“And what have you done, most stupid of assassins?” the old man yelled. “What did you do? Do you comprehend what a work of art, what a miracle of genetics you have ruined? No, no, you cannot conceive of that with your shallow mind, layman! You cannot comprehend the ideas of brilliant people! Such as Idarran and Alzur, his teacher, who were graced with genius and extraordinary talent! Who invented and created great works, meant to serve humanity, without taking profit, nor taking base mammon into account, not recreation nor diversion, but solely progress and the commonweal! But what can you apprehend of such things? You apprehend nothing, nothing, nothing, not a scrap!

“And indeed, I tell you further,” Ortolan panted, “that you have dishonoured the work of your own fathers with this imprudent murder. For it was Cosimo Malaspina, and after him his student Alzur, yes, Alzur, who created the witchers. They invented the mutation owing to which men like you were bred. Owing to which you exist, owing to which you walk upon this earth, ungrateful one. You ought to esteem Alzur, his successors and their works, and not destroy them! Oh dear… Oh dear…”

The old sorcerer suddenly fell silent, rolled his eyes and groaned heavily.

“I needs must to the stool,” he announced plaintively. “I needs must quickly to the stool! Sorel! My dear boy!”

Degerlund and Trethevey leaped up from their seats, helped the old man stand up and led him out of the chamber.

A short while after, Biruta Icarti stood up. She threw the Witcher a very expressive glance, then exited without a word. Sandoval and Zangenis headed out after her, not even looking at Geralt at all. Pockmarked Axel stood up and crossed his arms on his chest. He looked at Geralt for a long time. Lengthily and rather unpleasantly.

“It was a mistake to invite you,” he said finally. “I knew it. But I deluded myself in thinking you’d muster up even a semblance of good manners.”

“It was a mistake to accept your invitation,” Geralt replied coldly. “I also knew it. But I deluded myself in thinking I would receive answers to my questions. How many numbered masterpieces are still at large? How many similar masterworks did Malaspina, Alzur and Idarran manufacture? And the esteemed Ortolan? How many more monsters bearing your plates will I have to kill? I, a witcher, prophylactic agent and antidote? I didn’t receive an answer and I well apprehend why not. Regarding good manners, however: fuck off, Esparza.”

Esparza the Pockmarked slammed the door as he went out. So hard that plaster fell from the ceiling.