“What about you? What part of the community do you belong to?”

“Those whom your love affair merely entertained, if you can imagine.” Lytta twisted her coral lips. “And occasionally amused. And occasionally supplied with true sporting thrills. I personally have to thank you for a significant influx of cash, Witcher. Bets were laid about how long you’d last with Yennefer—the stakes were high. My wager, as it turned out, was the most accurate. And I scooped up the pot.”

“In that case, it’d be better if I went. I oughtn’t to visit you, we oughtn’t to be seen together. People are liable to think we fixed the bet.”

“Does it bother you what they’re liable to think?”

“Not a lot. And I’m delighted with your win. I’d planned to refund you the five hundred crowns you put up as bail. But since you scooped up the pot betting on me, I no longer feel obliged. Let’s call it quits.”

“I hope the mention of refunding the bail doesn’t betray a plan to escape and flee? Without waiting for the court case?” An evil gleam appeared in Lytta Neyd’s green eyes. “No, no, you don’t have any such intention; you can’t have. You know, I’m sure, that it would send you back into the slammer. You do know that, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to prove to me you can do it.”

“I’d prefer not to have to. I mean that most sincerely.”

She placed her hand on her cleavage, with the clear intention of drawing his gaze there. He pretended not to notice and shifted his eyes towards Mozaïk again. Lytta cleared her throat.

“With regard to settling up or sharing out the winnings from the wager,” she said, “you’re actually right. You deserve it. I wouldn’t dare to offer you money… But what would you say to unlimited credit at the Natura Rerum? For the time of your stay here? Because of me, your last visit ended before it began, so now—”

“No thank you. I appreciate your willingness and good intentions. But no, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Why, you must be. I needlessly mentioned… sending you to the slammer. You provoked me. And beguiled me. Your eyes, those strange, mutated eyes, so apparently sincere, endlessly wander… and beguile. You aren’t sincere, not at all. I know, I know, that’s a compliment, coming from a sorceress. You were about to say so, weren’t you?”

“Touché.”

“And would you be capable of sincerity? If I demanded it of you?”

“If you were to ask for it.”

“Oh. Let it be. So, I ask you. Why Yennefer? Why her and no one else? Could you explain it? Name it?”

“If this is another wager—”

“It’s not. Why exactly Yennefer of Vengerberg?”