“Go on, Chireadan. Go on. Don’t spare me.”

“You beat Laurelnose on the backside and the apothecary howled and sobbed, called to gods and men alike for help, begged for mercy—he even promised to be better in the future, but you clearly didn’t believe him. Then several armed bandits, who in Rinde go by the name of guards, came running up.”

“And”—Geralt nodded—“that’s when I made a hit at the authorities?”

“Not at all. You made a hit at them much earlier. Both the pawnbroker and Laurelnose are on the town council. Both had called for Yennefer to be thrown out of town. Not only did they vote for it at the council but they bad-mouthed her in taverns and spread vulgar gossip.”

“I guessed that. Carry on. You stopped when the guards appeared. They threw me in here?”

“They wanted to. Oh, Geralt, what a sight it was. What you did to them, it’s hard to describe. They had swords, whips, clubs, hatchets, and you only had an ash cane with a pommel, which you’d snatched from some dandy. And when they were all lying on the ground, you walked on. Most of us knew where you were going.”

“I’d be happy to know too.”

“You were going to the temple. Because the priest Krepp, who’s also a member of the council, dedicated a lot of time to Yennefer in his sermons. You promised him a lesson in respect for the fair sex. When you spoke of him, you omitted his title and threw in other descriptions, to the delight of the children trailing after you.”

“Aha,” muttered Geralt. “So blasphemy came into it, too. What else? Desecration of the temple?”

“No. You didn’t manage to get in there. An entire unit of municipal guards, armed—it seemed to me—with absolutely everything they could lay their hands on in the armory apart from a catapult, was waiting in front of the temple. It looked as if they were going to slaughter you, but you didn’t reach them. You suddenly grasped your head with both hands and fainted.”

“You don’t have to finish. So, Chireadan, how were you imprisoned?”

“Several guards ran to attack you when you fell. I got into a dispute with them. I got a blow over the head with a mace and came to here, in this hole. No doubt they’ll accuse me of taking part in an anti-human conspiracy.”

“Since we’re talking about accusations”—the witcher ground his teeth again—“what’s in store for us, do you think?”

“If Neville, the mayor, gets back from the capital on time,” muttered Chireadan, “who knows… he’s a friend. But if he doesn’t, then sentence will be passed by the councilors, including Laurelnose and the pawnbroker, of course. And that means—”

The elf made a brief gesture across his neck. Despite the darkness, the gesture left little doubt as to Chireadan’s meaning. The witcher didn’t reply. The thieves mumbled to each other and the tiny old man, locked up for his innocence, seemed to be asleep.