Some wench, a young one judging by her voice, was screaming hysterically.

'Let me go! There are wounded there! I've got to… I'm a medical student, Dandilion! Let me go, do you hear?'

'You can't help them,' replied Dandilion in a dull voice. 'Not after a witcher's sword… Don't even go there. Don't look… I beg you, Shani, don't look.'

Toublanc felt someone kneel next to him. He detected the scent of perfume and wet feathers. He heard a quiet, gentle, soothing voice. It was hard to make out the words, the annoying screams and sobs of the young wench interfered. Of that… medical student. But if it was the medical student who was yelling then who was kneeling next to him? Toublanc groaned.

'… be all right. Everything will be all right.'

'The son… of… a… bitch,' he grunted. 'Rience… He told us… An ordinary fool… But it… was a witcher… Caa… tch… Heee… elp… My… guts…'

'Quiet, quiet, my son. Keep calm. It's all right. It doesn't hurt

any more. Isn't that right, it doesn't hurt? Tell me who called you up here? Who introduced you to Rience? Who recommended him? Who got you into this? Tell me, please, my son. And then everything will be all right. You'll see, it'll be all right. Tell me, please.'

Toublanc tasted blood in his mouth. But he did not have the strength to spit it out. His cheek pressing into the wet earth, he opened his mouth and blood poured out.

He no longer felt anything.

'Tell me,' the gentle voice kept repeating. 'Tell me, my son.'

Toublanc Michelet, professional murderer since the age of fourteen, closed his eyes and smiled a bloodied smile. And whispered what he knew.

And when he opened his eyes, he saw a stiletto with a narrow blade and a tiny golden hilt.

'Don't be frightened,' said the gentle voice as the point of the stiletto touched his temple. 'This won't hurt.'

Indeed, it did not hurt.

He caught up with the sorcerer at the last moment, just in front of the portal. Having already thrown his sword aside, his hands were free and his fingers, extended in a leap, dug into the edge of Rience's cloak. Rience lost his balance; the tug had bent him backwards, forcing him to totter back. He struggled furiously, violently ripped the cloak from clasp to clasp and freed himself. Too late.

Geralt spun him round by hitting him in the shoulder with his right hand, then immediately struck him in the neck under the ear with his left. Rience reeled but did not fall. The witcher, jumping softly, caught up with him and forcefully dug his fist under his ribs. The sorcerer moaned and drooped over the fist. Geralt grabbed him by the front of his doublet, spun him and threw him to the ground. Pressed down by the witcher's knee, Rience extended his arm and opened his mouth to cast a spell. Geralt clenched his fist and thumped him from above. Straight in the mouth. His lips split like blackcurrants.

'You've already received a present from Yennefer,' he uttered in a hoarse voice. 'Now you're getting one from me.'

He struck once more. The sorcerer's head bounced up; blood spurted onto the witcher's forehead and cheeks. Geralt was slightly surprised – he had not felt any pain but had, no doubt, been injured in the fight. It was his blood. He did not bother nor did he have time to look for the wound and take care of it. He unclenched his fist and walloped Rience once more. He was angry.

'Who sent you? Who hired you?'

Rience spat blood at him. The witcher struck him yet again.

'Who?'

The fiery oval of the portal flared more strongly; the light emanating from it flooded the entire lane. The witcher felt the power throbbing from the oval, had felt it even before his medallion had begun to oscillate violently, in warning.

Rience also felt the energy streaming from the portal, sensed help approaching. He yelled, struggling like an enormous fish. Geralt buried his knees in the sorcerer's chest, raised his arm, forming the Sign of Aard with his fingers, and aimed at the flaming portal. It was a mistake.

No one emerged from the portal. Only power radiated from it and Rience had taken the power.

From the sorcerer's outstretched fingers grew six-inch steel spikes. They dug into Geralt's chest and shoulder with an audible crack. Energy exploded from the spikes. The witcher threw himself backwards in a convulsive leap. The shock was such that he felt and heard his teeth, clenched in pain, crunch and break. At least two of them.

Rience attempted to rise but immediately collapsed to his knees again and began to struggle to the portal on all fours. Geralt, catching his breath with difficulty, drew a stiletto from his boot. The sorcerer looked back, sprung up and reeled. The witcher was also reeling but he was quicker. Rience looked back again and screamed. Geralt gripped the knife. He was angry. Very angry.

Something grabbed him from behind, overpowered him, immo-

bilised him. The medallion on his neck pulsated acutely; the pain in his wounded shoulder throbbed spasmodically.

Some ten paces behind him stood Philippa Eilhart. From her raised arms emanated a dull light – two streaks, two rays. Both were touching his back, squeezing his arms with luminous pliers. He struggled, in vain. He could not move from the spot. He could only watch as Rience staggered up to the portal, which pulsated with a milky glow.

Rience, in no hurry, slowly stepped into the light of the portal, sank into it like a diver, blurred and disappeared. A second later, the oval went out, for a moment plunging the little street into impenetrable, dense, velvety blackness.

Somewhere in the lanes fighting cats yowled. Geralt looked at the blade of the sword he had picked up on his way towards the magician.

'Why, Philippa? Why did you do it?'

The magician took a step back. She was still holding the knife which a moment earlier had penetrated Toublanc Michelet's skull.

'Why are you asking? You know perfectly well.'

'Yes,' he agreed. 'Now I know.'

'You're wounded, Geralt. You can't feel the pain because you're intoxicated with the witchers' elixir but look how you're bleeding. Have you calmed down sufficiently for me to safely approach and take a look at you? Bloody hell, don't look at me like that! And don't come near me. One more step and I'll be forced to… Don't come near me! Please! I don't want to hurt you but if you come near-'

'Philippa!' shouted Dandilion, still holding the weeping Shani. 'Have you gone mad?'

'No,' said the witcher with some effort. 'She's quite sane. And knows perfectly well what she's doing. She knew all along what she was doing. She took advantage of us. Betrayed us. Deceived-'

'Calm down,' repeated Philippa Eilhart. 'You won't understand and you don't have to understand. I did what I had to do. And don't call me a traitor. Because I did this precisely so as not to

betray a cause which is greater than you can imagine. A great and important cause, so important that minor matters have to be sacrificed for it without second thoughts, if faced with such a choice. Geralt, damn it, we're nattering and you're standing in a pool of blood. Calm down and let Shani and me take care of you.'

'She's right!' shouted Dandilion, 'you're wounded, damn it! Your wound has to be dressed and we've got to get out of here! You can argue later!'

'You and your great cause…' The witcher, ignoring the troubadour, staggered forward. 'Your great cause, Philippa, and your choice, is a wounded man, stabbed in cold blood once he told you what you wanted to know, but what I wasn't to find out. Your great cause is Rience, whom you allowed to escape so that he wouldn't by any chance reveal the name of his patron. So that he can go on murdering. Your great cause is those corpses which did not have to be. Sorry, I express myself poorly. They're not corpses, they're minor matters!'