‘There’s a rumour doing the rounds,’ the mayor said, frowning, ‘that you and our sorcerer plan to kill each other.’

‘That’s our business. His and mine. Don’t interfere.’

‘No, it isn’t your business,’ Herbolth countered. ‘We need Istredd, we can’t afford another sorcerer.’

‘Go to the temple and pray for his victory, then.’

‘Don’t scoff,’ the mayor snapped, ‘and don’t be a smart-arse, you vagrant. By the Gods, if I didn’t know that the sorcerer would never forgive me, I would have thrown you into the dungeons, right at the very bottom, or dragged you beyond the town behind two horses, or ordered Cicada to stick you like a pig. But, alas, Istredd has a thing about honour and wouldn’t have excused me it. I know you wouldn’t forgive me, either.’

‘It’s turned out marvellously,’ the Witcher said, draining another mug and spitting out a straw which had fallen into it. ‘I’m a lucky fellow, amn’t I. Is that all?’

‘No,’ Herbolth said, taking a full purse out from under his coat. ‘Here is a hundred marks, Witcher. Take it and get out of Aedd Gynvael. Get out of here, at once if possible, but in any case before sunrise. I told you we can’t afford another sorcerer, and I won’t let ours risk his neck in a duel with someone like you, for a stupid reason, because of some—’

He broke off, without finishing, although the Witcher did not even flinch.

‘Take your hideous face away, Herbolth,’ Geralt said. ‘And stick your hundred marks up your arse. Go away, because the sight of you makes me sick. A little longer and I’ll cover you in puke from your cap to your toes.’

The mayor put away the purse and put both hands on the table.

‘If that’s how you want it,’ he said. ‘I tried to let you leave of your own free will, but it’s up to you. Fight, cut each other up, burn each other, tear each other to pieces for that slut, who spreads her legs for anyone who wants her. I think Istredd will give you such a thrashing, you thug, that only your boots will be left, and if not, I’ll catch you before his body cools off and break all your bones on the wheel. I won’t leave a single part of you intact, you—’

He did not manage to remove his hands from the table, the Witcher’s movement was so swift. The arm which shot out from under the table was a blur in front of the mayor’s eyes and a dagger lodged with a thud between his fingers.

‘Perhaps,’ the Witcher whispered, clenching his fist on the dagger’s haft, and staring into Herbolth’s face, from which the blood had drained, ‘perhaps Istredd will kill me. But if not… Then I’ll leave, and don’t try to stop me, you vile scum, if you don’t want the streets of your filthy town to foam with blood. Now get out of here.’

‘Mayor. What’s going on here? Hey, you—’