Falwick ran up to him.

Geralt dug his sword into the ground and turned around.

“Hey, guards!” yelled Falwick, getting up. “Take him!”

“Stand still! To your places!” growled Dennis Cranmer, touching his axe. The soldiers froze.

“No, Count,” the dwarf said slowly. “I always execute orders to the letter. The witcher did not touch Tailles. The kid hit himself with his own iron. His hard luck.”

“His face is destroyed! He’s disfigured for life!”

“Skin heals.” Dennis Cranmer fixed his steel eyes on the witcher and bared his teeth. “And the scar? For a knight, a scar is a commendable reminder, a reason for fame and glory, which the Chapter so desired for him. A knight without a scar is a prick, not a knight. Ask him, Count, and you’ll see that he’s pleased.”

Tailles was writhing on the ground, spitting blood, whimpering and wailing; he didn’t look pleased in the least.

“Cranmer!” roared Falwick, tearing his sword from the ground, “you’ll be sorry for this, I swear!”

The dwarf turned around, slowly pulled the axe from his belt, coughed and spat into his palm. “Oh, Count, sir,” he rasped. “Don’t perjure yourself. I can’t stand perjurers and Prince Hereward has given me the right to punish them. I’ll turn a deaf ear to your stupid words. But don’t repeat them, if you please.”

“Witcher.” Falwick, puffing with rage, turned to Geralt. “Get yourself out of Ellander. Immediately. Without a moment’s delay!”

“I rarely agree with him,” muttered Dennis, approaching the witcher and returning his sword, “but in this case he’s right. I’d ride out pretty quick.”

“We’ll do as you advise.” Geralt slung the belt across his back. “But before that, I have words for the count. Falwick!”

The Knight of the White Rose blinked nervously and wiped his palms on his coat.

“Let’s just go back to your Chapter’s code for a minute,” continued the witcher, trying not to smile. “One thing really interests me. If I, let us say, felt disgusted and insulted by your attitude in this whole affair, if I challenged you to the sword right now, what would you do? Would you consider me sufficiently worthy to cross blades with? Or would you refuse, even though you knew that by doing so I would take you to be unworthy even to be spat on, punched in the face and kicked in the arse under the eyes of the foot soldiers? Count Falwick, be so gracious as to satisfy my curiosity.”

Falwick grew pale, took a step back, looked around. The soldiers avoided his eyes. Dennis Cranmer grimaced, stuck his tongue out and sent a jet of saliva a fair distance.

“Even though you’re not saying anything,” continued Geralt, “I can hear the voice of reason in your silence, Falwick, sir. You’ve satisfied my curiosity; now I’ll satisfy yours. If the Order bothers Mother Nenneke or the priestesses in any way, or unduly intrudes upon Captain Cranmer, then may you know, Count, that I’ll find you and, not caring about any code, will bleed you like a pig.”