“Our ship, as you see, isn’t any old tub, you have to pay to sail on her, and a pretty penny. Don’t interrupt. Would you be prepared to take us under the protection of your invisible swords? We can pay for your valuable witcher services, meaning escorting us and protecting us during the voyage from here to the Novigradian port, as payment for the trip. What price, I wonder, do you put on your witcher services?”

Geralt looked at him.

“Including the price of getting to the bottom of this?”

“What?”

“There are tricks and catches concealed in your proposition,” Geralt said calmly. “If I have to find them myself, I’ll put a higher price on it. It’ll be cheaper if you decide to be honest.”

“Your mistrust arouses suspicion,” Fysh replied coldly. “Since swindlers forever sniff out deviousness. As it’s said: a guilty conscience needs no accuser. We wish to hire you as an escort. It’s rather a simple task, free of complications. What tricks could be hidden in it?”

“This whole escorting business is a tall story,” Geralt said, without lowering his gaze. “Thought up on the spot and patently obvious.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It is. Because my lord the glove merchant let slip something about a rescue expedition, and you, Mr. Fysh, are rudely silencing him. In no time, your associate will spill the beans about the situation you have to be extracted from. So, if I’m to co-operate, please leave out the fabrication. What kind of expedition is it and to whose rescue is it hastening? Why so secretive? What trouble do you need to get out of?”

“We shall explain it.” Fysh forestalled van Vliet. “We shall explain everything, my dear witcher—”

“But on board,” croaked Captain Pudlorak, who had been silent up to then. “There’s no point dallying any longer on this jetty. We have a favourable wind. Let’s sail, gentlemen.”

* * *

Once it had the wind in its sails, the Prophet Lebioda sped swiftly across the widely spread waters of the bay, holding a course for the main channel, dodging between islets. The lines rattled, the boom groaned, and the ensign with a glove flapped briskly on the flagpole.

Kevenard van Vliet kept his promise. No sooner had the cutter pushed off from the jetty in Wiaterna than he called Geralt and Addario to the bow and set about explaining.

“The expedition undertaken by us,” he began, constantly glancing at a sullen Fysh, “is aimed at freeing a kidnapped child. Xymena de Sepulveda, the only daughter of Briana de Sepulveda. That name rings a bell with you, no doubt. Fur tanneries, soaking and stitching workshops, and furrieries. Huge annual production, immense sums of money. If you ever see a lady in a gorgeous and expensive fur, it’s sure to be from her factory.”

“And it’s her daughter that was abducted. For a ransom?”