“Come on,” Dandelion said irritably. “Our old friendship brought me here, along with a friend in need—”

“Business is business,” Pyral Pratt interrupted him. “I said, the information I possess has its price. If you want to find something out about the fate of your swords, Witcher from Rivia, you have to pay.”

“What’s the price on the tag?”

Pratt took out a large gold coin from under his robe and handed it to the ogre-dwarf, who without visible effort snapped it in his fingers, as though it were a biscuit. Geralt shook his head.

“A pantomime cliché,” he drawled. “You hand me half a coin and someone, someday, perhaps even in a few years, shows up with the other half. And demands that I fulfil his wish. Which I will have to fulfil unconditionally. Nothing doing. If that’s supposed to be the price, no deal. Causa finita. Let’s go, Dandelion.”

“Don’t you care about regaining your swords?”

“Not that much.”

“I suspected so. But it doesn’t harm to try. I’ll make another offer. This time one you won’t refuse.”

“Let’s go, Dandelion.”

“You can leave, but through another door.” Pratt indicated with his head. “That one. After first getting undressed. You leave in naught but your long johns.”

Geralt thought he was controlling his facial expression. He must have been mistaken, because the ogre-dwarf suddenly yelled in warning and moved towards him, raising a hand and stinking twice as much as before.

“This is some kind of joke,” Dandelion pronounced loudly, as usual bold and mouthy at the Witcher’s side. “You’re mocking us, Pyral. Which is why we will now say farewell and leave. And by the same door we came in through. Don’t forget who I am! I’m leaving!”

“I don’t think so.” Pyral Pratt shook his head. “You once proved you aren’t that clever. But you’re too clever to try to leave now.”

In order to emphasise the weight of his boss’s words, the ogre-dwarf brandished a clenched fist the size of a watermelon. Geralt said nothing. He’d been observing the giant for a long time, searching for a place sensitive to a kick. Because it looked like a kicking was inevitable.

“Very well.” Pratt appeased his bodyguard with a gesture. “I’ll yield a little, I’ll demonstrate goodwill and a desire for compromise. The entire local industrial and commercial elite, financiers, politicians, nobility, clergy, and even an incognito prince, are gathered here. I promised them a show the like of which they’ve never seen before, and they’ve certainly never seen a witcher in his smalls. But let it be, I’ll yield a tad: you’ll go out naked to the waist. In exchange, you’ll receive the promised information, right away. Furthermore, as a bonus…”

Pyral Pratt picked up a small sheet of paper from the table.