“I did,” said the man in black, also drawing himself up to his full height, but having to lift his head up high to look Geralt in the face. “I’m Messer Luppi, physician to the bailiff in Gors Velen, specially sent for. An examination has confirmed that the wound is infected. The leg has to go, there’s no hope for it.”

“How much do you charge for this procedure?”

“Twenty crowns.”

“Here’s thirty,” said Geralt, digging three ten-crown coins from a pouch. “Take your instruments, pack up and return to the bailiff. Should he ask, say the patient is improving.”

“But… I must protest…”

“Get packed and return. Which of those words don’t you understand? And you, nana, to me. Unwind the bandage.”

“He forbade me from touching the patient,” she said, nodding at the court physician. “Says I’m a quack and a witch. Threatened to inform on me.”

“Ignore him. Indeed, he’s just leaving.”

The old woman, whom Geralt at once recognised as a herbalist, did as she was told. She unwound the bandage with great care, but it was enough to make Torquil shake his head, hiss and groan.

“Geralt…” he groaned. “What are you playing at? The physician said there’s no hope… Better to lose a leg than my life.”

“Bullshit. It’s not better at all. And now shut up.”

The wound looked hideous. But Geralt had seen worse.

He took a box from the pouch containing elixirs. Messer Luppi, now packed, looked on, shaking his head.

“Those decocts are fit for nothing,” he pronounced. “Those quack tricks and that bogus magic is fit for nothing. It’s nothing but charlatanism. As a physician, I must protest—”

Geralt turned around and stared. The physician exited. In a hurry. Tripping over the doorstop.

“Four men to me,” said the Witcher, uncorking a vial. “Hold him fast. Clench your teeth, Frans.”

The elixir foamed copiously as it was poured over the wound. The constable groaned heart-rendingly. Geralt waited a while and then poured on another elixir. That one also foamed, and hissed and smoked as well. Torquil screamed, tossed his head around, tensed up, rolled his eyes and fainted.

The old woman took a canteen from her bundle, scooped out a handful of green ointment, smeared it thickly on a piece of folded linen and applied it to the wound.

“Knitbone,” guessed Geralt. “A poultice of knitbone, arnica and marigold. Good, Nana, very good. Goatweed and oak bark would also come in use—”

“ ’Ark at ’im,” interrupted the old woman, without raising her head from the constable’s leg. “Trying to teach me herbalism. I was healing people with herbs when you were still puking your porridge over your wet nurse, laddie. And you, lummoxes, away with you, for you’re blocking out the light. And you stink dreadfully. You ought to change your footwraps. From time to time. Out with you, hear me?”