“Can you see it?” repeated Nivellen, baring his fangs.

“I can.”

“Who are you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand?” The monster raised his head; his eyes shone like a cat’s. “My portrait is hung beyond the candlelight. I can see it, but I’m not human. At least, not at the moment. A human, looking at my portrait, would get up, go closer and, no doubt, have to take the candlestick with him. You didn’t do that, so the conclusion is simple. But I’m asking you plainly: are you human?”

Geralt didn’t lower his eyes. “If that’s the way you put it,” he answered after a moment’s silence, “then, not quite.”

“Ah. Surely it won’t be tactless if I ask, in that case, what you are?”

“A witcher.”

“Ah,” Nivellen repeated after a moment. “If I remember rightly, witchers earn their living in an interesting way—they kill monsters for money.”

“You remember correctly.”

Silence fell again. Candle flames pulsated, flicked upward in thin wisps of fire, glimmering in the cut-crystal chalices. Cascades of wax trickled down the candlestick.

Nivellen sat still, lightly twitching his enormous ears. “Let’s assume,” he said finally, “that you draw your sword before I jump on you. Let’s assume you even manage to cut me down. With my weight, that won’t stop me; I’ll take you down through sheer momentum. And then it’s teeth that’ll decide. What do you think, witcher, which one of us has a better chance if it comes to biting each other’s throats?”

Geralt, steadying the carafe’s pewter stopper with his thumb, poured himself some wine, took a sip and leaned back into his chair. He was watching the monster with a smile. An exceptionally ugly one.

“Yeeees,” said Nivellen slowly, digging at the corner of his jaws with his claw. “One has to admit you can answer questions without using many words. It’ll be interesting to see how you manage the next one. Who paid you to deal with me?”

“No one. I’m here by accident.”

“You’re not lying, by any chance?”

“I’m not in the habit of lying.”

“And what are you in the habit of doing? I’ve heard about witchers—they abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They’re taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them. They’re turned into monsters in order to kill other monsters. I’ve heard it said it’s high time someone started hunting witchers, as there are fewer and fewer monsters and more and more witchers. Do have some partridge before it’s completely cold.”

Nivellen took the partridge from the dish, put it between his jaws and crunched it like a piece of toast, bones cracking as they were crushed between his teeth.

“Why don’t you say anything?” he asked indistinctly, swallowing. “How much of the rumors about you witchers is true?”

“Practically nothing.”

“And what’s a lie?”

“That there are fewer and fewer monsters.”

“True. There’s a fair number of them.” Nivellen bared his fangs. “One is sitting in front of you wondering if he did the right thing by inviting you in. I didn’t like your guild badge right from the start, dear guest.”