The thug in the sheepskin coat drew the axe from his belt, but didn’t get up from his knees, uncertain what to do. Geralt dispelled his doubts, smashing him over the back of the neck with the stave.

The fellows from the town guard came running along the street, jostling the gathering crowd of onlookers. Dandelion pacified them, citing his connections, frantically explaining who had been the assailant and who had acted in self-defence. The Witcher gestured the bard over.

“See that the bastards are tied up. Persuade your cousin the instigator to give them a hard time. They either had a hand in stealing the swords themselves or somebody hired them. They knew I was unarmed, which is why they dared to attack. Give the coopers back their stave.”

“I had to buy it,” admitted Dandelion. “And I think I did the right thing. You wield a mean plank, I can see. You should pack one all the time.”

“I’m going to the sorceress. To pay her a visit. Should I take the stave?”

“Something heavier would come in useful with a sorceress.” The bard grimaced. “A fence post, for example. A philosopher acquaintance of mine used to say: when visiting a woman, never forget to take a—”

“Dandelion.”

“Very well, very well, I’ll give you directions to the witch. But first, if I might advise…”

“Yes?”

“Visit a bathhouse. And a barber.”

Guard against disappointments, because appearances can deceive. Things that are really as they seem are rare. And a woman is never as she seems.

Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

CHAPTER FIVE

The water in the fountain swirled and boiled, spraying small golden drops around. Lytta Neyd, known as Coral, a sorceress, held out her hand and chanted a stabilising charm. The water became as smooth as though oil had been poured over it and pulsated with glimmers of light. The image, at first vague and nebulous, became sharper and stopped shimmering, and, although slightly distorted by the movement of the water, was distinct and clear. Coral leaned over. She saw the Spice Market, the city’s main street, in the water. And a white-haired man crossing it. The sorceress stared. Observed. Searched for clues. Some kind of details. Details that would enable her to make the appropriate evaluation. And allow her to predict what would happen.

Lytta had a tried and tested opinion, formed by years of experience, of what constituted a real man. She knew how to recognise a real man in a flock of more-or-less successful imitations. In order to do that she did not have to resort to physical contact, a method of testing manhood she considered like the majority of sorceresses, not just trivial, but also misleading and liable to lead one astray. Savouring them directly, as her attempts had proven, was perhaps some kind of indication of taste, but all too often left a bitter aftertaste. Indigestion. And heartburn. And even vomiting.