‘Greetings, master, greetings,’ Drouhard, dressed in his best clothes, leapt briskly over to them and pulled them towards the centre of the storeroom. ‘Greetings to you, too, Gerard, sir… I am honoured… Yes… Come here… Noble ladies, noble gentlemen! Here is our honoured guest, who gave us this honour and honoured us… Master Dandelion, the celebrated singer and poetast… poet, I mean, has honoured us with this great honour… Thus honoured, we…’

Cheers and applause resounded, and just in time, for it was looking as though Drouhard would honour and stammer himself to death. Dandelion, blushing with pride, assumed a superior air and bowed carelessly, then waved a hand at a row of girls sitting on a long bench, like hens on a roost, being chaperoned by older matrons. The girls were sitting stiffly, giving the impression they had been stuck to the bench with carpenter’s glue or some other powerful adhesive. Without exception they were holding their hands on tightly-clenched knees and their mouths were half-open.

‘And presently,’ Drouhard called. ‘Come forth, help yourself to beer, fellows, and to the vittles! Prithee, prithee! Avail yourselves…’

The girl in the blue dress forced her way through the crowd, which had crashed onto the food-laden tables like a sea wave.

‘Greetings, Dandelion,’ she said.

Geralt considered the expression ‘eyes like stars’ banal and hackneyed, particularly since he had begun travelling with Dandelion, as the troubadour was inclined to throw that compliment about freely, usually, indeed, undeservedly. However, with regard to Essi Daven, even somebody as little susceptible to poetry as the Witcher had to concede the aptness of her nickname. For in her agreeable and pretty, but otherwise unremarkable, little face shone a huge, beautiful, shining, dark blue eye, which riveted the gaze. Essi Daven’s other eye was largely covered and obscured by a golden curl, which fell onto her cheek. From time to time Essi flung the curl away with a toss of her head or a puff, at which point it turned out that Little Eye’s other little eye was in every way the equal of the first.

‘Greetings, Little Eye,’ Dandelion said, grimacing. ‘That was a pretty ballad you just sang. You’ve improved your repertoire considerably. I’ve always maintained that if one is incapable of writing poetry oneself one should borrow other people’s. Have you borrowed many of them?’

‘A few,’ Essi Daven retorted at once and smiled, revealing little white teeth. ‘Two or three. I wanted to use more, but it wasn’t possible. Dreadful gibberish, and the tunes, though pleasant and unpretentious in their simplicity–not to say primitivism–are not what my audiences expect. Have you written anything new, Dandelion? I don’t seem to be aware of it.’

‘Small wonder,’ the bard sighed. ‘I sing my ballads in places to which only the gifted and renowned are invited, and you don’t frequent such locations, after all.’

Essi blushed slightly and blew the lock of hair aside.

‘Very true,’ she said. ‘I don’t frequent bordellos, as the atmosphere depresses me. I sympathise with you that you have to sing in places like that. But well, that’s the way it is. If one has no talent, one can’t choose one’s audiences.’