Lytta was able to recognise a real man even at a distance, on the basis of trifling and apparently insignificant criteria. A real man, the sorceress knew from experience, is an enthusiastic angler, but only using a fly. He collects military figures, erotic prints and models of sailing ships he builds himself, including the kind in bottles, and there is never a shortage of empty bottles of expensive alcoholic drinks in his home. He is an excellent cook, able to conjure up veritable culinary masterpieces. And well—when all’s said and done—the very sight of him is enough to make one desirous.

The Witcher Geralt, about whom the sorceress had heard a great deal, about whom she had acquired much information, and whom she was right then observing in the fountain, met but one of the above conditions, it appeared.

“Mozaïk!”

“Yes, madam.”

“We’re going to have a guest. Everything is to be suitably prepared and elegant. But first bring me a gown.”

“The tea rose? Or the aquamarine?”

“The white one. He dresses in black, we’ll treat him to yin and yang. And sandals, select something matching, make sure they have at least four-inch heels. I can’t let him look down on me too much.”

“Madam… That white gown…”

“Yes?”

“It’s, well…”

“Modest? Without any ornamentation or furbelows? Oh, Mozaïk, Mozaïk. Will you ever learn?”

* * *

He was met in the doorway by a burly and pot-bellied bruiser with a broken nose and little piggy eyes, who searched Geralt from head to toe and then once again the other way. Then he stood back, giving a sign for the Witcher to pass.

A girl with smoothly combed—almost slicked-down—hair was waiting in the anteroom. She invited him in with a gesture, without uttering a single word.

He entered straight onto a patio dotted with flowers and a splashing fountain in the centre. In the middle of the fountain stood a small marble statue portraying a naked, dancing girl. Apart from the fact that it was sculpted by a master, the statue was conspicuous for another detail—it was attached to the plinth at a single point: the big toe of one foot. In no way, judged the Witcher, could the construction be stable without the help of magic.

“Geralt of Rivia. Welcome. Do come in.”

The sorceress Lytta Neyd was too sharp-featured to be considered classically beautiful. The warm peach shade of rouge on her cheekbones softened the sharpness but couldn’t hide it. Her lips—highlighted by coral-red lipstick—were so perfectly shaped as to be too perfect. But that wasn’t what mattered.