‘Bad example,’ Geralt interrupted. ‘You see, right away you’ve mixed up Chaos and Order. Because I do not kill dragons; and they, without doubt, represent Chaos.’

‘How so?’ Three Jackdaws licked his fingers. ‘Well, I never! After all, among all monsters, dragons are probably the most bestial, the cruellest and fiercest. The most revolting of reptiles. They attack people, breathe fire and carry off, you know, virgins. There’s no shortage of tales like that. It can’t be that you, a witcher, don’t have a few dragons on your trophy list.’

‘I don’t hunt dragons,’ Geralt said dryly. ‘I hunt forktails, for sure. And dracolizards. And flying drakes. But not true dragons; the green, the black or the red. Take note, please.’

‘You astonish me,’ Three Jackdaws said. ‘Very well, I’ve taken note. In any case, that’s enough about dragons for the moment, I see something red on the horizon and it is surely our crayfish. Let us drink!’

Their teeth crunched through the red shells, and they sucked out the white flesh. The salt water, stinging painfully, trickled down over their wrists. Borch poured the beer, by now scraping the ladle across the bottom of the keg. The Zerrikanians were even more cheerful, the two of them looking around the inn and smiling ominously. The Witcher was convinced they were searching out an opportunity for a brawl. Three Jackdaws must also have noticed, because he suddenly shook a crayfish he was holding by the tail at them. The women giggled and Téa pouted her lips for a kiss and winked. Combined with her tattooed face, this made for a gruesome sight.

‘They are as savage as wildcats,’ Three Jackdaws murmured to Geralt. ‘They need watching. With them, comrade, suddenly–before you know it–the floor’s covered in guts. But they’re worth every penny. If you knew what they’re capable of…’

‘I know,’ Geralt nodded. ‘You couldn’t find a better escort. Zerrikanians are born warriors, trained to fight from childhood.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’ Borch spat a crayfish claw onto the table. ‘I meant what they’re like in bed.’

Geralt glanced anxiously at the women. They both smiled. Véa reached for the dish with a swift, almost imperceptible movement. Looking at the Witcher through narrowed eyes, she bit open a shell with a crack. Her lips glistened with the salt water. Three Jackdaws belched loudly.

‘And so, Geralt,’ he said. ‘You don’t hunt dragons; neither green nor any other colour. I’ve made a note of it. And why, may I ask, only those three colours?’

‘Four, to be precise.’

‘You mentioned three.’

‘Dragons interest you, Borch. For any particular reason?’

‘No. Pure curiosity.’

‘Aha. Well, about those colours: it’s customary to define true dragons like that, although they are not precise terms. Green dragons, the most common, are actually greyish, like ordinary dracolizards. Red dragons are in fact reddish or brick-red. It’s customary to call the large dark brown ones “black”. White dragons are the rarest. I’ve never seen one. They occur in the distant North. Reputedly.’