‘It is,’ the Witcher said, moving his numb lips with difficulty. ‘The truth is a shard of ice…’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What’s the matter with you? Are you infirm or in your cups? Or perhaps stuffed full of witcher herbs?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I’ve… I’ve got something in my eye. Istredd, there can only be one. Yes, that’s why I came here. Undeniably.’

‘I knew,’ the sorcerer said. ‘I knew you’d come. As a matter of fact, I’m going to be frank with you. You anticipated my plans.’

‘Ball lightning?’ the Witcher asked, smiling wanly. Istredd frowned.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there’ll be ball lightning. But definitely not shot from around the corner. Honourably, face to face. You’re a witcher; that evens things out. Very well, decide when and where.’

Geralt pondered. And decided.

‘That little square… he pointed. ‘I passed through it…’

‘I know. There’s a well there called the Green Key.’

‘By the well then. Yes indeed. By the well… Tomorrow, two hours after sunup.’

‘Very well. I shall be on time.’

They stood still for a moment, not looking at each other. The sorcerer finally muttered something to himself, kicked a lump of clay and crushed it under his heel.

‘Geralt?’

‘What?’

‘Do you feel foolish, by any chance?’

‘Yes, I do,’ the Witcher reluctantly admitted.

‘That’s a relief,’ Istredd muttered. ‘Because I feel like an utter dolt. I never expected I’d ever have to fight a witcher to the death over a woman.’

‘I know how you feel, Istredd.’

‘Well…’ the sorcerer smiled affectedly. ‘The fact that it’s come to this, that I’ve decided to do something so utterly against my nature, proves that… that it has to be done.’

‘I know, Istredd.’

‘Needless to say, you know that whichever of us survives will have to flee at once and hide from Yenna at the end of the world?’

‘I do.’

‘And needless to say you count on being able to go back to her when she simmers down?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s all settled then,’ the sorcerer said, and made to turn away, but after a moment’s hesitation held out his hand to him. ‘Till tomorrow, Geralt.’

‘Till tomorrow,’ the Witcher said, shaking his hand. ‘Till tomorrow, Istredd.’

VII

‘Hey, Witcher!’

Geralt looked up from the table, on which he had been absentmindedly sketching fanciful squiggles in the spilled beer.

‘It was hard to find you,’ Mayor Herbolth said, sitting down and moving aside the jugs and beer mugs. ‘They said in the inn that you’d moved out to the stables, but I only found a horse and some bundles of clothes there. And you’re here… This is probably the most disreputable inn in the entire town. Only the worst scum comes here. What are you doing?’

‘Drinking.’

‘I can see that. I wanted to converse with you. Are you sober?’

‘As a child.’

‘I’m pleased.’

‘What is it you want, Herbolth? As you can see, I’m busy,’ Geralt smiled at the wench who was putting another jug on the table.