The Witcher

A QUESTION OF PRICE I

The witcher had a knife at his throat.

He was wallowing in a wooden tub, brimful of soapsuds, his head thrown back against its slippery rim. The bitter taste of soap lingered in his mouth as the knife, blunt as a doorknob, scraped his Adam's apple painfully and moved towards his chin with a grating sound.

The barber, with the expression of an artist who is conscious that he is creating a masterpiece, scraped once more for form's sake, then wiped the witcher's face with a piece of linen soaked in tincture of angelica.

Geralt stood up, allowed a servant to pour a bucket of water over him, shook himself and climbed from the tub, leaving wet footmarks on the brick floor.

'Your towel, sir.' The servant glanced curiously at his medallion.

'Thanks.'

'Clothes,' said Haxo. 'Shirt, underpants, trousers and tunic. And boots.'

'You've thought of everything. But can't I go in my own shoes?'

'No. Beer?'

'With pleasure.'

He dressed slowly. The touch of someone else's coarse, unpleasant clothes against his swollen skin spoilt his relaxed mood.

'Castellan?'

'Yes, Geralt?'

'You don't know what this is all about, do you? Why they need me here?'

'It's not my business,' said Haxo, squinting at the servants. 'My job is to get you dressed—'

'Dressed up, you mean.'

'—get you dressed and take you to the banquet, to the queen. Put the tunic on, sir. And hide the medallion beneath it.'

'My dagger was here.'

'It isn't anymore. It's in a safe place, like your swords and your possessions. Nobody carries arms where you're going.'

The witcher shrugged, pulling on the tight purple tunic.

'And what's this?' he asked indicating the embroidery on the front of his outfit.

'Oh yes,' said Haxo. 'I almost forgot. During the banquet you will be the Honourable Ravix of Fourhorn. As guest of honour you will sit at the queen's right hand, such is her wish, and that, on the tunic, is your coat of arms. A bear passant sable, damsel vested azure riding him, her hair loose and arms raised. You should remember it — one of the guests might have a thing about heraldry. It often happens.'

'Of course I'll remember it,' said Geralt seriously. 'And Fourhorn, where's that?'

'Far enough. Ready? Can we go?'

'We can. Just tell me, Haxo, what's this banquet in aid of?'

'Princess Pavetta is turning fifteen and, as is the custom, contenders for her hand have turned up in their dozens. Queen Calanthe wants her to marry someone from Skellige; an alliance with the islanders would mean a lot to us.'

'Why them?'

'Those they're allied with aren't attacked as often as others.'

'A good reason.'

'And not the sole one. In Cintra women can't rule. King Roegner died some time ago and the queen doesn't want another husband: our Lady Calanthe is wise and just, but a king is a king.

Whoever marries the princess will sit on the throne, and we want a tough, decent fellow. They have to be found on the islands. They're a hard nation. Let's go.'

Geralt stopped halfway down the gallery surrounding the small inner courtyard and looked around.

'Castellan,' he said under his breath, 'we're alone. Quickly, tell me why the queen needs a witcher. You of all people must know something.'

'For the same reasons as everyone else,' Haxo grunted. 'Cintra is just like any other country.

We've got werewolves and basilisks and a manticore could be found, too, if you looked hard enough. So a witcher might also come in useful.'

'Don't twist my words, Castellan. I'm asking why the queen needs a witcher in disguise as a bear passont, with hair loose at that, at the banquet.'

Haxo also looked around, and even leant over the gallery balustrade.

'Something bad's happening, Geralt,' he muttered. 'In the castle. Something's frightening people.'

'What?'

'What usually frightens people? A monster. They say it's small, hunchbacked, bristling like a Urcheon. It creeps around the castle at night, rattles chains. Moans and groans in the chambers.'

'Have you seen it?'

'No,' Haxo spat, 'and I don't want to.'

'You're talking nonsense, Castellan,' grimaced the witcher. 'It doesn't make sense. We're going to an engagement feast. What am I supposed to do there? Wait for a hunchback to jump out and groan? Without a weapon? Dressed up like a jester? Haxo?'

'Think what you like,' grumbled the castellan. 'They told me not to tell you anything, but you asked. So I told you. And you tell me I'm talking nonsense. How charming.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Castellan. I was simply surprised . . .'

'Stop being surprised.' Haxo turned away, still sulking. 'Your job isn't to be surprised. And I strongly advise you, witcher, that if the queen orders you to strip n***d, paint your arse blue and hang yourself upside down in the entrance hall like a chandelier, you do it without surprise or hesitation. Otherwise

you might meet with a fair amount of unpleasantness. Have you got that?'

'I've got it. Let's go, Haxo. Whatever happens, that bath's given me an appetite.'

Apart from the curt, ceremonious greetings with which she welcomed him as 'Lord of Fourhorn', Queen Calanthe didn't exchange a single word with the witcher. The banquet was about to begin and the guests, loudly announed by the herald, were gathering.

The table was huge, rectangular, and could seat more than forty men. Calanthe sat at the head of the table on a throne with a high backrest. Geralt sat on her right and, on her left, a grey-haired bard called Drogodar, with a lute. Two more chairs at the head of the table, on the queen's left, remained empty.

To Geralt's right, along the table, sat Haxo and a voivode whose name he'd forgotten. Beyond them were guests from the Duchy of Attre - the sullen and silent knight Rainfarn and his charge, the chubby twelve-year-old Prince Windhalm, one of the pretenders to the princess's hand. Further down were the colourful and motley knights from Cintra, and local vassals.

'Baron Eylembert of Tigg!' announced the herald.

'Coodcoodak!' murmured Calanthe, nudging Drogodar. 'This will be fun.'

A thin and whiskered, richly attired knight bowed low, but his lively, happy eyes and cheerful smirk belied his subservience.

'Greetings, Coodcoodak,' said the queen ceremoniously. Obviously the baron was better known by his nickname than by his family name. 'We are happy to see you.'

'And I am happy to be invited,' declared Coodcoodak, and sighed. 'Oh well, I'll cast an eye on the princess, if you permit, my queen. It's hard to live alone, ma'am.'

'Aye, Coodcoodak,' Calanthe smiled faintly, wrapping a lock of

hair around her finger. 'But you're already married, as we well know.'

'Aaahh.' The baron was miffed. 'You know yourself, ma'am, how weak and delicate my wife is, and smallpox is rife in the neighbourhood. I bet my belt and sword against a pair of old slippers that in a year I'll already be out of mourning.'

'Poor man, Coodcoodak. But lucky, too,' Calanthe's smile grew wider. 'Lucky your wife isn't stronger. I hear that last harvest, when she caught you in the haystack with a strumpet, she chased you for almost a mile with a pitchfork but couldn't catch you. You have to feed her better, cuddle her more and take care that her back doesn't get cold during the night. Then, in a year, you'll see how much better she is.'

Coodcoodak pretended to grow doleful. 'I take your point. But can I stay for the feast?'

'We'd be delighted, Baron.'

'The legation from Skellige!' shouted the herald, becoming increasingly hoarse.

The islanders — four of them, in shiny leather doublets trimmed with seal fur and belted with chequered woollen sashes - strode in with a sprightly, hollow step. They were led by a sinewy warrior with a dark face and aquiline nose and, at his side, a broad-shouldered youth with a mop of red hair. They all bowed before the queen.

'It is a great honour,' said Calanthe, a little flushed, 'to welcome such an excellent knight as Eist Tuirseach of Skellige to my castle again. If it weren't for your well-known disdain for marriage, I'd be delighted to think you're here to court my Pavetta. Has loneliness got the better of you after all, sir?'

'Often enough, beautiful Calanthe,' replied the dark-faced islander, raising his glistening eyes to the queen. 'But my life is too dangerous for me to contemplate a lasting union. If it weren't for that . . . Pavetta is still a young girl, an unopened bud, but I can see . . .'

'See what?'

'The apple does not fall far from the tree,' smiled Eist Tuirseach, flashing his white teeth. 'Suffice it to look at you, my queen, to know how beautiful the princess will be when she reaches the age at which a woman can please a warrior. In the meantime, it is young men who ought to court her. Such as our King Bran's nephew here, Crach an Craite, who travelled here for exactly that purpose.'

Crach, bowing his red head, knelt on one knee before the queen.

'Who else have you brought, Eist?'

A thickset, robust man with a bushy beard, and a strapping fellow with bagpipes on his back, knelt by Crach an Craite.

'This is the gallant druid Mousesack, who, like me, is a good friend and advisor to King Bran.

And this is Draig Bon-Dhu, our famous skald. And thirty seamen from Skellige are waiting in the courtyard, burning with hope to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Calanthe of Cintra.'

'Sit down, noble guests. Tuirseach, sir, sit here.'

Eist took the vacant seat at the narrower end of the table, only separated from the queen by Drogodar and an empty chair. The remaining islanders sat together on the left, between Marshal Vissegerd and the three sons of Lord Strept, Tinglant, Fodcat and Wieldhill.

'That's more or less everyone.' The queen leant over to the marshal. 'Let's begin, Vissegerd.'

The marshal clapped his hands. The servants, carrying platters and jugs, moved towards the table in a long line, greeted by a joyful murmur from the guests.

Calanthe barely ate, reluctantly picking at the morsels served her with a silver fork. Drogodar, having bolted his food, kept strumming his lute. The rest of the guests, on the other hand, laid waste to the roast piglets, birds, fish and molluscs on offer — with the red-haired Crach an Craite in the lead. Rainfarn of Attre reprimanded the young Prince Windhalm severely, even slapping his hand when he reached for a jug of cider. Coodcoodak stopped picking bones for a moment and entertained his neighbours by imitating the whistle of a mud turtle. The atmosphere grew merrier

by the minute. The first toasts were being raised, and already becoming less and less coherent.

Calanthe adjusted the narrow golden circlet on her curled ash-grey hair and turned to Geralt, who was busy cracking open a huge red lobster.

'It's loud enough that we can exchange a few words discreetly. Let us start with courtesies: I'm pleased to meet you.'

'The pleasure's mutual, your Majesty.'

'After the courtesies come hard facts. I've got a job for you.'

'So I gathered. I'm rarely invited to feasts for the pleasure of my company.'

'You're probably not very interesting company, then. What else have you gathered?'

'I'll tell you when you've outlined my task, your Majesty.'

'Geralt,' said Calanthe, her fingers tapping an emerald necklace, the smallest stone of which was the size of a bumble-bee, 'what sort of task do you expect, as a witcher? What? Digging a well? Repairing a hole in the roof? Weaving a tapestry of all the positions King Vridank and the beautiful Cerro tried on their wedding night? Surely you know what your profession's about?'

'Yes, I do. I'll tell you what I've gathered, your Majesty.'

'I'm curious.'

'I gathered that. And that, like many others, you've mistaken my trade for an altogether different profession.'

'Oh?' Calanthe, casually leaning towards the lute-strumming Drogodar, gave the impression of being pensive and absent. 'Who, Geralt, makes up this ignorant horde with whom you equate me? And for what profession do those fools mistake your trade?'

'Your Majesty,' said Geralt calmly, 'while I was riding to Cintra, I met villagers, merchants, peddlers, dwarves, tinkers and woodcutters. They told me about a black annis who has its hideout somewhere in these woods, a little house on a chicken-claw tripod. They mentioned a chimera nestling in the mountains. Aeschnes and centipedeanomorphs. Apparently a manticore could also be found if you look hard enough. So many tasks a witcher could perform without having to dress up in someone else's feathers and coat of arms.'

'You didn't answer my question.'

'Your Majesty, I don't doubt that a marriage alliance with Skellige is necessary for Cintra. It's possible, too, that the schemers who want to prevent it deserve a lesson - using means which don't involve you. It's convenient if this lesson were to be given by an unknown lord from Fourhorn, who would then disappear from the scene. And now I'll answer your question. You mistake my trade for that of a hired killer. Those others, of whom there are so many, are rulers. It's not the first time I've been called to a court where the problems demand the quick solutions of a sword. But I've never killed people for money, regardless of whether it's for a good or bad cause. And I never will.'

The atmosphere at the table was growing more and more lively as the beer diminished. The red-haired Crach an Craite found appreciative listeners to his tale of the battle at Thwyth.

Having sketched a map on the table with the help of meat bones dipped in sauce, he marked out the strategic plan, shouting loudly. Coodcoodak, proving how apt his nickname was, suddenly cackled like a very real sitting hen, creating general mirth among the guests, and consternation among the servants who were convinced that a bird, mocking their vigilance, had somehow managed to make its way from the courtyard into the hall.

'Thus fate has punished me with too shrewd a witcher,' Calanthe smiled, but her eyes were narrowed and angry. 'A witcher who, without a shadow of respect or, at the very least, of common courtesy, exposes my intrigues and infamous plans. But hasn't fascination with my beauty and charming personality clouded your judgement? Don't ever do that again, Geralt.

Don't speak to those in power like that. Few of them would forget your words, and you know kings - they have all sorts of things at their disposal: daggers, poisons, dungeons, red-hot pokers. There are hundreds, thousands, of ways kings can avenge their wounded pride. And you wouldn't believe how easy it is, Geralt, to wound some rulers' pride. Rarely will any of them take words such as 'No', 'I won't',

and 'Never' calmly. But that's nothing. Interrupt one of them or make inappropriate comments, and you'll condemn yourself to the wheel.'

The queen clasped her narrow white hands together and lightly rested her chin on them.

Geralt didn't interrupt, nor did he comment.

'Kings,' continued Calanthe, 'divide people into two categories -those they order around, and those they buy - because they adhere to the old and banal truth that everyone can be bought.

Everyone. It's only a question of price. Don't you agree? Ah, I don't need to ask. You're a witcher, after all, you do your job and take the money. As far as you're concerned the idea of being bought has lost its scornful undertone. The question of your price, too, is clear, related as it is to the difficulty of the task and how well you execute it. And your fame, Geralt. Old men at fairs and markets sing of the exploits of the white-haired witcher from Rivia. If even half of it is true then I wager your services are not cheap. So it would be a waste of money to engage you in such simple, trite matters as palace intrigue or murder. Those can be dealt with by other, cheaper hands.'

'BRAAAK! Ghaaa-braaak!' roared Coodcoodak suddenly, to loud applause. Geralt didn't know which animal he was imitating, but he didn't want to meet anything like it. He turned his head and caught the queen's venomously green glance. Drogodar, his lowered head and face concealed by his curtain of grey hair, quietly strummed his lute.

'Ah, Geralt,' said Calanthe, with a gesture forbidding a servant from refilling her goblet. 'I speak and you remain silent. We're at a feast. We all want to enjoy ourselves. Amuse me. I'm starting to miss your pertinent remarks and perceptive comments. I'd also be pleased to hear a compliment or two, homage or assurance of your obedience. In whichever order you choose.'

'Oh well, your Majesty,' said the witcher, 'I'm not a very interesting dinner companion. I'm amazed to be singled out for the honour of occupying this place. Indeed, someone far more appropriate should have been seated here. Anyone you wished. It

would have sufficed for you to give them the order, or to buy them. It's only a question of price.'

'Go on, go on,' Calanthe tilted her head back and closed her eyes, the semblance of a pleasant smile on her lips.

'So I'm honoured and proud to be sitting by Queen Calanthe of Cintra, whose beauty is surpassed only by her wisdom. I also regard it as a great honour that the queen has heard of me and that, on the basis of what she has heard, does not wish to use me for trivial matters.

Last winter Prince Hrobarik, not being so gracious, tried to hire me to find a beauty who, sick of his vulgar advances, had fled the ball, losing a slipper. It was difficult to convince him that he needed a huntsman, and not a witcher.'

The queen was listening with an enigmatic smile.

'Other rulers, too, unequal to you in wisdom, didn't refrain from proposing trivial tasks. It was usually a question of the murder of a stepson, stepfather, stepmother, uncle, aunt - it's hard to mention them all. They were all of the opinion that it was simply a question of price.'

The queen's smile could have meant anything.

'And so I repeat,' Geralt bowed his head a little, 'that I can't contain my pride to be sitting next to you, ma'am. And pride means a very great deal to us witchers. You wouldn't believe how much. A lord once offended a witcher's pride by proposing a job that wasn't in keeping with either honour or the witcher's code. What's more, he didn't accept a polite refusal and wished to prevent the witcher from leaving his castle. Afterwards everyone agreed this wasn't one of his best ideas.'

'Geralt,' said Calanthe, after a moment's silence, 'you were wrong. You're a very interesting dinner companion.'

Coodcoodak, shaking beer froth from his whiskers and the front of his jacket, craned his neck and gave the penetrating howl of a she-wolf in heat. The dogs in the courtyard, and the entire neighbourhood, echoed the howl.

One of the brothers from Strept dipped his finger in his beer and touched up the thick line around the formation drawn by Crach an Craite.

'Error and incompetence!' he shouted. 'They shouldn't have done that! Here, towards the wing, that's where they should have directed the cavalry, struck the flanks!'

'Ha!' roared Crach an Craite, whacking the table with a bone and splattering his neighbours'

faces and tunics with sauce. 'And so weaken the centre? A key position? Ludicrous!'

'Only someone who's blind or sick in the head would miss the opportunity to manoeuvre in a situation like that!'

'That's it! Quite right!' shouted Windhalm of Attre.

'Who's asking you, you little snot?'

'Snot yourself!'

'Shut your gob or I'll wallop you—'

'Sit on your arse and keep quiet, Crach,' called Eist Tuirseach, interrupting his conversation with Vissegerd. 'Enough of these arguments. Drogodar, sir! Don't waste your talent! Indeed, your beautiful though quiet tunes should be listened to with greater concentration and gravity.

Draig Bon-Dhu, stop scoffing and guzzling! You're not going to impress anyone here like that. Pump up your bagpipes and delight our ears with decent martial music. With your permission, noble Calanthe!'

'Oh mother of mine,' whispered the queen to Geralt, raising her eyes to the vault for a moment in silent resignation. But she nodded her permission, smiling openly and kindly.

'Draig Bon-Dhu,' said Eist, 'play us the song of the battle of Hochebuz. It won't leave us in any doubt as to the tactical manoeuvres of commanders - or as to who acquired immortal fame there! To the health of the heroic Calanthe of Cintra!'

'The health! And glory!' The guests roared, emptying their goblets and clay cups.

Draig Bon-Dhu's bagpipes gave out an ominous drone and burst into a terrible, drawn-out, modulated wail. The guests took up the song, beating out a rhythm on the table with whatever came to hand. Coodcoodak was staring avidly at the goat-leather sack, captivated by the idea of adopting its dreadful tones in his own repertoire.

'Hochebuz,' said Calante, looking at Geralt, 'my first battle.

Although I fear rousing the indignation and contempt of such a proud witcher, I confess that we were fighting for money. Our enemy was burning villages which paid us levies and we, greedy for our tributes, challenged them on the field. A trivial reason, a trivial battle, a trivial three thousand corpses pecked to pieces by the crows. And look - instead of being ashamed I'm proud as a peacock that songs are sung about me. Even when sung to such awful music'

Again she summoned her parody of a smile full of happiness and kindness, and answered the toast raised to her by lifting her own, empty, goblet. Geralt remained silent.

'Let's go on.' Calanthe accepted a pheasant leg offered to her by Drogodar and picked at it gracefully. 'As I said, you've aroused my interest. I've been told that witchers are an interesting caste, but I didn't really believe it. Now I do. When hit you give a note which shows you're fashioned of pure steel, unlike these men moulded from bird s**t. Which doesn't, in any way, change the fact that you're here to execute a task. And you'll do it without being so clever.'

Geralt didn't smile disrespectfully or nastily, although he very much wanted to. He held his silence.

'I thought,' murmured the queen, appearing to give her full attention to the pheasant's thigh,

'that you'd say something. Or smile. No? All the better. Can I consider our negotiations concluded?'

'Unclear tasks,' said the witcher dryly, 'can't be clearly executed.'

'What's unclear? You did, after all, guess correctly. I have plans regarding a marriage alliance with Skellige. These plans are threatened, and I need you to eliminate the treat. But here your shrewdness ends. The supposition that I mistake your trade for that of a hired thug has piqued me greatly. Accept, Geralt, that I belong to that select group of rulers who know exactly what witchers do, and how they ought to be employed. On the other hand, if someone kills as efficiently as you do, even though not for money, he shouldn't be surprised if people credit him with being a professional in that field. Your fame runs ahead of you, Geralt, it's louder than Draig Bon-Dhu's accursed bagpipes, and there are equally few pleasant notes in it.'

The bagpipe player, although he couldn't hear the queen's words, finished his concert. The guests rewarded him with an uproarious ovation and dedicated themselves with renewed zeal to the remains of the banquet, recalling battles and making rude jokes about womenfolk.

Coodcoodak was making a series of loud noises, but there was no way to tell if these were yet another animal imitation, or an attempt to relieve his overloaded stomach.

Eist Tuirseach leant far across the table. 'Your Majesty,' he said, 'there are good reasons, I am sure, for your dedication to the lord from Fourhorn, but it's high time we saw Princess Pavetta. What are we waiting for? Surely not for Crach an Craite to get drunk? And even that moment is almost here.'

'You're right as usual, Eist,' Calanthe smiled warmly. Geralt was amazed by her arsenal of smiles. 'Indeed, I do have important matters to discuss with the Honourable Ravix. I'll dedicate some time to you too, but you know my principle: duty then pleasure. Haxo!'

She raised her hand and beckoned the castellan. Haxo rose without a word, bowed, and quickly ran upstairs, disappearing into the dark gallery. The queen turned to the witcher.

'You heard? We've been debating for too long. If Pavetta has stopped preening in front of the looking-glass she'll be here presently. So prick up your ears because I won't repeat this. I want to achieve the ends which,, to a certain degree, you have guessed. There can be no other solution. As for you, you have a choice. You can be forced to act by my command - I don't wish to dwell on the consequences of disobedience, although obedience will be generously rewarded - or you can render me a paid service. Note that I didn't say 'I can buy you', because I've decided not to offend your witcher's pride. There's a huge difference, isn't there?'

'The magnitude of this difference has somehow escaped my notice.'

'Then pay greater attention. The difference, my dear witcher, is that one who is bought is paid according to the buyer's whim, whereas one who renders a service sets his own price. Is that clear?'

'To a certain extent. Let's say, then, that I choose to serve. Surely I should know what that entails?'

'No. Only a command has to be specific and explicit. A paid service is different. I'm interested in the results, nothing more. How you achieve it is your business.'

Geralt, raising his head, met Mousesack's penetrating black gaze. The druid of Skellige, without taking his eyes from the witcher, was crumbling bread in his hands and dropping it as if lost in thought. Geralt looked down. There on the oak table, crumbs, grains of buckwheat and fragments of lobster shell were moving like ants. They were forming runes which joined up - for a moment - into a word. A question.

Mousesack waited without taking his eyes off him. Geralt, almost imperceptibly, nodded. The druid lowered his eyelids and, with a stony face, swiped the crumbs off the table.

'Honourable gentlemen!' called the herald. 'Pavetta of Cintra!'

The guests grew silent, turning to the stairs.

Preceded by the castellan and a fair-haired page in a scarlet doublet, the princess descended slowly, her head lowered. The colour of her hair was identical to her mother's - ash-grey - but she wore it braided into two thick plaits which reached below her waist. Pavetta was adorned only with a tiara ornamented with a delicately worked jewel and a belt of tiny golden links which girded her long silvery-blue dress at the hips.

Escorted by the page, herald, castellan and Vissegerd, the princess occupied the empty chair between Drogodar and Eist Tuir-seach. The knightly islander immediately filled her goblet and entertained her with conversation. Geralt didn't notice her answer with more than a word.

Her eyes were permanently lowered, hidden behind her long lashes even during the noisy toasts raised to her around the table. There was no doubt her beauty had impressed the guests

- Crach an Craite stopped shouting and stared at Pavetta in silence, even forgetting his tankard of beer.

Windhalm of Attre was also devouring the princess with his eyes, flushing shades of red as though only a few grains in the hourglass separated them from their wedding night.

Coodcoodak and the brothers from Strept were studying the girl's petite face, too, with suspicious concentration.

'Aha,' said Calanthe quietly, clearly pleased. 'And what do you say, Geralt? The girl has taken after her mother. It's even a shame to waste her on that red-haired lout, Crach. The only hope is that the pup might grow into someone with Eist Tuirseach's class. It's the same blood, after all. Are you listening, Geralt? Cintra has to form an alliance with Skellige because the interest of the state demands it. My daughter has to marry the right person. Those are the results you must ensure me.'

'I have to ensure that? Isn't your will alone sufficient for it to happen?'

'Events might take such a turn that it won't be sufficient.'

'What can be stronger than your will?'

'Destiny.'

'Aha. So I, a poor witcher, am to face down a destiny which is stronger than the royal will. A witcher fighting destiny! What irony!'

'Yes, Geralt? What irony?'

'Never mind. Your Majesty, it seems the service you demand borders on the impossible.'

'If it bordered on the possible,' Calanthe drawled, 'I would manage it myself. I wouldn't need the famous Geralt of Rivia. Stop being so clever. Everything can be dealt with - it's only a question of price. b****y hell, there must be a figure on your witchers' pricelist for work that borders on the impossible. I can guess one, and it isn't low. You ensure me my outcome and I will give you what you ask.'

'What did you say?'

'I'll give you whatever you ask for. And I don't like being told to repeat myself. I wonder, witcher, do you always try to dissuade your employers as strongly as you are me? Time is slipping away. Answer, yes or no?'

'Yes.'