‘As usual,’ he said, taking the pouch from the Alderman’s trembling hands, ‘I risk my neck for you for a paltry sum, and in the meantime you go after my things. You never change; a pox on the lot of you.’

‘Haven’t been touched,’ the butcher muttered, moving back. The men with the clubs had melted into the crowd long before. ‘Your things haven’t been touched, sir.’

‘That pleases me greatly,’ the white-haired man smiled. At the sight of the smile burgeoning on his pale face, like a wound bursting, the small crowd began to quickly disperse. ‘And for that reason, friend, you shall also remain untouched. Go in peace. But make haste.’

The spotty-faced man was also retreating. The spots on his white face were unpleasantly conspicuous.

‘Hey, stop there,’ the man in the dark brown tunic said to him. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’

‘What is that… sir?’

‘You drew a knife on me.’

The taller of the women suddenly swayed, legs planted widely apart, and twisted her hips. Her sabre, which no one saw her draw, hissed sharply through the air. The spotty-faced man’s head flew upwards in an arc and fell into the gaping opening to the dungeon. His body toppled stiffly and heavily, like a tree being felled, among the crushed bricks. The crowd let out a scream. The second woman, hand on her sword hilt, whirled around nimbly, protecting her partner’s back. Needlessly. The crowd, stumbling and falling over on the rubble, fled towards the town as fast as they could. The Alderman loped at the front with impressive strides, outdistancing the huge butcher by only a few yards.

‘An excellent stroke,’ the white-haired man commented coldly, shielding his eyes from the sun with a black-gloved hand. ‘An excellent stroke from a Zerrikanian sabre. I bow before the skill and beauty of the free warriors. I’m Geralt of Rivia.’

‘And I,’ the stranger in the dark brown tunic pointed at the faded coat of arms on the front of his garment, depicting three black birds sitting in a row in the centre of a uniformly gold field, ‘am Borch, also known as Three Jackdaws. And these are my girls, Téa and Véa. That’s what I call them, because you’ll twist your tongue on their right names. They are both, as you correctly surmised, Zerrikanian.’

‘Thanks to them, it appears, I still have my horse and belongings. I thank you, warriors. My thanks to you too, sir.’

‘Three Jackdaws. And you can drop the “sir”. Does anything detain you in this little town, Geralt of Rivia?’

‘Quite the opposite.’

‘Excellent. I have a proposal. Not far from here, at the crossroads on the road to the river port, is an inn. It’s called the Pensive Dragon. The vittals there have no equal in these parts. I’m heading there with food and lodging in mind. It would be my honour should you choose to keep me company.’

‘Borch.’ The white-haired man turned around from his horse and looked into the stranger’s bright eyes. ‘I wouldn’t want anything left unclear between us. I’m a witcher.’