“Actually no. You won’t believe it, but… A monster seized the little girl. A she-fox. I mean a shape-changer. A vixen.”

“You’re right,” said the Witcher coldly. “I won’t. She-foxes or vixens, or more precisely aguaras, only abduct elven children.”

“That’s right, that’s absolutely right,” snapped Fysh. “Because although it’s an unprecedented thing, the furriery in Novigrad is run by a non-human. The mother, Breainne Diarbhail ap Muigh, is a pure-blooded she-elf. The widow of Jacob de Sepulveda, whose entire estate she inherited. The family didn’t manage to nullify the will, or declare the mixed marriage invalid, even though it’s against custom and divine law—”

“Get to the point,” interrupted Geralt. “Get to the point, please. You claim that this furrier, a pure-blood she-elf, charged you with recovering her kidnapped daughter?”

“You having us on?” Fysh scowled. “Trying to catch us out? You know very well that if a she-fox kidnaps an elven child they never try to recover it. They give up on it and forget it. They accept that it was fated to happen—”

“At first, Briana de Sepulveda also pretended,” Kevenard van Vliet butted in. “She despaired, but in the elven fashion, secretly. Outside: inscrutable, dry eyes… Va’esse deireádh aep eigean, va’esse eigh faidh’ar, she repeated, which in their tongue comes out as—”

“—something ends, something begins.”

“Indeed. But it’s nothing but stupid elf talk, nothing is ending, what is there to end? And why should it? Briana has lived among humans for many years, observing our laws and customs, and is only a non-human by blood; in her heart, she’s almost a human being. Elven beliefs and superstitions are powerful, I agree, and perhaps Briana is just feigning her composure to other elves, but it’s clear she secretly misses her daughter. She’d give anything to get her only daughter back, she-fox or no she-fox… Indeed, Lord Witcher, she asked for nothing, she didn’t expect help. Despite that we determined to help her, unable to look on her despair. The entire merchants’ guild clubbed together and funded the expedition. I offered the Prophet and my own participation, as did the merchant Mr. Parlaghy, whom you’ll soon meet. But since we’re businessmen and not thrill-seekers, we turned for help to the honourable Javil Fysh, known to us as a shrewd fellow and resourceful, unafraid of risk, adept in exacting matters, famous for his knowledge and experience…”

“The honourable Fysh, famous for his experience—” Geralt glanced at him “—neglected to inform you that the rescue expedition is pointless and was doomed to failure from the start. I see two explanations. Firstly: the honourable Fysh has no idea what he’s landing you in. Secondly, and more likely: the honourable Fysh has received a payment, sizeable enough to lead you around the middle of nowhere and return empty-handed.”