“No foolishness!” The rider withdrew his hand. “And don’t be hasty. We be legal and lawful. We ain’t no cutpurses. We’re on the orders of the prince.”

“What prince?”

“You’ll find out. Follow us.”

They set off. Geralt recalled Pratt had claimed some sort of prince was staying in Ravelin, incognito. Things were not looking good. Contacts with princes were rarely pleasant. And almost never ended well.

They didn’t go far. Only to a tavern at a crossroads smelling of smoke, with lights twinkling. They entered the main chamber, which was almost empty, not counting a few merchants eating a late supper. The entrance to the private chambers was guarded by two armed men wearing blue cloaks, identical in colour and cut to the ones Geralt’s escort were wearing. They went in.

“Your Princely Grace—”

“Get out. And you sit down, Witcher.”

The man sitting at the table wore a cloak similar to that of his men, but more richly embroidered. His face was obscured by a hood. There was no need. The cresset on the table only illuminated Geralt; the mysterious prince was hidden in the shadows.

“I saw you in Pratt’s arena,” he said. “An impressive display indeed. That leap and blow from above, augmented by your entire body weight… The weapon, although just a bar, passed through the dragon’s skull like a knife through butter. I think that had it been, let’s say, a bear spear or a pike it would have passed through a mail shirt, or even plate armour… What do you think?”

“It’s getting late. It’s hard to think when you’re feeling drowsy.”

The man in the shadows snorted.

“We shan’t dally then. And let’s get to the matter in hand. I need you. You, Witcher. To do a witcher’s job. And it somehow appears that you also need me. Perhaps even more.