“… as a bonus, two hundred Novigradian crowns. For the witcher’s pension fund. Here you are, a bearer cheque, on the Giancardis’ bank, to be cashed at any branch. What do you say to that?”

“Why do you ask?” Geralt squinted his eyes. “You made it clear, I understood, that I can’t refuse.”

“You understood right. I said it was an offer you can’t refuse. But mutually beneficial, methinks.”

“Take the cheque, Dandelion.” Geralt unbuttoned his jacket and took it off. “Speak, Pratt.”

“Don’t do it.” Dandelion blanched even more. “Unless you know what’s on the other side of the door?”

“Speak, Pratt.”

“As I mentioned.” His Excellency lounged on his throne. “I declined to purchase the swords from the broker. But because it was, as I’ve already said, a person who is well known to me and trusted, I suggested another, more profitable way of selling them. I advised that their present owner put them up for auction. At the Borsody brothers’ auction house in Novigrad. It’s the biggest and most renowned collectors’ fair. Lovers of rarities, antiques, recherché works of art, unique objects and all kinds of curiosities descend on it from all over the world. In order to come into possession of some kind of marvel for their collections, those cranks bid like madmen. Various exotic peculiarities often go for titanic sums at the Borsody brothers’. Nowhere else are things sold so dearly.”

“Speak, Pratt.” The Witcher took off his shirt. “I’m listening.”

“The auction at the Borsodys’ occurs once a quarter. The next one will be held in July, on the fifteenth. The thief will undoubtedly appear there with your swords. With a bit of luck, you’ll manage to get them off him before he puts them up for auction.”

“And is that all?”

“That’s plenty.”

“The identity of the thief? Or the broker—?”

“I don’t know the thief’s identity,” Pratt interjected. “And I won’t reveal the broker’s. This is business; laws, rules and—no less important than that—customs apply. I’d lose face. I revealed something to you, big enough for what I demand from you. Lead him out into the arena, Mikita. And you come with me, Dandelion, we can watch. What are you waiting for, Witcher?”

“I’m to go out without a weapon, I understand? Not just bare to the waist, but barehanded too?”

“I promised my guests something they’d never seen before,” explained Pratt, slowly, as though to a child. “They’ve seen a witcher with a weapon.”

“Of course.”

He found himself in an arena, on sand, in a circle marked out by posts sunk into the ground, flooded by the flickering light of numerous lanterns hung on iron bars. He could hear shouts, cheers, applause and whistles. He saw faces, open mouths and excited eyes above the arena.

Something moved opposite him, at the very edge of the arena. And jumped.