The Witcher said nothing.

‘Yes, as I said,’ Tellico continued calmly. ‘I’m going. And you, Geralt, will not even try to stop me. Because I, Geralt, knew your thoughts for a moment. Including the ones you don’t want to admit to, the ones you even hide from yourself. Because to stop me you’d have to kill me. And the thought of killing me in cold blood fills you with disgust. Doesn’t it?’

The Witcher said nothing.

Tellico adjusted the strap of the lute again, turned away and walked towards the exit. He walked confidently, but Geralt saw him hunch his neck and shoulders in expectation of the whistle of a sword blade. He put his sword in its scabbard. The doppler stopped in mid-step, and looked around.

‘Farewell, Geralt,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Farewell, Dudu,’ the Witcher replied. ‘Good luck.’

The doppler turned away and headed towards the crowded bazaar, with Dandelion’s sprightly, cheerful, swinging gait. Like Dandelion, he swung his left arm vigorously and just like Dandelion he grinned at the wenches as he passed them. Geralt set off slowly after him. Slowly.

Tellico seized his lute in full stride; after slowing his pace he played two chords, and then dextrously played a tune Geralt knew. Turning away slightly, he sang.

Exactly like Dandelion.

Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall

Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun

It must be thus, for fire still smoulders in us all

An eternal fire, hope for each one.

‘Pass that on to Dandelion, if you remember,’ he called, ‘and tell him that Winter is a lousy title. The ballad should be called The Eternal Fire. Farewell, Witcher!’

‘Hey!’ suddenly resounded. ‘You, pheasant!’

Tellico turned around in astonishment. From behind a stall emerged Vespula, her breast heaving violently, raking him up with a foreboding gaze.

‘Eyeing up tarts, you cad?’ she hissed, breast heaving more and more enticingly. ‘Singing your little songs, are you, you knave?’

Tellico took off his bonnet and bowed, broadly smiling Dandelion’s characteristic smile.

‘Vespula, my dear,’ he said ingratiatingly, ‘how glad I am to see you. Forgive me, my sweet. I owe you—’

‘Oh, you do, you do,’ Vespula interrupted loudly. ‘And what you owe me you will now pay me! Take that!’

An enormous copper frying pan flashed in the sun and with a deep, loud clang smacked into the doppler’s head. Tellico staggered and fell with an indescribably stupid expression frozen on his face, arms spread out, and his physiognomy suddenly began to change, melt and lose its similarity to anything at all. Seeing it, the Witcher leaped towards him, in full flight snatching a large kilim from a stall. Having unfurled the kilim on the ground, he sent the doppler onto it with two kicks and rolled it up in it quickly but tightly.

Sitting down on the bundle, he wiped his forehead with a sleeve. Vespula, gripping the frying pan, looked at him malevolently, and the crowd closed in all around.