‘I can guess what you want to propose,’ said the Witcher, dryly, ‘and I consent to the proposition. I will explore your cellars. We shall set the fee depending on what I find there.’

‘You won’t do badly,’ the bearded man assured him. ‘Hem, hem… One more thing…’

‘Pray speak…’

‘That succubus that haunts men at night and torments them… Which Her Enlightened Ladyship the Duchess has ordered killed… I believe there’s no need. For the ghoul doesn’t bother anyone, in truth… Yes, it occasionally haunts… Bedevils a little—’

‘But nobbut adults,’ Malatesta quickly interrupted.

‘You took the words out of my mouth, friend. All in all, the succubus doesn’t harm anyone. And recently there’s been no word about it at all. Doubtless, it would be scared of you, Master Witcher. What, then, is the point of tormenting it? Why, you aren’t lacking ready cash, sire. And were you to be short…’

‘Something could be transferred to my account at Cianfanellis’ bank,’ Geralt said with stony countenance. ‘To the witcher’s pension fund.’

‘So be it.’

‘Then not a single blond hair on the succubus’ head will be harmed.’

‘Farewell, then.’ The two vineyards stood up. ‘Feast in peace, we shan’t disturb. It’s a holiday today. A tradition. Here, in Toussaint, tradition—’

‘Is sacred,’ said Geralt. ‘I know.’

The party at the next table were making another noisy Yuletide prophecy, carried out with the help of balls fashioned from the soft inside of cakes and bones left over from a carp. The wine was flowing as they did so. The innkeeper and his serving girls were rushed off their feet, hurrying to and fro with jugs.

‘The famous succubus,’ remarked Reynart, serving himself more cabbage, ‘began the memorable series of witcher contracts that you took on in Toussaint. Then things speeded up and you couldn’t keep the customers away. Funny, I don’t remember which vineyard gave you the first contract…’

‘You weren’t present. It happened the day after the audience with the duchess. Which you didn’t attend either, as a matter of fact.’

‘No wonder. It was a private audience.’

‘Private, huh,’ snorted Geralt. ‘It was attended by some twenty people, not counting the motionless lackeys, youthful pages and a bored jester. Among that number was Le Goff, the chamberlain with the appearance and smell of a confectioner, and several magnates bowing under the weight of their golden chains. There were several coves in black: councillors, or perhaps judges. There was the baron with the Bull’s Head coat of arms I met in Caed Myrkvid. There was, naturally, Fringilla Vigo, a person evidently close to the duchess.

‘And there were we, our entire gang, including Milva in male costume. Ha, I was wrong to speak of the entire company. Dandelion was not with us. Dandelion, or rather Viscount What’s-His-Name, sat sprawled in a curule seat on Her Pointy-Nosed Highness Anarietta’s right hand and postured like a peacock. Like a real pet.