“Easier to make money.” Geralt took a sip from the demijohn. “But harder to spend it. And on top of that, they eat pearl barley and millet, the beer tastes like piss, the girls don’t wash and the mosquitoes bite.”

Dandilion chuckled loudly and rested his head against the bookshelf, on the leather-bound volumes.

“Millet and mosquitoes! That reminds me of our first expedition together to the edge of the world,” he said. “Do you remember? We met at the fête in Gulet and you persuaded me—”

“You persuaded me! You had to flee from Gulet as fast as your horse could carry you because the girl you’d knocked up under the musicians’ podium had four sturdy brothers. They were looking for you all over town, threatening to geld you and cover you in pitch and sawdust. That’s why you hung on to me then.”

“And you almost jumped out of your pants with joy to have a companion. Until then, you only had your horse for company. But you’re right; it was as you say. I did have to disappear for a while, and the Valley of Flowers seemed just right for my purpose. It was, after all, supposed to be the edge of the inhabited world, the last outpost of civilization, the furthest point on the border of two worlds… Remember?”

“I remember.”

THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

I

Dandilion came down the steps of the inn carefully, carrying two tankards dripping with froth. Cursing under his breath, he squeezed through a group of curious children and crossed the yard at a diagonal, avoiding the cowpats.

A number of villagers had already gathered round the table in the courtyard where the witcher was talking to the alderman. The poet set the tankards down and found a seat. He realized straight away that the conversation hadn’t advanced a jot during his short absence.

“I’m a witcher, sir,” Geralt repeated for the umpteenth time, wiping beer froth from his lips. “I don’t sell anything. I don’t go around enlisting men for the army and I don’t know how to treat glanders. I’m a witcher.”

“It’s a profession,” explained Dandilion yet again. “A witcher, do you understand? He kills strigas and specters. He exterminates all sorts of vermin. Professionally, for money. Do you get it, alderman?”

“Aha!” The alderman’s brow, deeply furrowed in thought, grew smoother. “A witcher! You should have said so right away!”

“Exactly,” agreed Geralt. “So now I’ll ask you: is there any work to be found around here for me?”

“Aaaa.” The alderman quite visibly started to think again. “Work? Maybe those… Well… werethings? You’re asking are there any werethings hereabouts?”

The witcher smiled and nodded, rubbing an itching eyelid with his knuckles.

“That there are,” the alderman concluded after a fair while. “Only look ye yonder, see ye those mountains? There’s elves live there; that there is their kingdom. Their palaces, hear ye, are all of pure gold. Oh aye, sir! Elves, I tell ye. ‘Tis awful. He who yonder goes, never returns.”