‘Oh, come on, mayor,’ Peregrib snorted. ‘ ‘E’s at ‘ome now. Why would ‘e want to be at the diggings, when he’s…’

Herbolth glanced at him menacingly. Peregrib bent over and cleared his throat, shuffling his feet. The Witcher, still smiling unpleasantly, crossed his arms on his chest.

‘Yes, hem, hem,’ the mayor coughed. ‘Who knows, perhaps Istredd really is at home. After all, what does it…’

‘Farewell, mayor,’ Geralt said, not even bothering with an imitation of a bow. ‘I wish you a good day.’

He went over to Cicada, who was coming out to meet him, his weapons clinking. Without a word he held out his hand for his sword, which Cicada was holding in the crook of his elbow. Cicada stepped back.

‘In a hurry, Witcher?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve examined your sword.’

Geralt shot a look at him which, with the best will in the world, could not have been described as warm.

‘That’s quite something,’ he nodded. ‘Not many have. And even fewer could boast about it.’

‘Ho, ho.’ Cicada flashed his teeth. ‘That sounded so menacing it’s given me the shivers. It’s always interested me, Witcher, why people are so afraid of you. And now I think I know.’

‘I’m in a hurry, Cicada. Hand over the sword, it you don’t mind.’

‘Smoke in the eyes, Witcher, nothing but smoke. You witchers frighten people like a beekeeper frightens his bees with smoke and stench, with your stony faces, with all your talk and those rumours, which you probably spread about yourselves. And the bees run from the smoke, foolish things, instead of shoving their stings in the witcher’s arse, which will swell up like any other. They say you can’t feel like people can. That’s lies. If one of you was properly stabbed, you’d feel it.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes,’ Cicada said, handing him back his sword. ‘Know what interests me, Witcher?’

‘Yes. Bees.’

‘No. I was wondering if you was to enter an alley with a sword from one side and me from the other, who would come out the other side? I reckon it’s worth a wager.’

‘Why are you goading me, Cicada? Looking for a fight? What’s it about?’

‘Nothing. It just intrigues me how much truth there is in what folk say. That you’re so good in a fight, you witchers, because there’s no heart, soul, mercy or conscience in you. And that suffices? Because they say the same about me, for example. And not without reason. So I’m terribly interested which of us, after going into that alley, would come out of it alive. What? Worth a wager? What do you think?’

‘I said I’m in a hurry. I’m not going to waste time on your nonsense. And I’m not accustomed to betting. But if you ever decide to hinder me walking down an alley, take my advice, Cicada, think about it first.’

‘Smoke,’ Cicada smiled. ‘Smoke in the eyes, Witcher. Nothing more. To the next time. Who knows, maybe in some alley?’