“Like hell there isn’t!” yelled the glove-maker. “That’s a good one! You got us into this mess, and now you’re playing the hero? I want to sail to Novigrad safe and sound. Someone must protect us, now that we’re in difficulties… When we’re in danger of—”

“We aren’t in any danger. Don’t fret like a woman. Go below decks like your companion Parlaghy. Drink some rum with him, then your courage will soon return.”

Kevenard van Vliet blushed, then blanched. Then met Geralt’s eyes.

“Enough fudging,” he said emphatically, but calmly. “Time to confess the truth. Master Witcher, we already have that young vixen. She’s in the afterpeak. Mr. Parlaghy’s guarding her.”

Geralt shook his head.

“That’s unbelievable. You snatched the furrier’s daughter from the aguara. Little Xymena?”

Fysh spat over the side. Van Vliet scratched the back of his head.

“It wasn’t what we planned,” he finally mumbled. “A different one mistakenly fell into our hands… A she-fox too, but a different one… And kidnapped by quite another vixen. Mr. Fysh bought her… from some soldiers who tricked the maid out of a she-fox. To begin with we thought it was Xymena, just transformed… But Xymena was seven years old and blonde, and this one’s almost twelve and dark-haired…”

“We took her, even though she was the wrong one,” Fysh forestalled the Witcher. “Why should elven spawn mature into an even worse monster? And in Novigrad we might be able to sell her to a menagerie; after all she’s a curiosity, a savage, a half she-fox, raised in the forest by a vixen… An animal park will surely shower us with coin…”

The Witcher turned his back on him.

“Captain, steer towards the bank!”

“Not so fast,” growled Fysh. “Hold your course, Pudlorak. You don’t give the commands here, Witcher.”

“I appeal to your good sense, Mr. van Vliet.” Geralt ignored him. “The girl should be freed immediately and set down on the bank. Otherwise you’re doomed. The aguara won’t abandon her child. And is already certainly following you. The only way to stop her is to give up the girl.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Fysh. “Don’t let him frighten you. We’re sailing on the river, on wide, deep water. What can some fox do to us?”

“And we have a witcher to protect us,” added Petru Cobbin derisively. “Armed with invisible swords! The celebrated Geralt of Rivia won’t take fright before any old she-fox!”

“I don’t know, myself,” the glove-maker mumbled, his eyes sweeping from Fysh to Geralt and Pudlorak. “Master Geralt? I’ll be generous with a reward in Novigrad, I’ll repay you handsomely for your exertions… If you’ll only protect us.”

“I’ll protect you by all means. In the only way possible. Captain, to the bank.”