“They’ve thrown us in the dungeon,” he said gloomily.

“I’m glad you’ve regained your ability to draw logical conclusions,” said the elf.

“Bloody hell… And Dandilion? How long have we been here? How much time has gone by since—?”

“I don’t know. I was unconscious, just like you, when I was thrown in here.” Chireadan raked up the straw to sit more comfortably. “Is it important?”

“And how, dammit! Yennefer—And Dandilion—Dandilion’s there, with her, and she’s planning—Hey, you! How long have we been in here?”

The other prisoners whispered among themselves. None replied.

“Have you gone deaf?” Geralt spat, still unable to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth. “I’m asking you, what time of day is it? Or night? Surely you know what time they feed you?”

They muttered again, cleared their throats. “Sirs,” said one of them at last. “Leave us in peace and don’t talk to us. We be decent thieves, not some politicals. We didn’t try to attack the authorities. We was only stealing.”

“That be it,” said another. “You’ve your corner, we’ve ours. And let each look after his own.”

Chireadan snorted. The witcher spat.

“That’s the way it goes,” mumbled the hairy old man with a long nose. “Everyone in the clink guards his own corner and holds with his own.”

“And you, old man,” asked the elf sneeringly, “are you with them or with us? Which camp do you count yourself in?”

“None,” he answered proudly, “because I’m innocent.”

Geralt spat again. “Chireadan?” he asked, rubbing his temple. “This attempt on the authorities… Is it true?”

“Absolutely. You don’t remember?”

“I walked out into the street… People were looking at me… Then… Then there was a shop—”

“A pawnbroker’s.” The elf lowered his voice. “You went into the pawnbroker’s. As soon as you walked in, you punched the owner in the teeth. Hard. Very hard.”

The witcher ground his teeth and cursed.

“The pawnbroker fell,” Chireadan continued quietly. “And you kicked him several times in delicate places. The assistant ran to help his master and you threw him out of the window, into the street.”

“I fear,” muttered Geralt, “that wasn’t the end of it.”

“Your fears are well founded. You left the pawnbroker’s and marched down the center of the street, jostling passersby and shouting some nonsense about a lady’s honor. There was quite a crowd following you, Errdil, Vratimir and I among them. Then you stopped in front of Laurelnose the apothecary’s house, went in, and were back in the street a moment later, dragging Laurelnose by the leg. And you made something of a speech to the crowd.”

“What sort of a speech?”

“To put it simply, you stated that a self-respecting man shouldn’t ever call a professional harlot a whore because it’s base and repugnant, while using the word whore to describe a woman one has never knocked off or paid any money for doing so, is childish and punishable. The punishment, you announced, would be dealt there and then, and it would be fitting for a spoilt child. You thrust the apothecary’s head between his knees, pulled down his pants and thrashed his arse with a belt.”