‘No, Dandelion,’ he said. ‘I’m not angry with you.’

Dandelion did not believe him, which was quite apparent by the fact that he kept quiet. Dandelion was seldom quiet. He patted his horse’s neck, and fished around in his saddlebags for the umpteenth time. Geralt knew he would not find anything there they could sell. The smell of food, borne on a breeze from a nearby tavern, was becoming unbearable.

‘Master?’ somebody shouted. ‘Hey, master!’

‘Yes?’ Geralt said, turning around. A big-bellied, well-built man in felt boots and a heavy fur-lined, wolf-skin coat clambered out of a cart pulled by a pair of onagers which had just stopped alongside.

‘Erm… that is,’ the paunchy man said, embarrassed, walking over, ‘I didn’t mean you, sir, I meant… I meant Master Dandelion…’

‘It is I.’ The poet proudly sat up straight, adjusting his bonnet bearing an egret feather. ‘What is your need, my good man?’

‘Begging your pardon,’ the paunchy man said. ‘I am Teleri Drouhard, spice merchant and dean of our local Guild. My son, Gaspard, has just plighted his troth to Dalia, the daughter of Mestvin, the cog skipper.’

‘Ha,’ Dandelion said, maintaining a haughty air. ‘I offer my congratulations and extend my wishes of happiness to the betrothed couple. How may I be of help? Does it concern jus primae noctis? I never decline that.’

‘Hey? No… that is… You see, the betrothal banquet and ball are this evening. Since it got out that you, master, have come to Bremervoord, my wife won’t let up–just like a woman. Listen, she says, Teleri, we’ll show everybody we aren’t churls like them, that we stand for culture and art. That when we have a feast, it’s refined, and not an excuse to get pissed and throw up. I says to her, silly moo, but we’ve already hired one bard, won’t that suffice? And she says one is too few, ho-ho, Master Dandelion, well, I never, such a celebrity, that’ll be one in the eye for our neighbours. Master? Do us the honour… I’m prepared to give five-and-twenty talars, as a gesture, naturally–to show my support for the arts—’

‘Do my ears deceive me?’ Dandelion drawled. ‘I, I am to be the second bard? An appendix to some other musician? I? I have not sunk so low, my dear sir, as to accompany somebody!’

Drouhard blushed.

‘Forgive me, master,’ he gibbered. ‘That isn’t what I meant… It was my wife… Forgive me… Do us the honour…’

‘Dandelion,’ Geralt hissed softly, ‘don’t put on airs. We need those few pennies.’

‘Don’t try to teach me!’ the poet yelled. ‘Me, putting on airs? Me? Look at him! What should I say about you, who rejects a lucrative proposition every other day? You won’t kill hirikkas, because they’re an endangered species, or mecopterans, because they’re harmless, or night spirits, because they’re sweet, or dragons, because your code forbids it. I, just imagine it, also have my self-respect! I also have a code!’

‘Dandelion, please, do it for me. A little sacrifice, friend, nothing more. I swear, I won’t turn my nose up at the next job that comes along. Come on, Dandelion…’