“My wife will serve the potato soup shortly,” grunted the postmaster. “And don’t look askance at what just happened. I have to have vittals ready the whole time. For were some magnate, royal messengers or post to arrive… And were I to run out and have nothing to serve them—”

“Yes, yes…”

Geralt raised his mug. He knew plenty of dwarves and knew their drinking customs and proposed a toast.“To the propitiousness of a good cause!”

“And to the confusion of whoresons!” added the dwarf, knocking his mug against Geralt’s. “It’s pleasant to drink with someone who observes custom and etiquette. I am Addario Bach. Actually Addarion, but everyone calls me Addario.”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“The Witcher Geralt of Rivia,” declared Addario Bach, wiping the froth from his whiskers. “Your name rings a bell. You’re a well-travelled fellow and it’s no wonder you’re familiar with customs. I, mark you, have come here on the mail coach, or the dilly, as they call it in the South. And I’m waiting for a transfer to the mail coach plying between Dorian and Tretogor in Redania. Well, that potato soup is here at last. Let’s see what it’s like. You ought to know that our womenfolk in Mahakam make the best potato soup, you’ll never eat its like. Made from a thick starter of black bread and rye flour, with mushrooms and well-fried onions…”

The post station potato soup was excellent, rich with chanterelles and fried onions, and if it was inferior to the Mahakam version made by dwarven women then Geralt never found out in what respect, as Addario Bach ate briskly, in silence and without commenting.

The postmaster suddenly looked out of the window and his reaction made Geralt do likewise.

Two horses had arrived outside the station, both looking even worse than Geralt’s captured mount. And there were three horsemen. To be precise, two men and a woman. The Witcher looked around the chamber vigilantly.

The door creaked. Fryga entered the station. And behind her Ligenza and Trent.

“If it’s horses—” The postmaster stopped abruptly when he saw the sword in Fryga’s hand.

“You guessed,” she finished his sentence. “Horses are precisely what we need. Three. So, move yourself, bring them from the stable.”

“—you want—”

The postmaster didn’t finish that time, either. Fryga leaped at him and flashed a blade before his eyes. Geralt stood up.

“Hey there!”

All three of them turned towards him.

“It’s you,” drawled Fryga. “You. Damned vagabond.”

She had a bruise on her cheek where he’d punched her.

“All because of you,” she rasped. “Shevlov, Poker, Sperry… All slaughtered, the entire squad. And you, whoreson, knocked me from the saddle, stole my horse and bolted like a coward. For which I shall now repay you.”