Before entering the guardhouse, he prudently filled his lungs with fresh air. It didn’t help. The guardswomen must have eaten more beans than usual that day. Many, many more beans. Who knew, perhaps it was Sunday.

Some of them were eating, as usual. Others were busy playing dice. They stood up from the table upon seeing him. And surrounded him.

“The Witcher, just look,” said the commandant, standing very close. “ ’e’s up and come here.”

“I’m leaving the city. I’ve come to collect my property.”

“If we lets you.” Another guard prodded him with an elbow, apparently by accident. “What will ’e give us for it? You’ll have to buy yourself out, sonny, buy yourself out! Eh, lasses? What’ll we make him do?”

“Kiss all our bare arses!”

“With a lick! And a dick!”

“Nothing of the kind! He might infect us with something.”

“But he’ll ’ave to give some pleasure, won’t ’e?” Another one pushed her rock-hard bust onto him.

“He can sing us an air.” Another one farted thunderously. “And fit the tune to my pitch!”

“Or mine!” Yet another one farted even louder. “Mine’s more full-blooded!”

The other women laughed so much they clasped their sides.

Geralt made his way through, trying hard not to use excessive force. At that moment, the door to the deposit opened and an elderly gentleman in a grey mantle and beret appeared. The attendant, Gonschorek. On seeing the Witcher he opened his mouth wide.

“You, sir?” he mumbled. “How so? Your swords…”

“Indeed. My swords. May I have them?”

“But… But…” Gonschorek choked and clutched his chest, struggling to catch his breath. “But I don’t have the swords!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t have them…” Gonschorek’s face flushed. And contorted as though in a paroxysm of pain. “Them bin took—”

“What?” Geralt felt cold fury gripping him.

“Bin… took…”

“What do you mean, taken?” He grabbed the attendant by the lapels. “Taken by whom, dammit? What the bloody hell is this about?”

“The docket…”

“Exactly!” He felt an iron grip on his arm. The commandant of the guard shoved him away from the choking Gonschorek.

“Exactly! Show us the docket!”

The Witcher did not have the docket. The docket from the weapon store had been in his purse. The purse the court had confiscated. Against the costs and the expected punishments.

“The docket!”

“I don’t have it. But—”

“No docket, no deposit.” The commandant didn’t let him finish. “Swords bin took, didn’t you ’ear? You probably took ’em. And now you’re putting on this pantomime? Want to con something out of us? Nothing doing. Get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving until…”

The commandant, without loosening her grasp, dragged Geralt away and turned him around. To face the door.

“Fuck off.”