“Magicians are hard to come by in the whole of Redania,” said the knight. “Isn’t that true? Ever since King Heribert placed an exorbitant tax on spells, magicians have boycotted the capital and those towns which are rigorous in executing the king’s edicts. And the councilors of Rinde are famous for their zeal in this respect. Chireadan, Errdil, am I right?”

“You are,” confirmed Errdil. “But… Chireadan, may I?”

“You have to,” said Chireadan, looking at the witcher. “There’s no point in making a secret of it; everyone knows anyway. There’s a sorceress staying in the town right now, Geralt.”

“Incognito, no doubt?”

“Not very.” The elf smiled. “The sorceress in question is something of an individualist. She’s ignoring both the boycott imposed on Rinde by the Council of Wizards, and the disposition of the local councilors, and is doing rather splendidly out of it: the boycott means there’s tremendous demand for magical services here and, of course, the sorceress isn’t paying any levies.”

“And the town council puts up with it?”

“The sorceress is staying with a merchant, a trade broker from Novigrad, who is also the honorary ambassador. Nobody can touch her there. She has asylum.”

“It’s more like house arrest than asylum,” corrected Errdil. “She’s just about imprisoned there. But she has no shortage of clients. Rich clients. She ostentatiously makes light of the councilors, holds balls and extravagant parties—”

“While the councilors are furious, turn whoever they can against her and tarnish her reputation as best they can,” Chireadan cut in. “They spread foul rumors about her and hope, no doubt, that the Novigrad hierarchy will forbid the merchant to grant her asylum.”

“I don’t like meddling in things like that,” muttered Geralt, “but I’ve got no choice. What’s the merchant-ambassador’s name?”

“Beau Berrant.”

The witcher thought that Chireadan grimaced as he pronounced the name.

“Oh well, it really is your only hope. Or rather, the only hope for that poor fellow moaning on the bed. But whether the sorceress will want to help you… I don’t know.”

“Be careful when you go there,” said Errdil. “The mayor’s spies are watching the house. You know what to do if they stop you. Money opens all doors.”

“I’ll go as soon as they open the gates. What’s the sorceress called?”

Geralt thought he detected a slight flush on Chireadan’s expressive face. But it could have been the glow from the fire in the hearth.

“Yennefer of Vergerberg.”

III

“My lord’s asleep,” repeated the doorman, looking down at Geralt. He was taller by a head and nearly twice as broad in the shoulders. “Are you deaf, you vagabond? The lord’s asleep, I said.”

“Then let him sleep,” agreed the witcher. “I’ve not got business with your lord but with the lady who is staying here.”

“Business, you say.” The doorman, as it turned out, was surprisingly witty for someone of such stature and appearance. “Then go, you loiterer, to the whorehouse to satisfy your need. Scram.”

Geralt unfastened the purse on his belt and, holding it by the straps, weighed it in his palm.