‘To have a chat with one of my mates. The foreman here. Follow me. Ah, I can see him! Over there, outside the joiner’s shop. Let’s go.’

‘You mean that dwarf?’

‘Yeah. He’s called Golan Drozdeck. As I said, he’s—’

‘The foreman here. You said. You didn’t say, though, what you want to chat with him about.’

‘Look at your boots.’

Geralt and Cahir obediently examined their footwear, which was covered in sludge of a strange, reddish hue.

‘The half-elf we’re seeking,’ Angoulême anticipated the question, ‘had the same crimson mud on his shoes when he was talking to Nightingale. Get it?’

‘I do now. And the dwarf?’

‘Don’t say a word to him. I’ll do the talking. He should take you for types that don’t talk, just cleave. Look tough.’

They didn’t have to make a special effort. Some of the miners who were watching quickly looked away, others froze with mouths open. The ones in their way hurriedly stood aside. Geralt guessed why. He and Cahir still had visible bruises, cuts and swellings–vivid tokens of their fight and the hiding Milva had given them. They looked like types who took pleasure from punching each other in the face, and wouldn’t need much persuasion to punch someone else.

The dwarf, Angoulême’s mate, was standing outside a building bearing the sign ‘joinery shop’ and painting something on a board made of two planed staves. He saw them coming, put down his brush and tin of paint and scowled. Then an expression of utter amazement suddenly appeared behind his paint-spattered beard.

‘Angoulême?’

‘What cheer, Drozdeck?’

‘Is it you?’ The dwarf’s hairy jaw fell open. ‘Is it really you?’

‘No. It isn’t. It’s the freshly resurrected prophet Lebioda. Ask me another, Golan. A more intelligent one, perhaps.’

‘Don’t mock, Flaxenhair. I never expected to see you again. Mulica were ‘ere five days since, he says they nabbed you and stuck you on a stake in Riedbrune. He vowed it were true!’

‘Everything has its benefits,’ the girl shrugged. ‘Next time Mulica borrows some money and vows he’ll pay it back you’ll know what his vow’s worth.’

‘I knew that before,’ the dwarf replied, blinking quickly and twitching his nose like a rabbit. ‘I wouldn’t lend ‘im a broken farthing, even if he bent down and licked my boots. But you’re alive and kicking, I’m glad, I’m glad. Hey! Perhaps you’ll pay back your debt too, eh?’

‘P’raps. Who knows?’

‘And who’ve you got with you? Eh, Flaxenhair?’

‘Sound fellows.’

‘Righto, mates… And where are the gods leading you?’

‘Astray, as usual.’ Angoulême, unconcerned by the Witcher looking daggers at her, sniffed up a pinch of fisstech, rubbing the rest into her gum. ‘Fancy a snort, Golan?’

‘I should say.’ The dwarf took and inhaled a pinch of the narcotic.