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cheek.
'I want to see Shrike.'
Two identical figures stood up - identical motionless faces and fair, dishevelled, shoulder-
length hair, identical tight-fitting black outfits glistening with silver ornaments. And with
identical movements the twins took identical swords from the bench.
'Keep calm, Vyr. Sit down, Nimir,' said the man with the scar, leaning his elbows on the table.
'Who d'you say you want to see, brother? Who's Shrike?'
'You know very well who I mean.'
'Who's this then?' asked a half-naked athlete, sweaty, girded crosswise with belts, and wearing
spiked pads on his forearms. 'D'you know him, Nohorn?'
'No,' said the man with the scar.
'It's some albino,' giggled a slim, dark-haired man sitting next to Nohorn. Delicate features,
enormous black eyes and pointed ears betrayed him to be a half-blood elf. 'Albino, mutant,
freak of nature. And this sort of thing is allowed to enter pubs among decent people.'
'I've seen him somewhere before,' said a stocky, weatherbeaten man with a plait, measuring
Geralt with an evil look in his narrowed eyes.
'Doesn't matter where you've seen him, Tavik,' said Nohorn. 'Listen here. Civril insulted you
terribly a moment ago. Aren't you going to challenge him? It's such a boring evening.'
'No,' said the witcher calmly.
'And me, if I pour this fish soup over your head, are you going to challenge me?' cackled the
man sitting naked to the waist.
'Keep calm, Fifteen,' said Nohorn. 'He said no, that means no. For the time being. Well,
brother, say what you have to say and clear out. You've got one chance to clear out on your
own. You don't take it, the attendants will carry you out.'
'I don't have anything to say to you. I want to see Shrike. Renfri.'
'Do you hear that, boys?' Nohorn looked around at his companions. 'He wants to see Renfri.
And may I know why?'
'No.'
Nohorn raised his head and looked at the twins as they took a step forward, the silver clasps
on their high boots jangling.
'I know,' the man with the plait said suddenly. 'I know where I've seen him now!'
'What's that you're mumbling, Tavik?'
'In front of the alderman's house. He brought some sort of dragon in to trade, a cross between
a spider and a crocodile. People were saying he's a witcher.'
'And what's a witcher?' Fifteen asked. 'Eh? Civril?'
'A hired magician,' said the half-elf. 'A conjurer for a fistful of silver. I told you, a freak of
nature. An insult to human and divine laws. They ought to be burned, the likes of him.'
'We don't like magicians,' screeched Tavik, not taking his narrowed eyes off Geralt. 'It seems
to me, Civril, that we're going to have more work in this hole than we thought. There's more
than one of them here and everyone knows they stick together.'
'Birds of a feather.' The half-breed smiled maliciously. 'To think the likes of you walk the
earth. Who spawns you freaks?'
A bit more tolerance, if you please,' said Geralt, calmly, 'as I see your mother must have
wandered off through the forest alone often enough to give you good reason to wonder where
you come from yourself.'
'Possibly,' answered the half-elf, the smile not leaving his face. 'But at least I knew my
mother. You witchers can't say that much about yourselves.'
Geralt grew a little pale and tightened his lips. Nohorn, noticing it, laughed out loud.
'Well, brother, you can't let an insult like that go by. That thing that you have on your back
looks like a sword. So? Are you going outside with Civril? The evening's so boring.'
The witcher didn't react.
'Shitty coward,' snorted Tavik.
'What did he say about Civril's mother?' Nohorn continued monotonously, resting his chin on
his clasped hands. 'Something extremely nasty, as I understood it. That she was an easy lay, or
something. Hey, Fifteen, is it right to listen to some straggler insulting a companion's mother?
A mother, you son-of-a-bitch, is sacred!'
Fifteen got up willingly, undid his sword and threw it on the table. He stuck his chest out,
adjusted the pads spiked with silver studs on his shoulders, spat and took a step forward.
'If you've got any doubts,' said Nohorn, 'then Fifteen is challenging you to a fist fight. I told
you they'd carry you out of here. Make room.'
Fifteen moved closer and raised his fists. Geralt put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
'Careful,' he said. 'One more step and you'll be looking for your hand on the floor.'
Nohorn and Tavik leapt up, grabbing their swords. The silent twins drew theirs with identical
movements. Fifteen stepped back. Only Civril didn't move.
'What's going on here, dammit? Can't I leave you alone for a minute?'
Geralt turned round very slowly and looked into eyes the colour of the sea.
She was almost as tall as him. She wore her straw-coloured hair unevenly cut, just below the
ears. She stood with one hand on the door, wearing a tight, velvet jacket clasped with a
decorated belt. Her skirt was uneven, asymmetrical - reaching down to her calf on the left,
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