‘What is he drivelling on about?’ Boholt asked, frowning.

‘I don’t know,’ Geralt said, adjusting his mare’s harness. ‘I didn’t understand a single word.’

‘Be quiet,’ Dandelion said, ‘I’m trying to remember it, perhaps I’ll be able to use it if I can get it to rhyme.’

‘The Holy Book says,’ Eyck said, now yelling loudly, ‘that the serpent, the foul dragon, with seven heads and ten horns, will come forth from the abyss! And on his back will sit a woman in purple and scarlet, and a golden goblet will be in her hand, and on her forehead will be written the sign of all and ultimate whoredom!’

‘I know her!’ Dandelion said, delighted. ‘It’s Cilia, the wife of the Alderman of Sommerhalder!’

‘Quieten down, poet, sir,’ Gyllenstiern said. ‘And you, O knight from Denesle, speak more plainly, if you would.’

‘One should act against evil, O King,’ Eyck called, ‘with a pure heart and conscience, with head raised! But who do we see here? Dwarves, who are pagans, are born in the darkness and bow down before dark forces! Blasphemous sorcerers, usurping divine laws, powers and privileges! A witcher, who is an odious aberration, an accursed, unnatural creature. Are you surprised that a punishment has befallen us? King Niedamir! We have reached the limits of possibility! Divine grace is being sorely tested. I call you, king, to purge the filth from our ranks, before—’

‘Not a word about me,’ Dandelion interjected woefully. ‘Not a mention of poets. And I try so hard.’

Geralt smiled at Yarpen Zigrin, who with slow movements was stroking the blade of his battle-axe, which was stuck into his belt. The dwarf, amused, grinned. Yennefer turned away ostentatiously, pretending that her skirt, torn up to her hip, distressed her more than Eyck’s words.

‘I think you were exaggerating a little, Sir Eyck,’ Dorregaray said sharply, ‘although no doubt for noble reasons. I regard the making known of your views about sorcerers, dwarves and witchers as quite unnecessary. Although, I think, we have all become accustomed to such opinions, it is neither polite, nor chivalrous, Sir Eyck. And it is utterly incomprehensible after you, and no one else, ran and used a magical, elven rope to save a witcher and a sorceress whose lives were in danger. I conclude from what you say that you should rather have been praying for them to fall.’

‘Dammit,’ Geralt whispered to Dandelion. ‘Did he throw us that rope? Eyck? Not Dorregaray?’

‘No,’ the bard muttered. ‘Eyck it was, indeed.’

Geralt shook his head in disbelief. Yennefer cursed under her breath and straightened up.

‘Sir Eyck,’ she said with a smile that anyone other than Geralt might have taken as pleasant and friendly. ‘Why was that? I’m blasphemous, but you save my life?’

‘You are a lady, Madam Yennefer,’ the knight bowed stiffly. ‘And your comely and honest face permits me to believe that you will one day renounce this accursed sorcery.’

Boholt snorted.

‘I thank you, sir knight,’ Yennefer said dryly, ‘and the Witcher Geralt also thanks you. Thank him, Geralt.’