ever even seen a ducat in your life?”

It was some time before Reynevan realised whom Huncleder was addressing. And some time before he recovered from his astonishment.

“Are you deaf?” asked Huncleder. “Or just stupid?”

“The girl who danced.” Samson Honeypot brushed shavings from his sleeve. “I’d like to take her away from here.”

“Whaaaaat?”

“I’d like to assume the right of ownership of her, so to speak.”

“Right of whaaaat?”

“Too complicated?” Samson didn’t raise his voice at all. “Then I’ll say it more simply: she’s yours, and she’s going to be mine. So let’s sort it out.”

Huncleder gave him a look, a long look, as though unable to believe his own eyes and ears. He finally burst out laughing.

“M’Lord Scharley,” he said, turning his head. “What’s this pantomime? Is he always like this? Just comes out with it? Or did you make him?”

“‘He’ has a name.” Scharley proved that even the least-expected incident was incapable of putting him off his stride. “He’s called Samson Honeypot. I didn’t tell him to do anything. Nor forbade him. He’s a free man. He has the right to carry out independent commercial transactions.”

Huncleder looked around. He didn’t like either Manfred of Salm’s open chuckling, nor Amadej Baťa’s snorting, nor the splendidly amused faces of the others. He wasn’t pleased. It was easy to see it in his face.

“There’ll be no independent transactions,” he drawled. “The wench isn’t for sale, for one thing. And I don’t trade with simpletons, for another. Get out of here, dolt. Scram. Groom the horses, clean the latrine or something. This is a gambling house. If you don’t gamble, get out.”