“I don’t have anything to say to you. I want to see Shrike. Renfri.”

“Do you hear that, boys?” Nohorn looked around at his companions. “He wants to see Renfri. And may I know why?”

“No.”

Nohorn raised his head and looked at the twins as they took a step forward, the silver clasps on their high boots jangling.

“I know,” the man with the plait said suddenly. “I know where I’ve seen him now!”

“What’s that you’re mumbling, Tavik?”

“In front of the alderman’s house. He brought some sort of dragon in to trade, a cross between a spider and a crocodile. People were saying he’s a witcher.”

“And what’s a witcher?” Fifteen asked. “Eh? Civril?”

“A hired magician,” said the half-elf. “A conjurer for a fistful of silver. I told you, a freak of nature. An insult to human and divine laws. They ought to be burned, the likes of him.”

“We don’t like magicians,” screeched Tavik, not taking his narrowed eyes off Geralt. “It seems to me, Civril, that we’re going to have more work in this hole than we thought. There’s more than one of them here and everyone knows they stick together.”

“Birds of a feather.” The half-breed smiled maliciously. “To think the likes of you walk the earth. Who spawns you freaks?”

“A bit more tolerance, if you please,” said Geralt calmly, “as I see your mother must have wandered off through the forest alone often enough to give you good reason to wonder where you come from yourself.”

“Possibly,” answered the half-elf, the smile not leaving his face. “But at least I knew my mother. You witchers can’t say that much about yourselves.”

Geralt grew a little pale and tightened his lips. Nohorn, noticing it, laughed out loud.

“Well, brother, you can’t let an insult like that go by. That thing that you have on your back looks like a sword. So? Are you going outside with Civril? The evening’s so boring.”

The witcher didn’t react.

“Shitty coward,” snorted Tavik.

“What did he say about Civril’s mother?” Nohorn continued monotonously, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Something extremely nasty, as I understood it. That she was an easy lay, or something. Hey, Fifteen, is it right to listen to some straggler insulting a companion’s mother? A mother, you son of a bitch, is sacred!”

Fifteen got up willingly, undid his sword and threw it on the table. He stuck his chest out, adjusted the pads spiked with silver studs on his shoulders, spat and took a step forward.

“If you’ve got any doubts,” said Nohorn, “then Fifteen is challenging you to a fistfight. I told you they’d carry you out of here. Make room.”

Fifteen moved closer and raised his fists. Geralt put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Careful,” he said. “One more step and you’ll be looking for your hand on the floor.”

Nohorn and Tavik leapt up, grabbing their swords. The silent twins drew theirs with identical movements. Fifteen stepped back. Only Civril didn’t move.