“I heard,” confirmed the poet, looking at Geralt’s back and clenching his teeth. “But it wasn’t a joke, it was quite serious. I also, equally solemnly, declare that I shan’t be gracing your granddaughter’s nuptial ceremony with a performance. You can forget it after the way you’ve treated Geralt. And that applies to any other occasions, including christenings and funerals. Yours included.”

Pyral Pratt shot him a glance, and something lit up in his reptilian eyes.

“You aren’t showing me respect, singer,” he drawled. “You aren’t showing me respect again. You’re asking to be taught a lesson in this regard. One you won’t forget…”

Geralt went closer and stood in front of him. Mikita panted, raised a fist and there was a reek of musk. Pyral Pratt gestured him to calm down.

“You’re losing face, Pratt,” said the Witcher slowly. “You’ve done a deal, classically, according to rules and, no less important than them, customs. Your guests are satisfied with the spectacle; you’ve gained prestige and the prospect of a position on the town council. I’ve gained the necessary information. You scratch my back. Both parties are content, so now we should part without remorse or anger. Instead of that you’re resorting to threats. You’re losing face. Let’s go, Dandelion.”

Pyral Pratt blanched slightly. Then turned his back on them.

“I was planning to treat you to supper,” he tossed over his shoulder. “But it looks like you’re in a hurry. Farewell then. But think yourself lucky I’m letting you both leave Ravelin scot-free. I usually punish a lack of respect. But I’m not stopping you.”

“Quite right.”

Pratt turned around.

“What did you say?”

Geralt looked him in the eyes. “You aren’t especially clever, though you like to think otherwise. But you’re too clever to try to stop me.”

* * *

Scarcely had they passed the hillock and arrived at the first roadside poplars than Geralt reined in his horse and listened.

“They’re following us.”

“Dammit!” Dandelion’s teeth chattered. “Who? Pratt’s thugs?”

“It doesn’t matter who. Go on, ride as fast as you can to Kerack. Hide at your cousin’s. First thing tomorrow take that cheque to the bank. Then we’ll meet at The Crab and Garfish.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Geralt—”

“Be quiet and spur on your horse. Ride. Fly!”

Dandelion obeyed, leaned forward in the saddle and spurred his horse to a gallop. Geralt turned back, waiting calmly.

Riders emerged from the gloom. Six riders.

“The Witcher Geralt?”

“It is I.”

“You’re coming with us,” the nearest one croaked, reaching for Geralt’s horse. “But no foolishness, d’you hear?”

“Let go of my reins, or I’ll hurt you.”