Addario Bach spat on his hands, hunched forward and pulled on the oars. The boat sped over the water.

“Where to?”

“To the broad water, beyond the shallows. The river’s there. I’m certain. We’ll join the shipping channel and come across a ship. And if not, we’ll row this boat all the way to Novigrad.”

“Pudlorak…?”

“He’ll cope. If it’s his destiny.”

Kevenard van Vliet wept. Addario rowed.

The sky had grown dark. They heard the distant rumble of thunder.

“A storm’s coming,” said the dwarf. “We’ll get bloody soaked.”

Geralt snorted. And then began to laugh. Heartily and sincerely. And infectiously. Because a moment later they were both laughing.

Addario rowed with powerful, even strokes. The boat skipped over the water like an arrow.

“You row as though you’ve been doing it all your life,” said Geralt, wiping his eyes, wet with tears. “I thought dwarves didn’t know how to sail or swim…”

“You’re succumbing to stereotypes.”

INTERLUDE

Four days later

The auction house of the brothers Borsody was located in a small square off the Main Street, which was indeed Novigrad’s main road, and connected the town square with the temple of Eternal Fire. At the beginning of the brothers’ career, when they traded horses and sheep, they had only been able to afford a shack beyond the town walls. Forty-two years after founding their auction house they now occupied an impressive, three-storey building in the most elegant quarter of the city. It had remained in the family’s possession, but the objects at auction were now exclusively precious stones, chiefly diamonds, and works of art, antiques and collectors’ items. The auctions took place once a quarter, always on a Friday.

That day the auction room was full to bursting. There are a good hundred people, thought Antea Derris.

The buzz and murmur quietened down. The auctioneer, Abner de Navarette, took his place behind the podium.

As usual, de Navarette looked splendid in a black velvet jerkin and waistcoat with golden brocade. Princes could have envied him his noble looks and physiognomy, and aristocrats his bearing and manners. It was an open secret that Abner de Navarette really was an aristocrat, banished from his family and disinherited for drunkenness, profligacy and debauchery. Had it not been for the Borsody family, Abner de Navarette would have lived by begging. But the Borsodys needed an auctioneer with aristocratic looks. And none of the other candidates could equal Abner de Navarette in that regard.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a voice as velvety as his jacket. “Welcome to the Borsodys’ Auction House for the quarterly auction of art treasures and antiques. The collection under the hammer today, which you became acquainted with in our gallery, is unique and comes entirely from private owners.