'My grandmother,' Ciri nodded in understanding, 'thrashed me once, too. With a switch.'
'A switch?' The dwarf laughed. 'Mine whacked me once with a pickaxe handle. But that's enough reminiscing, we have to roll the pellets. Here, tear this up and mould it into little balls.'
'What is it? It's sticky and messy . . . Eeeuuggh . . . What a stink!'
'It's mouldy oil-meal bread. Excellent medicine. Roll it into little halls. Smaller, smaller, they're for a magician, not a cow. Give me one. Good. Now we're going to roll the ball in medicine.'
' Eeeeuuuugggghh!'
'Stinks?' The dwarf brought his upturned nose closer to the clay pot. 'Impossible. Crushed garlic and bitter salt has no right to slink, even if it's a hundred years old.'
'It's foul, uugghh. Triss won't eat that!'
'We'll use
