The women behind Reynevan began to sob. And he knew. Before he felt the horse’s hot breath over him. Before he saw the eyes above him. Eyes the colour of a mountain lake. Beautiful. Enchanting. And absolutely inhuman.

“This one.”

“He doesn’t come cheap,” said Pimple-Face, bent over in a bow. “He’s the dearest… A singular Hussite, so the price is singular…”

“I shall not bargain with you, boor.” Klüx clenched his jaw. “You will not name the price. And for the maiden I shall pay any price. Seize him!”

The pikemen dragged Reynevan out, pushed him right in front of the dark bay mare’s chest and its ornate peytral shot with gold thread.

“Run.”

“No.”

“Oh, he resists?” Douce of Pack leaned down from the saddle and fixed him with a piercing gaze. “You won’t run? Stay there then. Think it makes any difference to me? I’ll ride up and run you through. But I’ll wager you won’t stand still; you’ll be off like a shot. And then you’ll pay for your pride. I’ll stick you like a pig!”

“Two thousand four hundred groschen?” Lord Bergow suddenly roared. “Two thousand four hundred? You’ve lost your fucking mind, Hurkovec! Lice must have sucked the sense out of your dull head! You’re either bereft of your senses or you take me for a fool! If it’s the first, I’ll only have you flogged; if the second—you’ll be hanged like a dog!”

“A single Hussite…” Pimple-Face grunted. “That’s why the price… But we can bargain—”

“I’ll give two thousand four hundred for him without bargaining.” Janko Schaff unexpectedly joined in. “But not as a gift. I bow before m’Lady Pack’s beauty, but let her run someone else through. I want him in one piece.”

“Which suggests that you know who it is, Lord Schaff,” said Köckeritz, arms akimbo, “and how much he’s worth. But won’t share the information, eh?”