“Some people found you disgusting, but tolerated you out of necessity, as a lesser evil, as the killer of the monsters that threaten them,” he continued. “Some couldn’t bear you as a mutant, felt repulsion and abomination as though to an inhuman creature. Others were terribly afraid of you and hated themselves for their own fear. All that will sink into oblivion. The renown of an effective killer and the reputation of an evil sorcerer will evaporate like feathers in the wind, the disgust and fear will be forgotten. They will remember you only as an avaricious thief and charlatan. He who yesterday feared you and your spells, who looked away, who spat at the sight of you or reached for an amulet, will tomorrow guffaw and elbow his companion: ‘Look, here comes the Witcher Geralt, that lousy fraudster and swindler!’ If you don’t undertake the task I’m commissioning you with, I’ll destroy you, Witcher. I’ll ruin your reputation. Unless you serve me. Decide. Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Let it not seem to you that your connections—Ferrant de Lettenhove or your red-headed sorceress lover—will help you with anything. The instigator won’t risk his own career, and the Chapter will forbid the witch from getting involved in a criminal case. No one will help you when the judicial machine entangles you in its gears. I’ve commanded you to decide. Yes or no?”

“No. Definitively no, Your Highness. The man hidden in the bedchamber can come out now.”

The prince, to Geralt’s astonishment, snorted with laughter. And slapped a hand on the table. The door creaked and a figure emerged from the adjoining bedchamber. A familiar figure, in spite of the gloom.

“You’ve won the wager, Ferrant,” said the prince. “Report to my secretary tomorrow for your winnings.”

“Thank you, Your Princely Grace,” Ferrant de Lettenhove, the royal instigator, replied with a slight bow. “But I treated the wager purely in symbolic terms. To emphasise just how certain I was of being right. I was by no means concerned about the money—”

“The money you won,” the prince interrupted, “is also a symbol to me, just like the emblem of the Novigradian mint and the profile of the reigning monarch stamped on it. Know also, both of you, that I have also won. I have regained something I thought was irretrievably lost. Namely, faith in people. Geralt of Rivia, Ferrant was absolutely certain of your reaction. I, however, admit that I thought him naive. I was convinced you would yield.”

“Everybody’s won something,” Geralt stated sourly. “And I?”

“You too.” The prince became grave. “Tell him, Ferrant. Enlighten him as to what’s at stake here.”