“Exert your memory, friend,” Caldemeyn said to the innkeeper, leaning across the counter in order to be heard over the din. “Six men and a wench, all dressed in black leather studded with silver in the Novigradian style. I saw them at the turnpike. Are they staying here or at The Tuna Fish?”

The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his striped apron.

“Here, Alderman,” he finally said. “They say they’ve come for the market but they all carry swords, even the woman. Dressed, as you said, in black.”

“Well.” The alderman nodded. “Where are they now? I don’t see them here.”

“In the lesser alcove. They paid in gold.”

“I’ll go in alone,” said Geralt. “There’s no point in making this an official affair in front of them all, at least for the time being. I’ll bring her here.”

“Maybe that’s best. But be careful, I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’ll be careful.”

The seamen’s song, judging by the growing intensity of obscene words, was reaching its grand finale. Geralt drew aside the curtain—stiff and sticky with dirt—which hid the entrance to the alcove.

Six men were seated at the table. Shrike wasn’t with them.

“What’d’you want?” yelled the man who noticed him first. He was balding and his face was disfigured by a scar which ran across his left eyebrow, the bridge of his nose and his right cheek.

“I want to see Shrike.”

Two identical figures stood up—identical motionless faces and fair, disheveled, shoulder-length hair, identical tight-fitting black outfits glistening with silver ornaments. And with identical movements, the twins took identical swords from the bench.

“Keep calm, Vyr. Sit down, Nimir,” said the man with the scar, leaning his elbows on the table. “Who d’you say you want to see, brother? Who’s Shrike?”

“You know very well who I mean.”

“Who’s this, then?” asked a half-naked athlete, sweaty, girded crosswise with belts, and wearing spiked pads on his forearms. “D’you know him, Nohorn?”

“No,” said the man with the scar.

“It’s some albino,” giggled a slim, dark-haired man sitting next to Nohorn. Delicate features, enormous black eyes and pointed ears betrayed him to be a half-blood elf. “Albino, mutant, freak of nature. And this sort of thing is allowed to enter pubs among decent people.”

“I’ve seen him somewhere before,” said a stocky, weather-beaten man with a plait, measuring Geralt with an evil look in his narrowed eyes.

“Doesn’t matter where you’ve seen him, Tavik,” said Nohorn. “Listen here. Civril insulted you terribly a moment ago. Aren’t you going to challenge him? It’s such a boring evening.”

“No,” said the witcher calmly.

“And me, if I pour this fish soup over your head, are you going to challenge me?” cackled the man sitting naked to the waist.

“Keep calm, Fifteen,” said Nohorn. “He said no, that means no. For the time being. Well, brother, say what you have to say and clear out. You’ve got one chance to clear out on your own. You don’t take it, the attendants will carry you out.”