“And you?” asked the witcher quietly, almost in a whisper.

“I can’t choose, either.”

“What are you?”

“I am what I am.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m…cold…”

“Renfri!” Geralt squeezed the medallion tightly in his hand.

She tossed her head as if waking up, and blinked several times, surprised. For a very brief moment she looked frightened.

“You’ve won,” she said sharply. “You win, witcher. Tomorrow morning I’ll leave Blaviken and never return to this rotten town. Never. Now pass me the wineskin.”

Her usual derisive smile returned as she put her empty tumbler back on the table. “Geralt?”

“I’m here.”

“That bloody roof is steep. I’d prefer to leave at dawn than fall and hurt myself in the dark. I’m a princess and my body’s delicate. I can feel a pea under a mattress—as long as it’s not well-stuffed with straw, obviously. How about it?”

“Renfri”—Geralt smiled despite himself—“is that really befitting of a princess?”

“What do you know about princesses, dammit? I’ve lived as one and the joy of it is being able to do what you like. Do I have to tell you straight out what I want?”

Geralt, still smiling, didn’t reply.

“I can’t believe you don’t find me attractive.” Renfri grimaced. “Are you afraid you’ll meet the freeman’s sticky fate? Eh, white-hair, I haven’t got anything sharp on me. Have a look for yourself.”

She put her legs on his knees. “Pull my boots off. A high boot is the best place to hide a knife.”

Barefoot, she got up, tore at the buckle of her belt. “I’m not hiding anything here, either. Or here, as you can see. Put that bloody candle out.”

Outside, in the darkness, a cat yawled.

“Renfri?”

“What?”

“Is this cambric?”

“Of course it is, dammit. Am I a princess or not?”

V

“Daddy,” Marilka nagged monotonously, “when are we going to the market? To the market, Daddy!”

“Quiet, Marilka,” grunted Caldemeyn, wiping his plate with his bread. “So what were you saying, Geralt? They’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“I never thought it would end so peacefully. They had me by the throat with that letter from Audoen. I put on a brave face but, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t do a thing to them.”

“Even if they openly broke the law? Started a fight?”

“Even if they did. Audoen’s a very touchy king. He sends people to the scaffold on a whim. I’ve got a wife, a daughter, and I’m happy with my office. I don’t have to worry where the bacon will come from tomorrow. It’s good news that they’re leaving. But how, and why, did it happen?”

“Daddy, I want to go to the market!”

“Libushe! Take Marilka away! Geralt, I asked Centurion, the Golden Court’s innkeeper, about that Novigradian company. They’re quite a gang. Some of them were recognized.”

“Yes?”

“The one with the gash across his face is Nohorn, Abergard’s old adjutant from the so-called Free Angren Company—you’ll have heard of them. That hulk they call Fifteen was one of theirs too and I don’t think his nickname comes from fifteen good deeds. The half-elf is Civril, a brigand and professional murderer. Apparently, he had something to do with the massacre at Tridam.”