“Idarran of Ulivo,” Pinety said at last, surprisingly quietly and surprisingly hesitantly. “One of Alzur’s students. I never expected…”

“Where did you get it, Witcher?” Pockmarked Axel leaned across the table. “How did you come by it?”

“You ask as though you didn’t know,” retorted Geralt. “I dug it out of the carapace of a creature I killed. One that had murdered at least twenty people in the district. At least twenty—for I think it was many more. I think it had been killing for years.”

“Idarran…” muttered Tarvix Sandoval. “And before him Malaspina and Alzur…”

“But it wasn’t us,” said Zangenis. “It wasn’t us. Not Rissberg.”

“Experimental model nine,” added Biruta Icarti pensively. “Beta version. Specimen twelve…”

“Specimen twelve,” Geralt chimed in, not without spitefulness. “And how many were there all together? How many were manufactured? I won’t be getting an answer to my question about responsibility, that’s clear, because it wasn’t you, it wasn’t Rissberg, you’re clean and you want me to believe that. But at least tell me, because you surely know how many of them there are wandering around in forests, murdering people. How many of them will have to be found? And hacked to death? I meant to say: eliminated.”

“What is it, what is it?” Ortolan suddenly became animated. “What do you have there? Show me! Ah…”

Sorel Degerlund leaned over towards the old man’s ear, and whispered for a long time. Myles Trethevey, showing him the plate, whispered from the other side. Ortolan tugged at his beard.

“Killed it?” he suddenly shouted in a high, thin voice. “The Witcher? Destroyed Idarran’s work of genius? Killed it? Unthinkingly destroyed it?”

The Witcher couldn’t control himself. He snorted. His respect for advanced age and grey hair suddenly abandoned him altogether. He snorted again. And then laughed. Heartily and relentlessly.

The stony faces of the sorcerers sitting at the table, rather than restraining him, made him even more amused. By the devil, he thought, I don’t remember when I last laughed so heartily. Probably in Kaer Morhen, he recalled, yes, in Kaer Morhen. When that rotten plank broke underneath Vesemir in the privy.

“He’s still laughing, the pup,” cried out Ortolan. “He’s neighing like an ass! Doltish whippersnapper! To think I came to your defence when others vilified you! So what if he has become enamoured of little Yennefer? I said. And what if little Yennefer dotes on him? The heart is no servant, I said, leave them both in peace!”

Geralt stopped laughing.