The Witcher covered a distance of from seven to ten miles over the course of a day. Depending on the region, that meant visiting anything from a handful to more than a dozen homesteads and then reaching an agreed-upon location, from where one of the sorcerers would teleport him back to the castle before sundown. The pattern was repeated the following day, when another region of the Hills was patrolled. Geralt chose the regions at random, wary of routines and patterns that might easily be decoded. Despite that, the task turned out to be quite monotonous. The Witcher, however, wasn’t bothered by monotony, he was accustomed to it in his profession: in most cases, only patience, perseverance and determination guaranteed a successful kill. Actually, never before—and this was pertinent—had anyone ever been willing to pay for his patience, perseverance and determination as generously as the sorcerers of Rissberg. So he couldn’t complain, he just had to do his job.

Without believing overly in the success of the enterprise.

* * *

“You presented me to Ortolan and all the high-ranking mages immediately after my arrival at Rissberg,” he pointed out to the sorcerers. “Even if one assumes that the person guilty of the goetia and the massacres wasn’t among them, news of a witcher at the castle must have spread. Your wrongdoer, assuming he exists, will understand in no time what’s afoot, so will go into hiding and abandon his activities. Entirely. Or will wait until I leave and then begin again.”

“We can stage your departure,” replied Pinety. “And your continued stay at the castle will be a secret. Fear not, magic exists to guarantee the confidentiality of what must remain a secret. Believe us, we can work that kind of magic.”

“So you believe my daily patrols make sense?”

“They do. Do your job, Witcher. And don’t worry about the rest.”

Geralt solemnly promised not to worry. Although he had his doubts. And didn’t entirely trust the sorcerers. He had his suspicions.

But had no intention of divulging them.

* * *

Axes banged and saws rasped briskly in Pointer’s Clearing, and there was a smell of fresh timber and resin. The relentless felling of the forest was being carried out by the woodcutter Pointer and his large family. The older members of the family chopped and sawed, the younger ones stripped the branches from the trunks and the youngest carried brushwood. Pointer saw Geralt, sank his axe into a trunk and wiped his forehead.

“Greetings.” The Witcher rode closer. “How are things? Everything in order?”

Pointer looked at him long and sombrely.

“Things are bad,” he said at last.

“Why?”

Pointer said nothing for a long time.

“Someone stole a saw,” he finally snarled. “Stole a saw! How can it be, eh? Why do you patrol the clearings, sire, eh? And Torquil roams the forests with his men, eh? Guarding us, are you? And saws going missing!”