“What are they doing?” Dandilion was curious. “Tell me, dammit!”

The elf smiled. Very, very sadly. “I don’t like grand words,” he said. “And it’s impossible to give it a name without using grand words.”

THE VOICE OF REASON

I

Falwick, in full armor, without a helmet and with the crimson coat of the Order flung over his shoulder, stood in the glade. Next to him, with his arms across his chest, was a stocky, bearded dwarf in an overcoat lined with fox fur over, a chain-mail shirt of iron rings. Tailles, wearing no armor but a short, quilted doublet, paced slowly, brandishing his unsheathed sword from time to time.

The witcher looked about, restraining his horse. All around glinted the cuirasses and flat helmets of soldiers armed with lances.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Geralt. “I might have expected this.”

Dandilion turned his horse and quietly cursed at the sight of the lances cutting off their retreat.

“What’s this about, Geralt?”

“Nothing. Keep your mouth shut and don’t butt in. I’ll try to lie my way out of it somehow.”

“What’s it about, I ask you? More trouble?”

“Shut up.”

“It was a stupid idea after all, to ride into town,” groaned the troubadour, glancing toward the nearby towers of the temple visible above the forest. “We should have stayed at Nenneke’s and not stirred beyond the walls—”

“Shut up. It’ll all become clear, you’ll see.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Dandilion was right. It didn’t. Tailles, brandishing his naked sword, continued pacing without looking in their direction. The soldiers, leaning on their spears, were watching gloomily and indifferently, with the expression of professionals for whom killing does not provoke much interest.

They dismounted. Falwick and the dwarf slowly approached.

“You’ve insulted Tailles, a man of good birth, witcher,” said the count without preamble or the customary courtesies. “And Tailles, as you no doubt remember, threw down the gauntlet. It was not fit to press you within the grounds of the temple, so we waited until you emerged from behind the priestess’s skirt. Tailles is waiting. You must fight.”

“Must?”

“Must.”

“But do you not think, Falwick”—Geralt smiled disapprovingly—“that Tailles, a man of good birth, does me too much honor? I never attained the honor of being knighted, and it’s best not to mention the circumstances of my birth. I fear I’m not sufficiently worthy of… How does one say it, Dandilion?”

“Unfit to give satisfaction and joust in the lists,” recited the poet, pouting. “The code of chivalry proclaims—”

“The Chapter of the Order is governed by its own code,” interrupted Falwick. “If it were you who challenged a Knight of the Order, he could either refuse or grant you satisfaction, according to his will. But this is the reverse: it is the knight who challenges you and by this he raises you to his own level—but, of course, only for the time it takes to avenge the insult. You can’t refuse. The refusal of accepting the dignity would render you unworthy.”