Four priestesses occupied one of the shorter benches. They were wandering healers, which could easily be seen by the grey gowns and tight hoods covering their hair. The meal they were consuming was—Geralt noticed—more than modest, something like pearl barley without even meat dripping. Priestesses never demanded payment for healing, they treated everyone for nothing and custom dictated that in return for that they be given board and lodging on request. The innkeeper at The Wild Boar and Stag was evidently familiar with the custom, but was clearly rather observing the letter than the spirit of it.

Three local men were lounging on the next bench beneath a stag’s antlers, busy with a bottle of rye vodka, clearly not their first. Since they had tolerably satisfied their evening’s requirements, they were looking around for entertainment. They found it swiftly, of course. The priestesses were out of luck. Although they were probably accustomed to such things.

There was a single customer at the table in the corner. Shrouded, like the table, in shadow. The customer, Geralt noticed, was neither eating nor drinking. He sat motionless, leaning back against the wall.

The three locals weren’t letting up, their taunts and jests directed at the priestesses becoming more and more vulgar and obscene. The priestesses kept stoically calm and didn’t pay any attention at all. The fury of the locals was increasing in inverse relation to the level of the rye vodka in the bottle. Geralt began to work more quickly with his spoon. He had decided to give the boozers a hiding and didn’t want his kasha to go cold because of it.

“The Witcher Geralt of Rivia.”

A flame suddenly flared up in the gloomy corner.

The lone man sitting at the table raised a hand. Flickering tongues of flame were shooting from his fingers. The man brought his hand closer to a candlestick on the table and lit all three candles one after the other. He let them illuminate him well.

His hair was as grey as ash with snow-white streaks at the temples. A deathly pale face. A hooked nose. And yellow-green eyes with vertical pupils.

The silver medallion around his neck that he had pulled out from his shirt flashed in the candlelight.

The head of a cat baring its fangs.

“The Witcher Geralt of Rivia,” repeated the man in the silence that had fallen in the inn. “Travelling to Vizima, I presume? For the reward promised by King Foltest? Of two thousand orens? Do I guess right?”

Geralt did not reply. He didn’t even twitch.

“I won’t ask if you know who I am. Because you probably do.”

“Few of you remain,” replied Geralt calmly. “Which makes things easier. You’re Brehen. Also known as the Cat of Iello.”