“I’m particularly glad to welcome you, singer.” His Excellency smiled at Dandelion. “We haven’t seen you since my granddaughter’s wedding, which you graced with a performance. And I was just thinking about you, because my next granddaughter is in a hurry to get married. I trust that this time you won’t refuse again, for old time’s sake. Well? Will you sing at the wedding? I won’t have to keep asking you like last time? I won’t be forced to… convince you?”

“I’ll sing, I’ll sing,” Dandelion, blanching slightly, hurried to assure him.

“And today you dropped in to ask about my health, I imagine?” continued Pratt. “Well, it’s shitty, this health of mine.”

Dandelion and Geralt made no comment. The ogre-dwarf reeked of musk. Pyral Pratt sighed heavily.

“I’ve gone down with stomach ulcers and food phobia,” he announced, “so the delights of the table aren’t for me now. I’ve been diagnosed with a sick liver and ordered not to drink. I’ve got a herniated disc, which affects in equal measure both my cervical and lumbar vertebrae and has ruled out hunting and other extreme sports from my pastimes. Medicaments and treatments eat up a great deal of my money, which I formerly used to spend on gambling. My john thomas, admittedly, let’s say, still rises but how much effort it takes to keep it up! The whole thing bores me before it gives me pleasure… So what’s left? Eh?”

“Politics?”

Pyral Pratt laughed so much the tassel on his fez shook.

“Well done, Dandelion. Apt, as ever. Politics, oh yes, that’s something for me now. At first I wasn’t favourably disposed to the matter. I thought rather to earn a living from harlotry and invest in bawdy houses. I moved among politicians and came to know countless of them. And became convinced it’d be better to give up on whores, for whores at least have their honour and some sort of principles. On the other hand, though, it’s better to govern from the town hall than from a brothel. And one would like to run, if not the country, as they say, then at least the county. The old adage goes, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em…”

He broke off and glanced at the chaise longue, craning his neck.

“Don’t sham, girls!” he yelled. “Don’t put it on! More gusto! Hmm… Where was I?”

“Politics.”

“Ah yes. But leaving politics aside, you, Witcher, have had your famous swords stolen. Isn’t it owing to that matter that I have the honour of welcoming you?”

“For that matter, indeed.”