“News has reached me, m’lord poet,” she says, “about the unfortunate accident that befell your comrade, the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. I know he has lost his weapons and is in urgent need of new ones. I am also aware that a good sword is hard to find. It so happens that I possess one. Left by my deceased husband, may the Gods have mercy upon his soul. At this very moment, I’ve come to the bank to sell the sword; for what could a widow want with a sword? The bank has valued it and wants to take it on a commission basis. While I, nonetheless, am in urgent need of ready coin, for I needs must pay the debts of the deceased, otherwise my creditors will torment me. Thus…”

Upon which the lady picks up a roll of damask and unwraps a sword from it. A marvel, let me tell you. Light as a feather. The scabbard tasteful and elegant, the hilt of lizard’s skin, the cross guard gilt, with a jasper the size of a pigeon’s egg in the pommel. I draw it and can’t believe my eyes. A punch in the shape of the sun on the blade, just above the cross guard. And just beyond it the inscription: Draw me not without reason; sheath me not without honour. Meaning the blade was wrought in the Nilfgaardian city of Viroleda, a place famous throughout the world for its armourers’ forges. I touch the blade with the tip of my thumb—razor-sharp, I swear.

Since I’m nobody’s fool, I betray nothing, I look on indifferently as the bank clerks bustle around and some poor old woman polishes the brass doorknobs.

“The Giancardis’ bank,” quoth the little widow, “valued the sword at two hundred crowns. For official sale. But for cash in hand I’ll part with it for a hundred and fifty.”

“Ho, ho,” I reply. “A hundred and fifty is a deal of money. You can buy a house for that. A small one. In the suburbs.”

“Oh, Lord Dandelion.” The woman wrings her hands, shedding a tear. “You’re mocking me. You are a cruel fellow, sir, to take advantage of a widow so. Since I am trapped, so be it: a hundred.”

And thus, my dears, I solved the Witcher’s problem.

I scurry off to The Crab and Garfish, Geralt is already sitting there over his bacon and scrambled eggs, ha, no doubt there was white cheese and chives for breakfast at the red-headed witch’s. I stride up and—clang!—I slam the sword down on the table. Dumbfounding him. He drops his spoon, draws the weapon from the scabbard and examines it. His countenance stony. But I am accustomed to his mutant state and know that emotions have no effect on him. No matter how delighted or happy he might be, he doesn’t betray it.

“How much did you give for it?”