“How logical,” said Dandilion with an apelike expression. “I see you’ve studied the philosophers, sir Knight.”

“Don’t butt in.” Geralt raised his head and looked into Falwick’s eyes. “Go on, sir. I’d like to know where this is leading. What would happen if I turned out to be… unworthy?”

“What would happen?” Falwick gave a malicious smile. “I’d order you hung from a branch, you ratcatcher.”

“Hold on,” the dwarf said hoarsely. “Take it easy, sir. And no invective, all right?”

“Don’t you teach me manners, Cranmer,” hissed the knight. “And remember, the prince has given you orders which you’re to execute to the letter.”

“It’s you who shouldn’t be teaching me, Count.” The dwarf rested his hand on the double-headed axe thrust into his belt. “I know how to carry out orders, and I can do without your advice. Allow me, Geralt sir. I’m Dennis Cranmer, captain of Prince Hereward’s guards.”

The witcher bowed stiffly, looking into the dwarf’s eyes, light gray and steel-like beneath the bushy flaxen eyebrows.

“Stand your ground with Tailles, sir,” Dennis Cranmer continued calmly. “It’ll be better that way. It’s not a fight to the death, only until one of you is rendered helpless. So fight in the field and let him render you helpless.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sir Tailles is the prince’s favorite,” said Falwick, smiling spitefully. “If you touch him with your saber during the fight, you mutant, you will be punished. Captain Cranmer will arrest you and take you to face his Highness. To be punished. Those are his orders.”

The dwarf didn’t even glance at the knight; his cold, steel eyes did not leave Geralt.

The witcher smiled faintly but quite nastily. “If I understand correctly,” he said, “I’m to fight the duel because, if I refuse, I’ll be hanged. If I fight, I’m to allow my opponent to injure me because if I wound him, I’ll be put to the rack. What charming alternatives. Maybe I should save you the bother? I’ll thump my head against the pine tree and render myself helpless. Will that grant you satisfaction?”

“Don’t sneer,” hissed Falwick. “Don’t make your situation any worse. You’ve insulted the Order, you vagabond, and you have to be punished for it; do you understand? And young Tailles needs the fame of defeating a witcher, so the Chapter wants to give it to him. Otherwise you’d be hanging already. You allow yourself to be defeated and you save your miserable life. We don’t care about your corpse; we want Tailles to nick your skin. And your mutant skin heals quickly. So, go ahead. Decide. You’ve got no choice.”

“That’s what you think, is it, sir?” Geralt smiled even more nastily and looked around at the soldiers appraisingly. “But I think I do.”

“Yes, that’s true,” admitted Dennis Cranmer. “You do. But then there’ll be bloodshed, great bloodshed. Like at Blaviken. Is that what you want? Do you want to burden your conscience with blood and death? Because the alternative you’re thinking of, Geralt, is blood and death.”