He rode from the portal into a cul-de-sac ringed by a cloister. Two servants—boys in practical brown and grey attire—ran over to him at once. One attended to the horse and the other served as a guide.

“This way, sire.”

“Is it always like this here? Such a commotion? Down there in the suburbs?”

“No, sire.” The servant threw a frightened glance at him. “Nobbut on Wednesdays. Wednesday’s market day.”

On the arcaded finial of the next portal was a cartouche bearing another relief, undoubtedly also magical, depicting an amphisbaena’s maw. The portal was closed off by an ornate, solid-looking grille, which, however, opened easily and smoothly when the servant pushed against it.

The next courtyard was significantly larger. And the castle could only be properly admired from there. The view from a distance, it turned out, was very deceptive.

Rissberg was much larger than it appeared to be. A complex of severe and unsightly buildings—seldom encountered in castle architecture—extended deep into the mountain wall. The buildings looked like factories and probably were. For there were chimneys and ventilation pipes protruding from them. The smell of burning, sulphur and ammonia was in the air and the ground trembled slightly, proof that some kind of subterranean machinery was in operation.

A cough from the servant drew Geralt’s attention away from the industrial complex. For they were supposed to be going the other way, towards the lower of the two towers rising above the buildings with more classical architecture, befitting a palace. The interior also turned out to be typical of a palace: it smelled of dust, wood, wax and old junk. It was bright: magic balls veiled in haloes of light—the standard illumination of sorcerers’ dwelling places—floated beneath the ceiling, as languid as fish in an aquarium.

“Welcome, Witcher.”

The welcome party turned out to be two sorcerers. He knew them both, although not personally. Yennefer had once pointed out Harlan Tzara to him, and Geralt remembered him because he was probably the only mage to cultivate a completely shaven head. He remembered the other, Algernon Guincamp, called Pinety, from the academy in Oxenfurt.

“Welcome to Rissberg,” Pinety greeted him. “We’re glad you agreed to come.”

“Are you mocking me? I’m not here of my own will. In order to force me to come, Lytta Neyd shoved me in the clink—”

“But, she extracted you later,” interrupted Tzara, “and rewarded you amply. She made good your discomfort with great, hmm, devotion. Word has it that you’ve been enjoying her… company for at least a week.”

Geralt fought the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. Pinety must have noticed it.