“He was once a priest,” the poet muttered back. “But don’t worry, he never assumed much of a priestly manner. His subordinates have to address him somehow, and he can’t bear to be called ‘boss.’ We don’t have to use his title.”

When they entered, their way was immediately barred by something. That something was as big as a mountain and smelled strongly of musk.

“Wotcha, Mikita,” Dandelion greeted the mountain.

The giant addressed as Mikita, clearly the bodyguard of His Excellency the boss, was a half-breed, the result of a cross between an ogre and a dwarf. The result was a bald dwarf with a height of well over seven feet, quite without a neck, sporting a curly beard, with teeth protruding like a wild boar’s and arms reaching down to his knees. It was rare to see such a cross: the two species, as could be observed, were quite at variance genetically; something like Mikita couldn’t have arisen naturally. It couldn’t have happened without the help of extremely powerful magic. Forbidden magic, incidentally. Rumour had it that plenty of sorcerers ignored the ban. Proof of those rumours’ veracity was standing before Geralt.

They sat down on two wicker chairs, in accordance with the prevailing protocol. Geralt looked around. Two scantily dressed young women were pleasuring each other on a large chaise longue in the furthest corner of the chamber. Watching them, while feeding a dog at the same time, was a small, inconspicuous, hunched and unremarkable man in a loose, flowery embroidered robe and a fez with a tassel. Having fed the dog the last piece of lobster, the man wiped his hands and turned around.

“Greetings, Dandelion,” he said, sitting down in front of them on something deceptively similar to a throne, though it was made of wicker. “Good day, Master Geralt of Rivia.”

His Excellency, Pyral Pratt, considered—not without reason—the head of organised crime in the entire region, looked like a retired silk merchant. He wouldn’t have looked out of place at a retired silk merchants’ picnic and wouldn’t have been singled out as an imposter. At least not from a distance. A closer look would have revealed in Pyral Pratt what other silk merchants didn’t have. An old, faded scar on his cheekbone: a mark left by a knife. The ugly and ominous grimace of his thin mouth. A pair of bright, yellowish eyes, as unmoving as a python’s.

No one broke the silence for a long time. Music drifted in from somewhere outside, and a hubbub could be heard.

“I’m very pleased to see you and greet you both,” Pyral Pratt said finally. An old and unquenched love for cheap, crudely distilled alcohol could clearly be heard in his voice.