“Someone’s following us,” he said, excited. “In a cart!”

“Incredible,” scoffed the witcher without looking around. “In a cart? And I thought that the locals rode on bats.”

“Do you know what?” growled the troubadour. “The closer we get to the edge of the world, the sharper your wit. I dread to think what it will come to!”

They weren’t riding fast and the empty cart, drawn by two piebald horses, quickly caught up with them.

“Woooooaaaaahhhh!” The driver brought the horses to a halt just behind them. He was wearing a sheepskin over his bare skin and his hair reached down to his brows. “The gods be praised, noble sirs!”

“We, too,” replied Dandilion, familiar with the custom, “praise them.”

“If we want to,” murmured the witcher.

“I call myself Nettly,” announced the carter. “I was watching ye speak to the alderman at Upper Posada. I know ye tae be a witcher.”

Geralt let go of the reins and let his mare snort at the roadside nettles.

“I did hear,” Nettly continued, “the alderman prattle ye stories. I marked your expression and ‘twas nae strange to me. In a long time now I’ve nae heard such balderdash and lies.”

Dandilion laughed.

Geralt was looking at the peasant attentively, silently.

Nettly cleared his throat. “Care ye nae to be hired for real, proper work, sir?” he asked. “There’d be something I have for ye.”

“And what is that?”

Nettly didn’t lower his eyes. “It be nae good to speak of business on the road. Let us drive on to my home, to Lower Posada. There we’ll speak. Anyways, ‘tis that way ye be heading.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“As ‘cos ye have nae other way here, and yer horses’ noses be turned in that direction, not their butts.”

Dandilion laughed again. “What do you say to that, Geralt?”

“Nothing,” said the witcher. “It’s no good to talk on the road. On our way, then, honorable Nettly.”

“Tie ye the horses to the frame, and sit yerselves down in the cart,” the peasant proposed. “It be more comfortable for ye. Why rack yer arses on the saddle?”

“Too true.”

They climbed onto the cart. The witcher stretched out comfortably on the straw. Dandilion, evidently afraid of getting his elegant green jerkin dirty, sat on the plank. Nettly clucked his tongue at the horses and the vehicle clattered along the beam-reinforced dyke.

They crossed a bridge over a canal overgrown with water lilies and duckweed, and passed a strip of cut meadows. Cultivated fields stretched as far as the eye could see.

“It’s hard to believe that this should be the edge of the world, the edge of civilization,” said Dandilion. “Just look, Geralt. Rye like gold, and a mounted peasant could hide in that corn. Or that oilseed, look, how enormous.”

“You know about agriculture?”

“We poets have to know about everything,” said Dandilion haughtily. “Otherwise we’d compromise our work. One has to learn, my dear fellow, learn. The fate of the world depends on agriculture, so it’s good to know about it. Agriculture feeds, clothes, protects from the cold, provides entertainment and supports art.”