The Witcher audibly sucked in air and said nothing. He looked at a tapestry depicting a fight between a titan and a dragon. The titan, standing solidly on two left legs, was trying hard to break the dragon’s jaw, and the dragon looked none too pleased about it.

‘I’m staying,’ Dandelion repeated. ‘I love Anarietta. And she loves me.’

Geralt still said nothing.

‘You’ll have your horses,’ continued the poet. ‘I’ll order them to prepare you a thoroughbred mare called Roach, naturally. You’ll be equipped, well-stocked with food and warmly dressed. But I sincerely advise you to wait till the spring. Anarietta—’

‘Am I hearing right?’ The Witcher finally regained his voice. ‘Or do my ears deceive me?’

‘Your intellect,’ snapped the troubadour, ‘is certainly blunt. I can’t speak for your other senses. I repeat: we love one another, Anarietta and I. I’m staying in Toussaint. With her.’

‘In what role? Lover? Favourite? Or perhaps ducal consort?’

‘I’m indifferent in principle to our formal and legal status,’ Dandelion admitted frankly. ‘But one cannot rule anything out. Including marriage.’

Geralt was silent again, contemplating the titan fighting the dragon.

‘Dandelion,’ he said finally. ‘If you’ve been drinking, sober up. If you haven’t taken a drink, do so. Then we’ll talk.’

‘I don’t quite understand why you’re talking like this.’ Dandelion frowned.

‘Then have a little think.’

‘What about? Does my relationship with Anarietta shock you so much? Perhaps you’d like to appeal to my good sense. Skip it. I’ve thought the matter through. Anarietta loves me—’

‘And do you know the saying “the favours of duchesses are uncertain”?’ Geralt interrupted, ‘Even if your Anarietta isn’t flighty, and if you’ll excuse the frankness she looks that way to me, then—’

‘Then what?’

‘Duchesses only marry musicians in fairy tales.’

‘Firstly—’ Dandelion puffed himself up ‘—even a boor like you must have heard of morganatic marriages. Must I give you examples from ancient and modern history? Secondly, it’ll probably surprise you, but I’m not from the hoi-polloi. My people, the de Lettenhoves, come from—’

‘I’m listening to you and I’m amazed,’ Geralt interrupted again, losing his temper. ‘Is my friend Dandelion really spouting such balderdash? Has my friend Dandelion really gone completely mad? Is Dandelion, whom I know as a realist, now beginning all of a sudden to live in the sphere of illusion? Open your bloody eyes, you dolt.’

‘Aha,’ Dandelion said slowly, tightening his lips. ‘What a curious reversal of roles. I’m a blind man, and you meanwhile have suddenly become an attentive and astute observer. It was usually the other way around. And, out of interest, what don’t I notice that you can see? Eh? What, according to you, should I open my eyes to?’