“It’s a cutter,” a stout, middle-aged man in an elk-skin jerkin corrected him as he approached. “A cutter, gentlemen. Which can easily be seen from the rig. A large mainsail, a jib and two staysails on the forestays. Classic.”

The little ship—or cutter—sailed close enough to the jetty for them to admire the figurehead on the prow. The carving depicted a bald old man with an aquiline nose rather than the standard large-breasted woman, mermaid, dragon or sea serpent.

“Dammit,” Addario Bach grunted to himself. “Does the prophet have it in for us, or what?”

“A sixty-four-footer,” went on the elderly gentleman in a proud voice. “With a total sail area of three thousand three hundred square feet. That, gentlemen, is the Prophet Lebioda, a modern Koviran-type cutter, built in the Novigradian shipyard and launched almost a year ago.”

“You’re familiar with that craft, as we can see.” Addario Bach cleared his throat. “You know plenty about her.”

“I know everything about her, since I’m the owner. Do you see the ensign at the stern? There’s a glove on it. It’s my company’s emblem. If I may: I am Kevenard van Vliet, a merchant in the glove-making trade.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance.” The dwarf shook his right hand, eyeing up the merchant astutely. “And we congratulate you on the little ship, for it is well-favoured and swift. It’s a wonder that it’s here, in Wiaterna, on the broad water, away from the main Pontarian shipping lanes. It’s also a wonder that the ship’s on the water and you, its owner, are on the land, in the middle of nowhere. Is anything the matter?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing the matter,” said the glove merchant, in Geralt’s opinion too quickly and too emphatically. “We’re taking on provisions here, nothing more. And in the middle of nowhere, oh well, cruel necessity rather than our wishes has brought us here. For when you are hastening to rescue someone you don’t pay heed to the route you take. And our rescue mission—”

“Let’s not go into details, Mr. van Vliet, sir,” interrupted one of a group of characters whose steps made the jetty suddenly tremble as they came closer. “I don’t think that interests the gentlemen. Nor ought it to.”

Five characters had stepped onto the jetty from the direction of the village. The one who had spoken, wearing a straw hat, was conspicuous by his well-defined jaw with several days’ stubble and large protruding chin. His chin had a cleft, owing to which it looked like a miniature arse. He was accompanied by a tall bruiser, a veritable giant, although from his face and expression he was by no means a moron. The third—stocky and weather-beaten—was every inch a sailor, down to the woollen cap and earring. The other two, clearly deckhands, were lugging chests containing provisions.