‘Not at all. I heard he said: “Angoulême’s finally got what she had coming to her: a stake up the arse”.’

‘Oh, the boor. Vulgar, loutish chump. Prefect Fulko would call him the arse end of society. To me he’s what comes out of the arse!’

‘You’d be better off, Flaxenhair, saying things like that out of his earshot. And not hanging around Belhaven, give it a wide birth. And if you have to enter the town, better go in disguise—’

‘Hey, Golan, don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Then listen, dwarf.’ Angoulême rested a boot on a step leading to the joinery shop. ‘I’ll ask you a question. Don’t hurry with the answer. Think it over well.’

‘Ask away.’

‘A half-elf hasn’t caught your eye recently, by any chance? A stranger, not from round here?’

Golan Drozdeck breathed in, sneezed loudly and wiped his nose on his wrist.

‘A half-elf you say? What half-elf?’

‘Don’t play the fool, Drozdeck. The one who hired Nightingale for a contract. A contract killing. Of a witcher…’

‘A witcher?’ Golan Drozdeck laughed, picking his board up from the ground. ‘Well I never! Believe it or not, we’re looking for a witcher. Look, we’re painting signs and putting them up all around here. See: “Witcher wanted, decent pay, board and lodgings included. Particulars at the office of the Petite Babette ore mine”. How’s it spelt, anyway? “Particulars” or “putticulars”?’

‘Just paint it out and write “details”. What do you need a witcher at the mine for?’

‘Now she’s asking. Monsters, of course.’

‘Like what?’

‘Vespertyls and barbegazis. They’re running rampant in the lower galleries.’

Angoulême glanced at Geralt, who nodded to confirm he knew what that was about. And coughed meaningfully to signal that she ought to get back to the subject.

‘Getting back to the subject–’ the girl understood at once ‘–what do you know about that half-elf?’

‘I don’t know nothing about no ‘alf-elf.’

‘I told you to think it over well.’

‘So I did.’ Golan Drozdeck suddenly assumed a sly expression. ‘And I decided it doesn’t pay to know anything about this case.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, it’s shaky here. The ground’s shaky and the times are shaky. Gangs, Nilfgaardians, partisans from the Free Slopes… And diverse foreign elements, half-elves. Each one raring to commit assault…’

‘Meaning?’ Angoulême wrinkled her nose.

‘Meaning you owe me money, Flaxenhair. And rather than pay it back, you’re getting deeper into debt. Serious debt, because you might get a whack on the head for what you’re asking, and not with a bare hand, but an axe. What kind of business is that for me? Will it pay if I do know something about the half-elf, eh? Will I get anything out of it? For if it’s only risk and no profit—’