“What are you telling me about black-haired women for?” Neville interrupted angrily. “Get to the point, squire, to the point. You yelled that the witcher is innocent. How am I to understand that? That Laurelnose thrashed his own arse with his hands? Because if the witcher’s innocent, it couldn’t have been otherwise. Unless it was a mass hallucination.”

“I don’t know anything about any arses or hallucinations,” said Dandilion proudly. “Or anything about laurel noses: I repeat, that the last thing I remember was an elegant woman dressed in tastefully coordinated black and white. She threw me into a shiny hole, a magic portal for sure. But first she gave me a clear and precise errand. As soon as I’d arrived, I was immediately to say, I quote: ‘My wish is for you to believe the witcher is not guilty for what occurred. That, and no other, is my wish.’ Word for word. Indeed, I tried to ask what all this was, what it was all about, and why. The black-haired woman didn’t let me get a word in edgeways. She scolded me most inelegantly, grasped me by the neck and threw me into the portal. That’s all. And now…” Dandilion pulled himself up, brushed his doublet, adjusted his collar and fancy—if dirty—ruffles. “…perhaps, gentlemen, you’d like to tell me the name of the best tavern in town and where it can be found.”

“There are no bad taverns in my town,” said Neville slowly. “But before you see them for yourself, you’ll inspect the best dungeon in this town very thoroughly. You and your companions. Let me remind you that you’re still not free, you scoundrels! Look at them! One tells incredible stories while the other leaps out of the wall and shouts about innocence. I wish, he yells, you to believe me. He has the audacity to wish—”

“My gods!” The priest suddenly grasped his bald crown. “Now I understand! The wish! The last wish!”

“What’s happened to you, Krepp?” The mayor frowned. “Are you ill?”

“The last wish!” repeated the priest. “She made the bard express the last, the third wish. And Yennefer set a magical trap and, no doubt, captured the genie before he managed to escape into his own dimension! Mr. Neville, we must—”

It thundered outside. So strongly that the walls shook.

“Dammit,” muttered the mayor, going up to the window. “That was close. As long as it doesn’t hit a house. All I need now is a fire—Oh gods! Just look! Just look at this! Krepp! What is it?”

All of them, to a man, rushed to the window.

“Mother of mine!” yelled Dandilion, grabbing his throat. “It’s him! It’s that son of a bitch who strangled me!”

“The djinn!” shouted Krepp. “The Air genie!”

“Above Errdil’s tavern!” shouted Chireadan, “above his roof!”

“She’s caught him!” The priest leaned out so far he almost fell. “Can you see the magical light? The sorceress has caught the genie!”

Geralt watched in silence.

Once, years ago, when a little snot-faced brat following his studies in Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Settlement, he and a friend, Eskel, had captured a huge forest bumblebee and tied it to a jug with a thread. They were in fits of laughter watching the antics of the tied bumblebee, until Vesemir, their tutor, caught them at it and tanned their hides with a leather strap.