Mozaïk appeared like a wraith. With a fresh carafe. And biscuits. Geralt looked her in the eyes. She turned her head away at once.

“Why Yennefer?” he repeated, staring at Mozaïk. “Why her, precisely? I’ll answer frankly: I don’t know myself. There are certain women… One look is enough…”

Mozaïk opened her mouth and shook her head gently. In terror. She knew. And was begging him to stop. But he’d already gone too far into the game.

“Some women attract you like a magnet,” he said, his eyes continuing to wander over the girl’s figure. “You can’t take your eyes off them…”

“Leave us, Mozaïk.” The sound of pack ice grating against iron could be heard in Lytta’s voice. “And to you, Geralt of Rivia, my thanks. For the visit. For your patience. And for your sincerity.”

A witcher sword (fig. 40) distinguishes itself by being, as it were, an amalgam of other swords, the fifth essence of what is best in other weapons. The first-rate steel and manner of forging typical of dwarven foundries and smithies lend the blade lightness, but also extraordinary resilience. A witcher sword is also sharpened in the dwarven fashion, a secret fashion, may we add, and one that shall remain secret forever, for the mountain dwarves guard their arts jealously. For a sword whetted by dwarves can cut in two a silken scarf thrown into the air. We know from the accounts of eyewitnesses that witchers were able to accomplish the same trick with their swords.

Pandolfo Forteguerra, A Treatise on Edged Weapons

CHAPTER SIX

A fleeting morning rainstorm freshened the air for a short time, after which the stench of refuse, burnt fat and rotting fish borne on the breeze from Palmyra once again became noisome.

Dandelion put Geralt up at the inn. The room the bard was occupying was cosy. In the literal sense—they had to cosy up to pass each other. Fortunately, the bed was big enough for two and was serviceable, although it creaked dreadfully and the paillasse had been compacted by travelling merchants, well-known enthusiasts of ardent extramarital sex.

Geralt—God knew why—dreamed of Lytta Neyd during the night.

They went to break their fast at the nearby market hall, where the bard had previously discovered that excellent sardines were to be had. Dandelion was treating him. Which didn’t inconvenience Geralt. After all, it had quite often been the other way around, with Dandelion taking advantage of Geralt’s generosity when he was skint.

So they sat at a roughly planed table and got down to crisply fried sardines, brought to them on a wooden platter as large as a barrow wheel. Dandelion looked around fearfully from time to time, the Witcher observed. And froze when it seemed to him that some passer-by was scrutinising them too persistently.