“You won’t bribe me,” the Cerberus said proudly.

“I don’t intend to.”

The porter was too huge to have the reflexes which would let him dodge or shield himself from a quick blow given by an ordinary man. He didn’t even have time to blink before the witcher’s blow landed. The heavy purse struck him in the temple with a metallic crash. He collapsed against the door, grabbing the frame with both hands. Geralt tore him away from it with a kick in the knee, shoved him with his shoulder and fetched him another blow with the purse. The doorman’s eyes grew hazy and diverged in a comical squint, and his legs folded under him like two penknives. The witcher, seeing the strapping fellow moving, although almost unconscious, walloped him with force for the third time, right on the crown of his head.

“Money,” he muttered, “opens all doors.”

It was dark in the vestibule. A loud snoring came from the door on the left. The witcher peeped in carefully. A fat woman, her nightdress hitched up above her hips, was asleep on a tumbled pallet, snoring and snorting through her nose. It wasn’t the most beautiful sight. Geralt dragged the porter into the little room and closed the door.

On the right was another door, half-opened, and behind it stone steps led down. The witcher was about to pass them when an indistinct curse, a clatter and the dry crash of a vessel cracking reached him from below.

The room was a big kitchen, full of utensils, smelling of herbs and resinous wood. On the stone floor, among fragments of a clay jug, knelt a completely naked man with his head hanging low.

“Apple juice, bloody hell,” he mumbled, shaking his head like a sheep which had rammed a wall by a mistake. “Apple… juice. Where… Where’re the servants?”

“I beg your pardon?” the witcher asked politely.

The man raised his head and swallowed. His eyes were vague and very bloodshot.

“She wants juice from apples,” he stated, then got up with evident difficulty, sat down on a chest covered with a sheepskin coat, and leaned against the stove. “I have to… take it upstairs because—”

“Do I have the pleasure of speaking to the merchant Beau Berrant?”

“Quieter.” The man grimaced painfully. “Don’t yell. Listen, in that barrel there… Juice. Apple. Pour it into something… and help me get upstairs, all right?”

Geralt shrugged, then nodded sympathetically. He generally avoided overdoing the alcohol but the state in which the merchant found himself was not entirely unknown to him. He found a jug and a tin mug among the crockery and drew some juice from the barrel. He heard snoring and turned. Beau Berrant was fast asleep, his head hanging on his chest.

For a moment, the witcher considered pouring juice over him to wake him up, but he changed his mind. He left the kitchen, carrying the jug. The corridor ended in a heavy inlaid door. He entered carefully, opening it just enough to slip inside. It was dark, so he dilated his pupils. And wrinkled his nose.