“What’s going on here, dammit? Can’t I leave you alone for a minute?”

Geralt turned round very slowly and looked into eyes the color of the sea.

She was almost as tall as him. She wore her straw-colored hair unevenly cut, just below the ears. She stood with one hand on the door, wearing a tight, velvet jacket clasped with a decorated belt. Her skirt was uneven, asymmetrical—reaching down to her calf on the left side and, on the right, revealing a strong thigh above a boot made of elk’s leather. On her left side, she carried a sword; on her right, a dagger with a huge ruby set in its pommel.

“Lost your voices?”

“He’s a witcher,” mumbled Nohorn.

“So what?”

“He wanted to talk to you.”

“So what?”

“He’s a sorcerer!” Fifteen roared.

“We don’t like sorcerers,” snarled Tavik.

“Take it easy, boys,” said the girl. “He wants to talk to me; that’s no crime. You carry on having a good time. And no trouble. Tomorrow’s market day. Surely you don’t want your pranks to disrupt the market, such an important event in the life of this pleasant town?”

A quiet, nasty giggle reverberated in the silence which fell. Civril, still sprawled out carelessly on the bench, was laughing.

“Come on, Renfri,” chuckled the half-blood. “Important…event!”

“Shut up, Civril. Immediately.”

Civril stopped laughing. Immediately. Geralt wasn’t surprised. There was something very strange in Renfri’s voice—something associated with the red reflection of fire on blades, the wailing of people being murdered, the whinnying of horses and the smell of blood. Others must also have had similar associations—even Tavik’s weather-beaten face grew pale.

“Well, white-hair,” Renfri broke the silence. “Let’s go into the larger room. Let’s join the alderman you came with. He wants to talk to me too, no doubt.”

At the sight of them, Caldemeyn, who was waiting at the counter, broke off his quiet conversation with the innkeeper, straightened himself and folded his arms across his chest.

“Listen, young lady,” he said severely, not wasting time with banal niceties, “I know from this witcher of Rivia here what brings you to Blaviken. Apparently you bear a grudge against our wizard.”

“Maybe. What of it?” asked Renfri quietly, in an equally brusque tone.

“Only that there are tribunals to deal with grudges like that. He who wants to revenge a grudge using steel—here in Arcsea—is considered a common bandit. And also, that either you get out of Blaviken early in the morning with your black companions, or I throw you into prison, pre—How do you say it, Geralt?”

“Preventively.”

“Exactly. Understood, young lady?”

Renfri reached into the purse on her belt and pulled out a parchment which had been folded several times.

“Read this, Alderman. If you’re literate. And don’t call me ‘young lady.’ ”

Caldemeyn took the parchment, spent a long time reading it, then, without a word, gave it to Geralt.

“ ‘To my regents, vassals and freemen subjects,’ ” the witcher read out loud. “ ‘To all and sundry. I proclaim that Renfri, the Princess of Creyden, remains in our service and is well seen by us; whosoever dares maltreet her will incur our wrath. Audoen, King—’Maltreat is not spelled like that. But the seal appears authentic.”