“Que glosse?” she asked, looking at the witcher and playing with the hilt of the long dagger in her belt. “Que l’en pavienn, ell’ea?”

“Nell’ea,” he contested. “T’en pavienn, Aen Seidhe.”

“Did you hear?” The elf turned to her companion, the tall Seidhe who, not bothering to check Geralt’s knots, was strumming away at Dandilion’s lute with an expression of indifference on his long face. “Did you hear, Vanadain? The ape-man can talk! He can even be impertinent!”

Seidhe shrugged, making the feathers decorating his jacket rustle. “All the more reason to gag him, Toruviel.”

The elf leaned over Geralt. She had long lashes, an unnaturally pale complexion and parched, cracked lips. She wore a necklace of carved golden birch pieces on a thong, wrapped around her neck several times.

“Well, say something else, ape-man,” she hissed. “We’ll see what your throat, so used to barking, is capable of.”

“What’s this? Do you need an excuse to hit a bound man?” The witcher turned over on his back with an effort and spat out the sand. “Hit me without any excuses. I’ve seen how you like it. Let off some steam.”

The elf straightened. “I’ve already let off some steam on you, while your hands were free,” she said. “I rode you down and swiped you on the head. And I’ll also finish you off when the time comes.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’d much rather stab you from close up, looking you in the eyes,” continued the elf. “But you stink most hideously, human, so I’ll shoot you.”

“As you wish.” The witcher shrugged, as far as the knots let him. “Do as you like, noble Aen Seidhe. You shouldn’t miss a tied-up, motionless target.”

The elf stood over him, legs spread, and leaned down, flashing her teeth.

“No, I shouldn’t,” she hissed. “I hit whatever I want. But you can be sure you won’t die from the first arrow. Or the second. I’ll try to make sure you can feel yourself dying.”

“Don’t come so close.” He grimaced, pretending to be repulsed. “You stink most hideously, Aen Seidhe.”

The elf jumped back, rocked on her narrow hips and forcefully kicked him in the thigh. Geralt drew his legs in and curled up, knowing where she was aiming next. He succeeded, and got her boot in the hip, so hard his teeth rattled.

The tall elf standing next to her echoed each kick with a sharp chord on the lute.

“Leave him, Toruviel!” bleated the sylvan. “Have you gone mad? Galarr, tell her to stop!”

“Thaesse!” shrieked Toruviel, and kicked the witcher again. The tall Seidhe tore so violently at the strings that one snapped with a protracted whine.

“Enough of that! Enough, for gods’ sake!” Dandilion yelled fretfully, wriggling and tumbling in the ropes. “Why are you bullying him, you stupid whore? Leave us alone! And you leave my lute alone, all right?”

Toruviel turned to him with an angry grimace on her cracked lips. “Musician!” she growled. “A human, yet a musician! A lutenist!”