“It rarely happens for two therianthropes to form a couple,” said Geralt, shaking his head. “It’s even more seldom for children to be born to such couples. You’re a lucky man, Dussart.”

“If only you knew,” grinned the werewolf. “My children are as pretty as a picture, they’re growing up into beautiful maidens. And Edwina and I were made for each other. I wish to be with her to the end of my days.”

“She knew me as a witcher at once. And was prepared to defend herself. She meant to throw boiling borscht over me, would you believe? She must also have heard her fill of werewolf tales about bloodthirsty witchers relishing torture.”

“Forgive her, Master Geralt. And we shall soon savour that borscht. Edwina makes delicious borscht.”

“It might be better if I don’t impose,” said the Witcher, shaking his head. “I don’t want to scare the children, much less worry your wife. To her I’m still a brigand with a sword, it’d be hard to expect her to take to me at once. She said I reek of blood. Metaphorically, I understand.”

“Not really. No offence, Master Witcher, but you stink to high heaven of it.”

“I haven’t had any contact with blood for—”

“—for about two weeks, I’d say.” The werewolf finished his sentence. “It’s clotted blood, dead blood, you touched someone who was bleeding. There’s also earlier blood, over a month old. Cold blood. Reptile blood. You’ve also bled. Living blood, from a wound.”

“I’m full of admiration.”

“Us werewolves,” said Dussart, standing up proudly, “have a slightly more sensitive sense of smell than you humans.”

“I know,” smiled Geralt. “I know that the werewolf sense of smell is a veritable wonder of nature. Which is why I’ve come to ask you for a favour.”

* * *

“Shrews,” said Dussart, sniffing. “Shrews. And voles. Lots of voles. Dung. Lots of dung. Mainly marten. And weasel. Nothing else.”

The Witcher sighed and then spat. He didn’t conceal his disappointment. It was the fourth cave where Dussart hadn’t smelt anything apart from rodents and the predators that hunted them. And an abundance of both the former and latter’s dung.

They moved on to the next opening gaping in the rock wall. Pebbles shifted under their feet and rolled down the scree. It was steep, they proceeded with difficulty and Geralt was beginning to feel weary. Dussart either turned into a wolf or remained in human form depending on the terrain.

“A she-bear,” he said, looking into the next cave and sniffing. “With young. She was there but she’s not any more. There are marmots. Shrews. Bats. Lots of bats. Stoat. Marten. Wolverine. Lots of dung.”

The next cavern.

“A female polecat. She’s on heat. There’s also a wolverine… No, two. A pair of wolverines.