“Because it is authentic,” said Renfri, snatching the parchment from him. “It was affixed by Audoen, your merciful lord. That’s why I don’t advise you to maltreat me. Irrespective of how you spell it, the consequences for you would be lamentable. You are not, honorable Alderman, going to put me in prison. Or call me ‘young lady.’ I haven’t infringed any law. For the time being.”

“If you infringe by even an inch”—Caldemeyn looked as if he wanted to spit—“I’ll throw you in the dungeon together with this piece of paper. I swear on all the gods, young lady. Come on, Geralt.”

“With you, witcher.” Renfri touched Geralt’s shoulder. “I’d still like a word.”

“Don’t be late for supper,” the alderman threw over his shoulder, “or Libushe will be furious.”

“I won’t.”

Geralt leaned against the counter. Fiddling with the wolf’s head medallion hanging around his neck, he looked into the girl’s blue-green eyes.

“I’ve heard about you,” she said. “You’re Geralt, the white-haired witcher from Rivia. Is Stregobor your friend?”

“No.”

“That makes things easier.”

“Not much. Don’t expect me to look on peacefully.”

Renfri’s eyes narrowed.

“Stregobor dies tomorrow,” she said quietly, brushing the unevenly cut hair off her forehead. “It would be the lesser evil if he died alone.”

“If he did, yes. But in fact, before Stregobor dies, several other people will die too. I don’t see any other possibility.”

“Several, witcher, is putting it mildly.”

“You need more than words to frighten me, Shrike.”

“Don’t call me Shrike. I don’t like it. The point is, I see other possibilities. It would be worth talking it over…but Libushe is waiting. Is she pretty, this Libushe?”

“Is that all you had to say to me?”

“No. But you should go. Libushe’s waiting.”

IV

There was someone in his little attic room. Geralt knew it before he even reached the door, sensing it through the barely perceptible vibration of his medallion. He blew out the oil lamp which had lit his path up the stairs, pulled the dagger from his boot, slipped it into the back of his belt and pressed the door handle. The room was dark. But not for a witcher.

He was deliberately slow in crossing the threshold; he closed the door behind him carefully. The next second he dived at the person sitting on his bed, crushed them into the linen, forced his forearm under their chin and reached for his dagger. He didn’t pull it out. Something wasn’t right.

“Not a bad start,” she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless beneath him. “I expected something like this, but I didn’t think we’d both be in bed so quickly. Take your hand from my throat please.”

“It’s you.”

“It’s me. Now there are two possibilities. The first: you get off me and we talk. The second: we stay in this position, in which case I’d like to take my boots off at least.”

The witcher released the girl, who sighed, sat up and adjusted her hair and skirt.