“The Prophet Lebioda, I tell you,” ranted one of them. “The legendary brig. That ghost ship that vanished without trace more than a hundred years back with all hands. And would later appear on the river when misfortune was in the air. Manned by a ghostly crew; many saw it. People said it would continue to appear as a spectre until the wreck was found. Well, and they finally found it.”

“Where?”

“In Rivermouth, on an old river bed, in the mud, in the very heart of a bog what they was drying out. It was all overgrown with weed. And moss. After they’d scraped off the weed and moss they found the inscription. The Prophet Lebioda.”

“And treasure? Did they find any treasure? There was meant to be treasure there, in the hold. Did they find any?”

“No one knows. The priests, they say, confiscated the wreck. Calling it a holy relic.”

“What nonsense,” hiccupped another regular. “Believing in them childish tales. They found some old tub, and then at once: ghost ship, treasure, relics. I tell you, all that’s bullshit, trashy writing, foolish rumours, old wives’ tales. I say, you there! Wench! Who be you? Whose are you?”

“My own.” Nimue had a ready answer by then.

“Brush your hair aside and show us your ear! For you look like elven spawn. And we don’t want elven half-breeds here!”

“Let me be, for I don’t incommode you. And I’ll soon be setting off.”

“Ha! And whither do you go?”

“To Dorian.” Nimue had also learned to always give as her destination only the next stage, in order never, ever, to reveal the final objective of her trek, because that only caused great merriment.

“Ho-ho! You’ve a long road ahead of you.”

“Hence, I am about to go. And I’ll just tell you, noble gentlemen, that the Prophet Lebioda wasn’t carrying any treasure, the legend doesn’t say anything about that. The ship vanished and became a ghost because she was cursed and her skipper hadn’t acted on good advice. The witcher who was there advised them to turn the ship around, not to venture into an offshoot of the river until he’d removed the curse. I read about that—”

“Still wet behind the ears and such a clever clogs?” pronounced the first regular. “You should be sweeping floors, wench, minding pots and laundering smalls, simple as that. Says she can read—whatever next?”

“A witcher!” snorted a third. “Tall tales, naught but tall tales!”

“If you’re such a know-it-all you must have heard of our Magpie Forest,” interjected another. “What, you haven’t? Then we’ll tell you: something evil lurks there. But it awakes every few years, and then woe betide anyone who wanders through the forest. And your route, if you’re truly headed for Dorian, passes right through Magpie Forest.”