The Witcher got up.

‘I would wish,’ he murmured, ‘that the fact we’re being surrounded would turn out to be a misunderstanding.’

From an alleyway opposite the fountain emerged four individuals dressed in black, wearing round, leather caps, heading slowly towards them. Dainty swore softly and looked around.

Another four men came out of a street behind their backs. They did not come any closer and, having positioned themselves, stood blocking the street. They were holding strange looking discs resembling coiled ropes. The Witcher looked around and moved his shoulders, adjusting the sword slung across his back. Dandelion groaned.

From behind the backs of the individuals in black emerged a small man in a white kaftan and a short, grey cape. The gold chain on his neck sparkled to the rhythm of his steps, flashing yellow.

‘Chappelle…’ Dandelion groaned. ‘It’s Chappelle…’

The individuals in black behind them moved slowly towards the fountain. The Witcher reached for his sword.

‘No, Geralt,’ Dandelion whispered, moving closer to him. ‘For the Gods’ sake, don’t draw your weapon. It’s the temple guard. If we resist we won’t leave Novigrad alive. Don’t touch your sword.’

The man in the white kaftan walked swiftly towards them. The individuals in black followed him, surrounding the fountain at a march, and occupied strategic, carefully chosen positions. Geralt observed them vigilantly, crouching slightly. The strange discs they were holding were not–as he had first thought–ordinary whips. They were lamias.

The man in the white kaftan approached them.

‘Geralt,’ the bard whispered. ‘By all the Gods, keep calm—’

‘I won’t let them touch me,’ the Witcher muttered. ‘I won’t let them touch me, whoever they are. Be careful, Dandelion… When it starts, you two flee, as fast as you can. I’ll keep them busy… for some time…’

Dandelion did not answer. Slinging the lute over one shoulder, he bowed low before the man in the white kaftan, which was ornately embroidered with gold and silver threads in an intricate, mosaic pattern.

‘Venerable Chappelle…’

The man addressed as Chappelle stopped and swept them with his gaze. His eyes, Geralt noticed, were frost-cold and the colour of steel. His forehead was pale, beaded unhealthily with sweat and his cheeks were flushed with irregular, red blotches.

‘Mr Dainty Biberveldt, merchant,’ he said. ‘The talented Dandelion. And Geralt of Rivia, a representative of the oh-so rare witcher’s profession. A reunion of old friends? Here, in Novigrad?’

None of them answered.

‘I consider it highly regrettable,’ Chappelle continued, ‘that a report has been submitted about you.’

Dandelion blanched slightly and the halfling’s teeth chattered. The Witcher was not looking at Chappelle. He did not take his eyes off the weapons of the men in leather caps surrounding the fountain. In most of the countries known to Geralt the production and possession of spiked lamias, also called Mayhenian scourges, were strictly prohibited. Novigrad was no exception. Geralt had seen people struck in the face by a lamia. He would never forget those faces.

‘The keeper of the Spear Blade inn,’ Chappelle continued, ‘had the audacity to accuse you gentlemen of collusion with a demon, a monster, known as a changeling or a vexling.’