“Regarding creatures from behind closed doors,” Geralt continued, “creatures we are calling—for convenience—‘demons,’ you certainly know the same as we witchers do. Which we found out a long time ago, which is written about in witcher registers and chronicles. Demons will never, ever reveal any secrets or arcana to you. They will never let themselves be put to work. They let themselves be invoked and brought to our world for just one reason: they want to kill. Because they enjoy it. And you know that. But you allow them in.”

“Perhaps we’ll pass from theory to practice,” said Pinety after a very long silence. “I think something like that has also been written about in witcher registers and chronicles. And it is not moral treatises, but rather practical solutions we expect from you, Witcher.”

* * *

“Glad to have met you.” Frans Torquil shook Geralt’s hand. “And now to work, patrolling. To guard, to protect folk. That’s what we’re here for.”

“We are.”

Once in the saddle, the constable leaned over.

“I’ll bet,” he said softly, “that you’re most aware of what I’m about to tell you. But I’ll say it anyway. Beware, Witcher. Be heedful. You don’t want to talk, but I know what I know. The wizards sure as anything hired you to fix what they spoiled themselves, to clear up the mess they made. But if something doesn’t go right, they’ll be looking for a scapegoat. And you have all the makings of one.”

* * *

The sky over the forest began to darken. A sudden wind blew up in the branches of the trees. Distant thunder rumbled.

* * *

“If it’s not storms, it’s downpours,” said Frans Torquil when they next met. “There’s thunder and rain every other day. And the result is that when you go looking for tracks they’re all washed away by the rain. Convenient, isn’t it? As though it’s been ordered. It too stinks of sorcery—Rissberg sorcery, to be precise. It’s said that wizards can charm the weather. Raise up a magical wind, or enchant a natural one to blow whichever way they want. Chase away clouds, stir up rain or hail, and unleash a storm, too, as if on cue. When it suits them. In order, for example, to cover their tracks. What say you to that, Geralt?”

“Sorcerers, indeed, can do much,” he replied. “They’ve always controlled the weather, from the First Landing, when apparently only Jan Bekker’s spells averted disaster. But to blame mages for all adversities and disasters is probably an exaggeration. You’re talking about natural phenomena, after all, Frans. It’s simply that kind of season. A season of storms.”

* * *