The exhausted grey mare stumbled, walking stiffly and unsteadily, her head hanging almost to the ground. Geralt led her and handed the reins over to the stable lad. He looked about forty and was bent over under the burden of his years. He stroked the mare’s neck and examined his hand. He looked Geralt up and down, then spat right between his feet. Geralt shook his head and sighed. It didn’t surprise him. He knew he was at fault, that he’d overdone it with the gallop, and over difficult terrain, what’s more. He’d wanted to get as far away as possible from Sorel Degerlund and his minions. He was aware that it was a woeful justification; he also had a low opinion of people who drove their mounts into the ground.

The stable lad went away, leading the mare and muttering to himself. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was muttering and what he thought. Geralt sighed, pushed the door open and entered the station.

It smelled agreeable inside and the Witcher realised he hadn’t eaten for more than a day.

“There’s no horse,” said the postmaster, emerging from behind the counter and anticipating his question. “And the next mail coach won’t be here for two days.”

“I could use some food.” Geralt looked upwards at the ridge and rafters of the high vault. “I’ll pay.”

“We have none.”

“Oh, come, postmaster,” came a voice from the corner of the chamber. “Does it behove you to treat a traveller so?”

In the corner, seated at a table, was a dwarf. Flaxen-haired and flaxen-bearded, he was dressed in an embroidered, patterned maroon jerkin, embellished with brass buttons on the front and sleeves. He had ruddy cheeks and a prominent nose. Geralt had occasionally seen unusually shaped, slightly pink potatoes at the market. The dwarf’s nose was of an identical colour. And shape.

“You offered me potato soup.” The dwarf glared sternly at the postmaster from under very bushy eyebrows. “You surely won’t contend that your wife only prepares one portion of it. I’ll wager any sum that it also suffices for this gentleman. Be seated, traveller. Will you take a beer?”

“With pleasure, thank you,” replied Geralt, sitting down and digging out a coin from the hiding place in his belt. “But allow me to treat you, good sir. Despite the misleading impression, I am neither a tramp nor a vagrant. I am a witcher. On the job, which is why my apparel is shabby and my appearance unkempt. Which I beg you to forgive. Two beers, postmaster.”

The beers appeared on the table in no time.