He entered the watchtower, a log building that he knew accommodated the guardhouse. He thought he knew what to expect. He was wrong.

He had visited numerous guardhouses in his life: small, medium and large, both nearby and in quite distant parts of the world, some in more and less civilised—and some quite uncivilised—regions. All the world’s guardhouses stank of mould, sweat, leather and urine, as well as iron and the grease used to preserve it. It was no different in the Kerack guardhouse. Or it wouldn’t have been, had the classic guardhouse smell not been drowned out by the heavy, choking, floor-to-ceiling odour of farts. There could be no doubt that leguminous plants—most likely peas and beans—prevailed in the diet of the guardhouse’s crew.

And the garrison was wholly female. It consisted of six women currently sitting at a table and busy with their midday meal. They were all greedily slurping some morsels floating in a thin paprika sauce from earthenware bowls.

The tallest guard, clearly the commandant, pushed her bowl away and stood up. Geralt, who always maintained there was no such thing as an ugly woman, suddenly felt compelled to revise this opinion.

“Weapons on the bench!”

The commandant’s head—like those of her comrades—was shaven. Her hair had managed to grow back a little, giving rise to patchy stubble on her bald head. The muscles of her midriff showed from beneath her unbuttoned waistcoat and gaping shirt, bringing to mind a netted pork roast. The guard’s biceps—to remain on the subject of cooked meat—were the size of hams.

“Put your weapons on the bench!” she repeated. “You deaf?”

One of her subordinates, still hunched over her bowl, raised herself a little and farted, loud and long. Her companions guffawed. Geralt fanned himself with a glove. The guard looked at his swords.

“Hey, girls! Get over here!”

The “girls” stood up rather reluctantly, stretching. Their style of clothing, Geralt noticed, was quite informal, mainly intended to show off their musculature. One of them was wearing leather shorts with the legs split at the seams to accommodate her thighs. Two belts crossing her chest were pretty much all she had on above the waist.

“A witcher,” she stated. “Two swords. Steel and silver.”

Another—like all of them, tall and broad-shouldered—approached, tugged open Geralt’s shirt unceremoniously and pulled out his medallion by the silver chain.

“He has a sign,” she stated. “There’s a wolf on it, fangs bared. Would seem to be a witcher. Do we let him through?”

“Rules don’t prohibit it. He’s handed over his swords…”

“That’s correct,” Geralt joined the conversation in a calm voice. “I have. They’ll both remain, I presume, in safe deposit? To be reclaimed on production of a docket. Which you’re about to give me?”

The guards surrounded him, grinning. One of them prodded him, apparently by accident. Another farted thunderously.