‘It looks like that’s all Lord Gyllenstiern knows,’ Geralt said, ‘because he said the same to us and all we did was nod too.’

‘And I reckon,’ the second Reaver said, spreading a blanket over a pile of brushwood, ‘it was a bad thing Niedamir didn’t chase you away. Doesn’t bear thinking how many people are after this dragon. Swarms of them. It’s not a hunting expedition no more, it’s a funeral procession. I need elbow room when I’m fighting.’

‘Come off it, Gar,’ Boholt said, ‘the more the merrier. What, never hunted a dragon before? There’s always a swarm of people behind a dragon, a noisy rabble, a veritable bordello on wheels. But when the reptile shows up, guess who’s left standing in the field. Us, that’s who.’

Boholt was silent for a moment, took a long draw from a large, wicker-bound demijohn, blew his nose loudly and coughed.

‘Another thing,’ he continued. ‘In practice it’s often only after the dragon’s been killed that the merrymaking and bloodletting begins and the heads start rolling. It’s only when the treasure’s being shared out that the hunters go for each others’ throats. Right, Geralt? Oi? Am I right? Witcher, I’m talking to you.’

‘I’m aware of cases like that,’ Geralt concurred dryly.

‘Aware, you say. No doubt from hearsay, because I can’t say I’ve ever heard of you stalking a dragon. Never in all my born days have I heard of a witcher hunting dragons. Which makes it all the stranger you’re here.’

‘True,’ drawled Kennet, also known as Beanpole, the youngest Reaver. ‘That’s strange. And we—’

‘Wait, Beanpole, I’m talking,’ Boholt cut in, ‘and besides, I don’t plan to talk for too long. Anyway, the Witcher knows what I’m on about. I know him and he knows me, and up to now we haven’t got in each other’s way and we probably never will. See, lads, if I wanted to disrupt the Witcher’s work or snatch the loot from under his nose, the Witcher would waste no time slashing me with that witcher razor of his, and he’d be within his rights. Agreed?’

No one seconded or challenged this. There was nothing to suggest that Boholt cared either way.

‘Aye,’ he continued, ‘the more the merrier, as I said. And the Witcher may prove useful to the company. It’s wild and deserted round here, and should a frightener, or ilyocoris, or a striga, jump out at us, there might be trouble. But if Geralt’s standing by there won’t be any trouble, because that’s his speciality. But dragons aren’t his speciality. Right?’

Once more no one seconded or challenged this.

‘Lord Three Jackdaws is with Geralt,’ continued Boholt, handing the demijohn to Yarpen, ‘and that’s enough of a guarantee for me. So who’s bothering you, Gar, Beanpole? Can’t be Dandelion, can it?’

‘Dandelion,’ Yarpen Zigrin said, passing the demijohn to the bard, ‘always tags along whenever something interesting’s happening and everybody knows he doesn’t interfere, doesn’t help and won’t slow the march down. Bit like a burr on a dog’s tail. Right, boys?’