‘It is thus,’ began steward Catillon. ‘Owing to this damned war, merchants visit more seldom, our reserves are growing, and there is less and less space for the barrels. We thought it was a small problem, for beneath the castles the cellars go on for miles, ever deeper. I think the cellars extend to the centre of the earth. We also found a little cellar under Toricella, beautiful, if you please, vaulted, not too dry, not too damp, just right for the wine to mature—’

‘What of it?’ the Witcher interrupted.

‘It turned out that some kind of monster prowls in the cellar, if you please, which probably came from the depths of the earth. It burned two people, melted their flesh to the bone, and blinded another, because, he, I mean the monster, sire, spits and pukes some sort of caustic lye—’

‘A solpuga,’ Geralt stated bluntly. ‘Also called a venomer.’

‘Well, well,’ smiled Regis. ‘You can see for yourself, Lord Catillon, that you’re dealing with an expert. This expert, one might say, is a godsend. And have you turned to the renowned local knights errant in this matter? The duchess has an entire regiment of them, and missions like these are, let’s face it, their speciality, their raison d’être.’

‘Not at all.’ Steward Catillon shook his head. ‘Their raison d’être is to protect the roads and passes, for if the merchants couldn’t get here, we’d all be reduced to beggary. What’s more, the knights are bold and valiant, but only on horseback. None of them would venture under the ground. What’s more, they’re expen—’

He broke off and fell silent. He had the expression of a person who, if he could, would kick himself. And greatly regretted it.

‘They’re expensive,’ Geralt finished off the sentence, without excessive spitefulness. ‘So you ought to know, good sir, that I’m more expensive. It’s a free market. And there’s free competition. If we sign a contract, I’ll dismount and head underground. Think it through, but don’t ponder too long, for I’m not staying long in Toussaint.’

‘You astonish me,’ said Regis, as soon as the steward had gone. ‘Has the witcher in you suddenly revived? Are you accepting contracts? Going after monsters?’

‘I’m astonished myself,’ replied Geralt frankly. ‘I reacted instinctively, prompted by an inexplicable impulse. I’ll weasel out of it. I’ll treat every quote they offer as too low. Always. Let’s get back to our conversation…’

‘Hold on.’ The vampire gestured with his eyes. ‘Something tells me you have more clients.’

Geralt swore under his breath. Two knights were walking towards him down the cypress-lined avenue.

He recognised the first at once; the huge bull’s head on a snow-white tabard couldn’t have been confused with any other crest. The other knight–tall, grey-haired, with nobly angular physiognomy, as though carved from granite–had five gold demi fleurs-de-lis on his blue tunic.

Having stopped at the regulation distance of two paces, the knights bowed. Geralt and Regis returned the bows, after which the four of them observed a silence of ten heartbeats as decreed by chivalric custom.