‘And snails hatch from wet leaves,’ secretary Peregrib interjected, still busy piling up coins.

‘Everyone knows,’ Geralt concurred, smiling cheerfully. ‘There aren’t he-snails and she-snails. There are only leaves. And anyone who thinks differently is mistaken.’

‘Enough,’ the mayor interrupted, looking at him suspiciously. ‘I’ve heard enough about vermin. I asked whether anything might hatch from the muck heap, so be so gracious as to answer, clearly and concisely.’

‘In a month or so the midden ought to be inspected, ideally using dogs. Young zeugls aren’t dangerous.’

‘Couldn’t you do it, Witcher? We can come to agreement about payment.’

‘No,’ Geralt said, taking the money from Peregrib’s hands. ‘I have no intention of being stuck in your charming town for even a week, quite less a month.’

‘Fascinating, what you’re telling me.’ Herbolth smiled wryly, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Fascinating, indeed. Because I think you’ll be staying here longer.’

‘You think wrong, mayor.’

‘Really? You came here with that black-haired witch, what was it again, I forget… Guinevere, wasn’t it? You’ve taken lodgings with her at The Sturgeon. In a single chamber, they say.’

‘And what of it?’

‘Well, whenever she comes to Aedd Gynvael, she does not leave so quickly. It’s not the first time she’s been here.’

Peregrib smiled broadly, gap-toothed and meaningfully. Herbolth continued to look Geralt in the eye, without smiling. Geralt also smiled, as hideously as he could.

‘Actually, I don’t know anything,’ the mayor looked away and bored his heel into the ground. ‘And it interests me as much as dog’s filth. But the wizard Istredd is an important figure here, mark you. Indispensable to this municipality. Invaluable, I’d say. People hold him in high regard, locals and outsiders, too. We don’t stick our noses in his sorcery and especially not in his other matters.’

‘Wisely, perhaps,’ the Witcher agreed. ‘And where does he live, if I may ask?’

‘You don’t know? Oh, it’s right there, do you see that house? That tall, white one stuck between the storehouse and the armoury like, if you’ll pardon the expression, a candle between two arsecheeks. But you won’t find him there now. Not long ago, Istredd dug something up by the southern embankment and is now burrowing around there like a mole. And he’s put some men to work on the excavation. I went over there and asked politely, why, master, are you digging holes like a child, folk are beginning to laugh. What is in that ground there? And he looks at me like I’m some sort of pillock and says: “History”. What do you mean, history? I asks. And he goes: “The history of humanity. Answers to questions. To the question of what there was, and the question of what there will be”. There was fuck-all here, I says to that, except green fields, bushes and werewolves, before they built the town. And what there will be depends on who they appoint viceroy in Rakverelin; some lousy half-elf again. And there’s no history in the ground, there’s nothing there, except possibly worms, if someone’s fond of angling. Do you think he listened? Fat chance. He’s still digging. So if you want to see him, go to the southern embankment.’