‘Next time…’ Geralt heard the clear whisper, ‘next time you feel like killing yourself, Witcher, don’t drag other people into it. Just hang yourself in the stable from your reins.’

IX

It must have rained during the night.

Geralt walked out in front of the stable, wiping his eyes, combing the straw from his hair with his fingers. The rising sun glistened on the wet roofs, gleamed gold in the puddles. The Witcher spat. He still had a nasty taste in his mouth and the lump on his head throbbed with a dull ache.

A scrawny black cat sat on a rail in front of the stable, licking a paw intently.

‘Here, kitty, kitty,’ the Witcher said. The cat stopped what it was doing and looked at him malevolently, flattened its ears and hissed, baring its little fangs.

‘I know,’ Geralt nodded. ‘I don’t like you either. I’m only joking.’

He pulled tight the loosened buckles and clasps of his jerkin with unhurried movements, smoothed down the creases in his clothing, and made sure it did not hinder his freedom of movement at any point. He slung his sword across his back and adjusted the position of the hilt above his right shoulder. He tied a leather band around his forehead, pulling his hair back behind his ears. He pulled on long combat gloves, bristling with short, conical silver spikes.

He glanced up at the sun once more, his pupils narrowing into vertical slits. A glorious day, he thought. A glorious day for a fight.

He sighed, spat and walked slowly down the narrow road, beside walls giving off the pungent, penetrating aroma of wet plaster and lime mortar.

‘Hey, freak!’

He looked around. Cicada, flanked by three suspicious-looking, armed individuals, sat on a heap of timbers piled up beside the embankment. He rose, stretched and walked into the middle of the alley, carefully avoiding the puddles.

‘Where you going?’ he asked, placing his slender hands on his belt, weighed down with weapons.

‘None of your business.’

‘Just to be clear, I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about the mayor, the sorcerer or this whole shitty town,’ Cicada said, slowly emphasising the words. ‘This is about you, Witcher. You won’t make it to the end of this alley. Hear me? I want to find out how good a fighter you are. The matter’s tormenting me. Stop, I said.’

‘Get out of my way.’

‘Stop!’ Cicada yelled, placing a hand on his sword hilt. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? We’re going to fight! I’m challenging you! We’ll soon see who’s the better man!’

Geralt shrugged without slowing down.

‘I’m challenging you to fight! Do you hear me, mutant?’ Cicada shouted, barring his way again. ‘What are you waiting for? Draw your weapon! What, got cold feet? Or perhaps you’re nothing more than one of those other fools who’s humped that witch of yours, like Istredd?’

Geralt walked on, forcing Cicada to retreat, to walk clumsily backwards. The individuals with Cicada got up from the pile of timbers and followed them, although they hung back a little way off. Geralt heard the mud squelching beneath their boots.