“I don’t think,” continued the one with the cleft chin, “that these gentlemen, whoever they are, need know anything about us, what we’re doing, or about our other private affairs. These gentlemen certainly understand that no one has the right to know our private business, in particular total strangers who we’ve come across by accident—”

“Perhaps not total strangers,” interjected the giant. “Master Dwarf, I know you not, indeed, but this gentleman’s white hair betrays his identity. Geralt of Rivia, I believe? The Witcher? Am I not mistaken?”

I’m becoming popular, thought Geralt, folding his hands on his chest. Too popular. Should I dye my hair, perhaps? Or shave it off like Harlan Tzara?

“A witcher!” Kevenard van Vliet was clearly delighted. “A real witcher! What a stroke of luck! Noble gentlemen! Why he’s a veritable godsend!”

“The famous Geralt of Rivia!” repeated the giant. “What a stroke of luck that we’ve met him now, in our situation. He’ll help get us out of it—”

“You talk too much, Cobbin,” interrupted the one with the chin. “Too fast and too much.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Fysh?” snorted the glove-maker. “Can’t you see what a turn-up this is? The help of someone like a witcher—”

“Mr. van Vliet! Leave it to me. I have more experience in dealings with such as this one here.”

A silence fell, in which the character with the cleft chin eyed the Witcher up and down.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he finally said. “Vanquisher of monsters and supernatural creatures. A legendary vanquisher, I would say. If I believed in the legends, that is. And where are your celebrated witcher swords? I can’t seem to see them.”

“It’s no wonder you can’t see them,” replied Geralt. “Because they’re invisible. What, haven’t you heard the legends about witcher swords? The uninitiated can’t see them. They appear when I utter a spell. When the need arises. If one arises. Because I’m capable of doing a lot of damage even without them.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I am Javil Fysh. I run a company in Novigrad offering various services. This is my partner, Petru Cobbin. And this is Mr. Pudlorak, captain of the Prophet Lebioda. And the honourable Kevenard van Vliet, whom you’ve already met, the owner of this little ship.

“I see, Witcher, that you’re standing on a jetty in the only settlement within a radius of twenty-odd miles,” Javil Fysh continued, looking around. “In order to get out of here and find civilised roads, one must tramp through forests. It looks to me like you’d prefer to sail from this wilderness, embarking on something that floats on water. And the Prophet is sailing to Novigrad this very moment. And can take on passengers. Like you and your companion dwarf. Does that suit you?”

“Go on, Mr. Fysh. I’m all ears.”