‘Trying to escape, you viper?’
The knout swished. Ciri howled. Skomlik kicked her again and lashed her with the knout.
‘Stop hitting me!’ she screamed, cowering.
‘So you can talk, bitch! Cat let go of your tongue? I’ll teach you—’
‘Control yourself, Skomlik!’ shouted one of the Trappers. ‘Do you want to beat the life out of her or what? She’s worth too much to waste!’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Remiz, dismounting. ‘Is she the one Nilfgaard’s spent a week searching for?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ha! All the garrisons are hunting for her. She’s some kind of important personage to Nilfgaard. They say a mighty sorceror divined that she must be somewhere in the area. That’s what they were saying in Sarda, at least. Where did you find her?’
‘In the Frying Pan.’
‘That’s not possible!’
‘It is, it is,’ said Skomlik angrily, frowning. ‘We’ve got her and the reward’s ours. Why are you standing around like statues? Bind the little bird and get her up in the saddle! Let’s scram, boys! Look lively!’
‘I think the Honourable Sweers,’ said one of the Trappers, ‘is still breathing . . .’
‘But not for long. Curse him! We’re riding straight to Amarillo, boys. To the prefect. We’ll deliver the wench to him and pick up the bounty.’
‘To Amarillo?’ Remiz scratched the back of his head, and looked at the scene of the recent fight. ‘And right into the hangman’s hands? What will you tell the prefect? That the knights battered each other to death and you’re all in one piece? When the whole story comes out the prefect will have you hanged, and send us back to Sarda under guard . . . And then the Varnhagens will take the bounty. You might want to head for Amarillo, but I’d rather disappear into the forest . . .’
‘You’re my brother-in-law, Remiz,’ said Skomlik. ‘And even though you’re a son of a bitch for beating my sister you’re still a mate. So I’ll save your skin. We’re going to Amarillo, I said. The prefect knows there’s a feud between the Sweers and the Varnhagens. They met and did each other in. That’s normal for them. What could we have done? And we – heed my words – found the wench afterwards. We did, the Trappers. You’re a Trapper now, too, Remiz. The prefect hasn’t got a bloody clue how many of us set off with Sweers. He won’t count us up . . .’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Skomlik?’ asked Remiz in a slow drawl, looking at the other servant from Sarda.
Skomlik turned around slowly, then as quick as a flash pulled out a knife and thrust it hard into the servant’s throat. The servant rasped and then collapsed on the ground.
‘I don’t forget about anything,’ said the Trapper coldly. ‘We’re all in it together. There are no witnesses, and not too many heads to divide the bounty amongst either. To horse, boys, and on to Amarillo! There’s a fair distance between us and the bounty, so let’s not hang around!’
After leaving a dark, wet, beech forest, they saw a village at the foot of the mountain: a dozen or so thatched cottages inside the ring of a low stockade enclosing a bend in a small river.
The wind carried the scent of smoke. Ciri wiggled her numb fingers, which were fastened by a leather strap to the pommel. She was numb all over; her buttocks ached unbearably and she was being tormented by a full bladder. She’d been in the saddle since daybreak. She had not rested during the night, since she had been forced to sleep with her hands fastened to the wrists of two Trappers lying on either side of her. Each time she moved, the Trappers reacted with curses and threats to beat her.
‘It’s a village,’ said one of them.
‘I can see that,’ responded Skomlik.
They rode down the slope, their horses’ hooves crunching through the tall, dry grass. They soon found themselves on a bumpy track leading straight to the village, towards a wooden bridge and a gate in the stockade.
Skomlik reined back his horse and stood up in his stirrups.
‘What village is this? I’ve never stopped here. Remiz, do you know these parts?’
‘Years ago,’ said Remiz, ‘this village was called White River. But when the unrest began, some locals joined the rebels. Then the Varnhagens of Sarda put it to the torch, murdered the villagers or took them prisoner. Now only Nilfgaardian settlers live here, all newcomers. And the village has been renamed Glyswen. These settlers are fierce, nasty people. I’m telling you, let’s not dally. We should ride on.’