“What?” Dhun frowned.

“An unusual condition. Why all this mercy?”

“He should nae be killed.” Dhun frowned even more. “Because in this Valley—”

“He should nae and that be it,” interrupted Nettly. “Only catch him, sir, or drive him off yon o’er the seventh mountain. And ye will nae be hard done by when ye be paid.”

The witcher stayed silent, still smiling.

“Seal it, will ye, the deal?” asked Dhun.

“First, I’d like a look at him, this devil of yours.”

The freemen glanced at each other.

“It be yer right,” said Nettly, then stood up. “And yer will. The deovel he do prowl the whole neighborhood at night but at day he dwells somewhere in the hemp. Or among the old willows on the marshland. Ye can take a look at him there. We won’t hasten ye. Ye be wanting rest, then rest as long as ye will. Ye will nae go wanting in comfort and food as befits the custom of hospitality. Take care.”

“Geralt.” Dandilion jolted up from his stool and looked out into the yard at the freemen walking away from the cottage. “I can’t understand anything anymore. A day hasn’t gone by since our chat about imagined monsters and you suddenly get yourself hired hunting devils. And everybody—except ignorant freemen obviously—knows that devils are an invention; they’re mythical creatures. What’s this unexpected zeal of yours supposed to mean? Knowing you a little as I do, I take it you haven’t abased yourself so as to get us bed, board and lodging, have you?”

“Indeed.” Geralt grimaced. “It does look as if you know me a little, singer.”

“In that case, I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

“There’s no such things as devils!” yelled the poet, shaking the cat from sleep once and for all. “No such thing! To the devil with it, devils don’t exist!”

“True.” Geralt smiled. “But, Dandilion, I could never resist the temptation of having a look at something that doesn’t exist.”

III

“One thing is certain,” muttered the witcher, sweeping his eyes over the tangled jungle of hemp spreading before them. “This devil is not stupid.”

“How did you deduce that?” Dandilion was curious. “From the fact that he’s sitting in an impenetrable thicket? Any old hare has enough brains for that.”

“It’s a question of the special qualities of hemp. A field of this size emits a strong aura against magic. Most spells will be useless here. And there, look, do you see those poles? Those are hops—their pollen has the same effect. It’s not mere chance. The rascal senses the aura and knows he’s safe here.”

Dandilion coughed and adjusted his breeches. “I’m curious.” He scratched his forehead beneath his hat. “How are you going to go about it, Geralt? I’ve never seen you work. I take it you know a thing or two about catching devils—I’m trying to recall some ballads. There was one about a devil and a woman. Rude, but amusing. The woman, you see—”