The crowd roared; the spectators were bellowing and leaping up and down. One of them leaned far over the balustrade to get a better view, resting on an iron bar holding a lantern. The bar broke and tumbled down with the lantern onto the arena. It stuck into the sand and the lantern struck the vigilosaur’s head, bursting into flames. The lizard threw it off, spraying a cascade of sparks around, and hissed, rubbing its head against the piles of the arena. Geralt saw his chance at once. He tore the bar out of the sand, took a short run-up and jumped, thrusting the spike hard into the lizard’s skull. It passed straight through. The vigilosaur struggled and, clumsily flapping its forepaws, fought to rid itself of the iron rod penetrating its brain. Hopping uncoordinatedly, it finally lurched into the posts and sank its teeth into the wood. It thrashed around convulsively for some time, churning the sand with its claws and lashing with its tail. Eventually it stopped moving.

The walls shook with cheers and applause.

Geralt climbed out of the arena up a rope ladder somebody had lowered. The excited spectators crowded around him. A man slapped him on his swollen shoulder, and Geralt barely refrained himself from punching him in the face. A young woman kissed him on the cheek. Another, even younger, wiped the blood from his back with a cambric handkerchief which she immediately unfolded and displayed triumphantly to her friends. Another, much older woman, took a necklace from her wrinkled neck and tried to give it to him. His expression sent her scuttling back into the crowd.

There was a reek of musk and the ogre-dwarf Mikita forced his way through the crowd, like a ship through seaweed. He shielded the Witcher and led him out.

A physician was summoned, who dressed Geralt and stitched up his wounds. Dandelion was very pale. Pyral Pratt was calm. As though nothing had happened. But the Witcher’s face must have spoken volumes, as he hurried to explain.

“Incidentally, that bar, previously filed through and sharpened, ended up in the arena on my orders.”

“Thanks for hurrying it up.”

“My guests were in seventh heaven. Even Mayor Coppenrath was so pleased he was beaming, and it’s hard to satisfy that whoreson. He sniffs at everything, gloomy as a brothel on a Monday morning. I have the position of councillor in my pocket, ha. And maybe I’ll rise higher, if… Would you perform in a week, Geralt? With a similar show?”

“Only if you’re in the arena instead of a vigilosaur, Pratt.” The Witcher wriggled his sore shoulder furiously.

“That’s good, ha, ha. Hear what a jester he is, Dandelion?”