Dandilion was mistaken, as was usually the case whenever he was too confident. Something flashed a sudden blue behind his back and the poet felt his limbs grow numb, lifeless and stiff. He couldn't slow down for the revolving door, his legs wouldn't obey him. He yelled and rolled down the stairs, bumping against the walls of the little corridor. The trapdoor opened beneath him with a dry crack and the troubadour tumbled down into the darkness and stench. Before thumping his head on the dirt floor and losing consciousness, he remembered Mama Lantieri saying something about the pigsty being repaired.

The pain in his constricted wrists and shoulders, cruelly twisted in their joints, brought him back to his senses. He wanted to scream but couldn't; it felt as though his mouth had been stuck up with clay. He was kneeling on the dirt floor with a creaking rope hauling him up by his wrists. He tried to stand, wanting to ease the pressure on his shoulders, but his legs, too, were tied together. Choking and suffocating he somehow struggled to his feet, helped considerably by the rope which tugged mercilessly at him.

Rience was standing in front of him and his evil eyes glinted in the light of a lantern held aloft by an unshaven ruffian who stood over six feet tall. Another ruffian, probably no shorter, stood behind him. Dandilion could hear his breathing and caught a whiff of stale sweat. It was the reeking man who tugged on the rope looped over a roof beam and fastened to the poet's wrists.

Dandilion's feet tore off the dirt floor. The poet whistled through his nose, unable to do anything more.

'Enough,' Rience snapped at last – he spoke almost immediately, yet it had seemed an age to Dandilion. The bard's feet touched the ground but, despite his most heart-felt desire, he could not kneel again – the tight drawn rope was still holding him as taut as a string.

Rience came closer. There was not even a trace of emotion on his face; the damp eyes had not changed their expression in the least. His tone of voice, too, remained calm, quiet, even a little bored.

'You nasty rhymester. You runt. You scum. You arrogant nobody. You tried to run from me? No one has escaped me yet. We haven't finished our conversation, you clown, you sheep's head. I asked you a question under much pleasanter circumstances than these. Now you are going to answer all my questions, and in far less pleasant circumstances. Am I right?'

Dandilion nodded eagerly. Only now did Rience smile and make a sign. The bard squealed helplessly, feeling the rope tighten and his arms, twisted backwards, cracking in their joints.

You can't talk,' Rience confirmed, still smiling loathsomely, 'and it hurts, doesn't it? For the moment, you should know I'm having you strung up like this for my own pleasure just because I love watching people suffer. Go on, just a little higher.'

Dandilion was wheezing so hard he almost choked.

'Enough,' Rience finally ordered, then approached the poet and grabbed him by his shirt ruffles. 'Listen to me, you little cock. I'm going to lift the spell so you can talk. But if you try to raise your charming voice any louder than necessary, you'll be sorry.'

He made a gesture with his hand, touched the poet's cheek with his ring and Dandilion felt sensation return to his jaw, tongue and palate.

'Now,' Rience continued quietly, 'I am going to ask you a few questions and you are going to answer them quickly, fluently and comprehensively. And if you stammer or hesitate even for a moment, if you give me the slightest reason to doubt the truth of your words, then… Look down.'

Dandilion obeyed. He discovered to his horror that a short rope had been tied to the knots around his ankles, with a bucket full of lime attached to the other end.

'If I have you pulled any higher,' Rience smiled cruelly, 'and this bucket lifts with you, then you will probably never regain the feeling in your hands. After that, I doubt you will be capable of playing anything on a lute. I really doubt it. So I think you'll talk to me. Am I right?'

Dandilion didn't agree because he couldn't move his head or find his voice out of sheer fright. But Rience did not seem to require confirmation.

'It is to be understood,' he stated, 'that I will know immediately if you are telling the truth, if you try to trick me I will realise straight away, and I won't be fooled by any poetic ploys or vague erudition. This is a trifle for me – just as paralysing you on the stairs was a trifle. So I advise you to weigh each word with care, you piece of scum. So, let's get on with it and stop wasting time. As you know, I'm interested in the heroine of one of your beautiful ballads, Queen Calanthe of Cintra's granddaughter, Princess Cirilla, endearingly known as Ciri. According to eye-witnesses this little person died during the siege of the town, two years ago. Whereas in your ballad you so vividly and touchingly described her meeting a strange, almost legendary individual, the… witcher… Geralt, or Gerald. Leaving the poetic drivel about destiny and the decrees of fate aside, from the rest of the ballad it seems the child survived the Battle of Cintra in one piece. Is that true?'

'I don't know…' moaned Dandilion. 'By all the gods, I'm only a poet! I've heard this and that, and the rest…'

'Well?'

'The rest I invented. Made it up! I don't know anything!' The bard howled on seeing Rience give a sign to the reeking man and feeling the rope tighten. 'I'm not lying!'

'True.' Rience nodded. 'You're not lying outright, I would have sensed it. But you are beating about the bush. You wouldn't have thought the ballad up just like that, not without reason. And you do know the witcher, after all. You have often been seen in his company. So talk, Dandilion, if you treasure your joints. Everything you know.'

'This Ciri,' panted the poet, 'was destined for the witcher. She's a so-called Child Surprise… You must have heard it, the story's well known. Her parents swore to hand her over to the witcher-'

'Her parents are supposed to have handed the child over to that crazed mutant? That murderous mercenary? You're lying, rhymester. Keep such tales for women.'

'That's what happened, I swear on my mother's soul,' sobbed Dandilion. 'I have it from a reliable source… The witcher-'

'Talk about the girl. For the moment I'm not interested in the witcher.'

'I don't know anything about the girl! I only know that the witcher was going to fetch her from Cintra when the war broke out. I met him at the time. He heard about the massacre, about Calanthe's death, from me… He asked me about the child, the queen's granddaughter… But I knew everyone in Cintra was killed, not a single soul in the last bastion survived-'

'Go on. Fewer metaphors, more hard facts!'

'When the witcher learned of the massacre and fall of Cintra he forsook his journey. We both escaped north. We parted ways in Hengfors and I haven't seen him since… But because he talked, on the way, a bit about this… Ciri, or whatever-her-name-is… and about destiny… Well, I made up this ballad. I don't know any more, I swear!'

Rience scowled at him.

'And where is this witcher now?' he asked. 'This hired monster murderer, this poetic butcher who likes to discuss destiny?'

'I told you, the last time I saw him-'

'I know what you said,' Rience interrupted. 'I listened carefully to what you said. And now you're going to listen carefully to me. Answer my questions precisely. The question is: if no one has seen Geralt, or Gerald, the Witcher for over a year, where is he hiding? Where does he usually hide?'

'I don't know where it is,' the troubadour said quickly. 'I'm not lying. I really don't know-'

'Too quick, Dandilion, too quick.' Rience smiled ominously. 'Too eager. You are cunning but not careful enough. You don't know where it is, you say. But I warrant you know what it is.'