“I’ll give you a couple of examples,” said Geralt after a moment’s silence, “all from two months this side of the Buina. One day I ride up and what do I see? A bridge. And under that bridge sits a troll and demands every passerby pays him. Those who refuse have a leg injured, sometimes both. So I go to the alderman: ‘How much will you give me for that troll?’ He’s amazed. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asks. ‘Who will repair the bridge if the troll’s not there? He repairs it regularly with the sweat of his brow, solid work, first rate. It’s cheaper to pay his toll.’ So I ride on, and what do I see? A forktail. Not very big, about four yards nose-tip to tail-tip. It’s flying, carrying a sheep in its talons. I go to the village. ‘How much,’ I ask, ‘will you pay me for the forktail?’ The peasants fall on their knees. ‘No!’ they shout. ‘It’s our baron’s youngest daughter’s favorite dragon. If a scale falls from its back, the baron will burn our hamlet, and skin us.’ I ride on, and I’m getting hungrier and hungrier. I ask around for work. Certainly it’s there, but what work? To catch a rusalka for one man, a nymph for another, a dryad for a third… They’ve gone completely mad—the villages are teeming with girls but they want humanoids. Another asks me to kill a mecopteran and bring him a bone from its hand because, crushed and poured into a soup, it cures impotence—”

“That’s rubbish,” interrupted Dandilion. “I’ve tried it. It doesn’t strengthen anything and it makes the soup taste of old socks. But if people believe it and are inclined to pay—”

“I’m not going to kill mecopterans. Nor any other harmless creatures.”

“Then you’ll go hungry. Unless you change your line of work.”

“To what?”

“Whatever. Become a priest. You wouldn’t be bad at it with all your scruples, your morality, your knowledge of people and of everything. The fact that you don’t believe in any gods shouldn’t be a problem—I don’t know many priests who do. Become a priest and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m stating the facts.”

Dandilion crossed his legs and examined his worn sole with interest. “You remind me, Geralt, of an old fisherman who, toward the end of his life, discovers that fish stink and the breeze from the sea makes your bones ache. Be consistent. Talking and regretting won’t get you anywhere. If I were to find that the demand for poetry had come to an end, I’d hang up my lute and become a gardener. I’d grow roses.”

“Nonsense. You’re not capable of giving it up.”

“Well,” agreed the poet, still staring at his sole, “maybe not. But our professions differ somewhat. The demand for poetry and the sound of lute strings will never decline. It’s worse with your trade. You witchers, after all, deprive yourselves of work, slowly but surely. The better and the more conscientiously you work, the less work there is for you. After all, your goal is a world without monsters, a world which is peaceful and safe. A world where witchers are unnecessary. A paradox, isn’t it?”