‘So you’re betting on the Reavers, Geralt?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’ The artistic guard, who had been silent up to then, spoke up. ‘A dragon is a magical creature and you can’t kill it any other way than with spells. If anybody can deal with it then it’s that sorceress who rode through yesterday.’

‘Who was that?’ Geralt cocked his head.

‘A sorceress,’ the guard repeated, ‘I told you.’

‘Did she give her name?’

‘She did, but I’ve forgotten it. She had a safe-conduct. She was young, comely, in her own way, but those eyes… You know how it is, sire. You come over all cold when they look at you.’

‘Know anything about this, Dandelion? Who could it be?’

‘No,’ the bard grimaced. ‘Young, comely and “those eyes”. Some help that is. They’re all like that. Not one of them that I know–and I know plenty–looks older than twenty-five, thirty; though some of them, I’ve heard, can recall the times when the forest soughed as far as where Novigrad stands today. Anyway, what are elixirs and mandrake for? And they also sprinkle mandrake in their eyes to make them shine. As women will.’

‘Was her hair red?’ the Witcher asked.

‘No, sire,’ the decurion said. ‘Coal-black.’

‘And her horse, what colour was it? Chestnut with a white star?’

‘No. Black, like her hair. Well, gentlemen, I’m telling you, she’ll kill the dragon. A dragon’s a job for a sorcerer. Human strength isn’t enough against it.’

‘I wonder what the cobbler Sheepbagger would have to say about that,’ Dandelion laughed. ‘If he’d had something stronger to hand than hellebore and deadly nightshade the dragon’s skin would be drying on the Barefield stockade, the ballad would be ready, and I wouldn’t be fading in this sun…’

‘Why exactly didn’t Niedamir take you with him?’ Geralt asked, looking askance at the poet. ‘You were in Barefield when he set off, after all. Could it be that the king doesn’t like artists? How come you’re fading here, instead of strumming an air by the royal stirrups?’

‘The cause was a certain young widow,’ Dandelion said dejectedly. ‘The hell with it. I tarried, and the next day Niedamir and the others were already over the river. They even took that Sheepbagger with them and some scouts from the Barefield constabulary; they just forgot about me. I’ve explained it to the decurion, but he keeps repeating—’

‘If there’s a safe-conduct, I let you through,’ the halberdier said dispassionately, relieving himself on the wall of the toll collector’s cottage. ‘If there isn’t, I don’t let you through. I’ve got me orders—’

‘Oh,’ Three Jackdaws interrupted him, ‘the girls are returning with the beer.’

‘And they aren’t alone,’ Dandelion added, standing up. ‘Look at that horse. Big as a dragon.’

The Zerrikanians galloped up from the birch wood, flanking a rider sitting on a large, restless warhorse.

The Witcher also stood up.

The rider was wearing a long, purple, velvet kaftan with silver braid and a short coat trimmed with sable fur. Sitting erect in the saddle, he looked imperiously down at them. Geralt knew that kind of look. And was not fond of it.