‘You lying sloven!’ the blonde screamed and spat copiously from the balcony. ‘You vagrant! You croaking pheasant!’

‘What’s the matter with her? What have you been up to, Dandelion?’

‘Nothing unusual,’ the troubadour shrugged. ‘She demands monogamy, like they all do, and then throws another man’s trousers at a fellow. Did you hear what she was screaming about me? By the Gods, I also know some women who decline their favours more prettily than she gives hers, but I don’t shout about it from the rooftops. Let’s go.’

‘Where do you suggest we go?’

‘Are you serious? The temple of the Eternal Fire? Let’s drop into the Spear Blade. I have to calm my nerves.’

Without protest, the Witcher led his mare after Dandelion, who had headed off briskly into a narrow lane. The troubadour tightened the pegs of his lute as he strode, strummed the strings to test them, and played a deep, resounding chord.

The air bears autumn’s cool scent

Our words seized by an icy gust

Your tears have my heart rent

But all is gone and part we must.

He broke off, waving cheerfully at two maids who were passing, carrying baskets of vegetables. The girls giggled.

‘What brings you to Novigrad, Geralt?’

‘Fitting out. A harness, some tackle. And a new jacket.’ The Witcher pulled down the creaking, fresh-smelling leather. ‘How do you like it, Dandelion?’

‘You don’t keep up with the fashion,’ the bard grimaced, brushing a chicken feather from his gleaming, cornflower-blue kaftan with puffed sleeves and a serrated collar. ‘Oh, I’m glad we’ve met. Here in Novigrad, the capital of the world, the centre and cradle of culture. Here a cultured man can live life to the full.’

‘Let’s live it one lane further on,’ suggested Geralt, glancing at a tramp who had squatted down and was defecating, eyes bulging, in an alleyway.

‘Your constant sarcasm is becoming annoying,’ Dandelion said, grimacing again. ‘Novigrad, I tell you, is the capital of the world. Almost thirty thousand dwellers, Geralt, not counting travellers; just imagine! Brick houses, cobbled main streets, a seaport, stores, shops, four watermills, slaughterhouses, sawmills, a large manufactory making beautiful slippers, and every conceivable guild and trade. A mint, eight banks and nineteen pawnbrokers. A castle and guardhouse to take the breath away. And diversions: a scaffold, a gallows with a drop, thirty-five taverns, a theatre, a menagerie, a market and a dozen whorehouses. And I can’t remember how many temples, but plenty. Oh, and the women, Geralt; bathed, coiffured and fragrant; those satins, velvets and silks, those whalebones and ribbons… Oh, Geralt! The rhymes pour out by themselves:

Around your house, now white from frost

Sparkles ice on the pond and marsh

Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh…

‘A new ballad?’

‘Aye. I’ll call it Winter. But it’s not ready yet, I can’t finish it. Vespula’s made me completely jittery and the rhymes won’t come together. Ah, Geralt, I forgot to ask, how is it with you and Yennefer?’