“True.”

“In the past, when unicorns still existed, there was quite a large group of girls who took care of their virtue in order to be able to hunt them. Do you remember? And the ratcatchers with pipes? Everybody was fighting over their services. But they were finished off by alchemists and their effective poisons and then domesticated ferrets and weasels. The little animals were cheaper, nicer and didn’t guzzle so much beer. Notice the analogy?”

“I do.”

“So use other people’s experiences. The unicorn virgins, when they lost their jobs, immediately popped their cherry. Some, eager to make up for the years of sacrifice, became famous far and wide for their technique and zeal. The ratcatchers… Well, you’d better not copy them, because they, to a man, took to drink and went to the dogs. Well, now it looks as if the time’s come for witchers. You’re reading Roderick de Novembre? As far as I remember, there are mentions of witchers there, of the first ones who started work some three hundred years ago. In the days when the peasants used to go to reap the harvest in armed bands, when villages were surrounded by a triple stockade, when merchant caravans looked like the march of regular troops, and loaded catapults stood on the ramparts of the few towns night and day. Because it was us, human beings, who were the intruders here. This land was ruled by dragons, manticores, griffins and amphisboenas, vampires and werewolves, striga, kikimoras, chimera and flying drakes. And this land had to be taken from them bit by bit, every valley, every mountain pass, every forest and every meadow. And we didn’t manage that without the invaluable help of witchers. But those times have gone, Geralt, irrevocably gone. The baron won’t allow a fork-tail to be killed because it’s the last draconid for a thousand miles and no longer gives rise to fear but rather to compassion and nostalgia for times passed. The troll under the bridge gets on with people. He’s not a monster used to frighten children. He’s a relic and a local attraction—and a useful one at that. And chimera, manticores and amphisboenas? They dwell in virgin forests and inaccessible mountains—”

“So I was right. Something is coming to an end. Whether you like it or not, something’s coming to an end.”

“I don’t like you mouthing banal platitudes. I don’t like your expression when you do it. What’s happening to you? I don’t recognize you, Geralt. Ah, plague on it, let’s go south as soon as possible, to those wild countries. As soon as you’ve cut down a couple of monsters, your blues will disappear. And there’s supposed to be a fair number of monsters down there. They say that when an old woman’s tired of life, she goes alone and weaponless into the woods to collect brushwood. The consequences are guaranteed. You should go and settle there for good.”

“Maybe I should. But I won’t.”

“Why? It’s easier for a witcher to make money there.”