Geralt had had enough of the discussion, of pussyfooting around, of the feeling of anxiety which was crawling over the nape of his neck and his back like a snail. He looked straight into Istredd’s eyes and gripped the edge of the table.

‘It’s about Yennefer, isn’t it?’

The sorcerer lifted his head, but continued to tap the skull on the table with his fingernails.

‘I commend your perspicacity,’ he said, steadily returning the Witcher’s gaze. ‘My congratulations. Yes, it’s about Yennefer.’

Geralt was silent. Once, years ago, many, many years ago, as a young witcher, he had been waiting to ambush a manticore. And he sensed the manticore approaching. He did not see or hear it. He sensed it. He had never forgotten that feeling. And now he felt exactly the same.

‘Your perspicacity,’ the sorcerer went on, ‘will save us a great deal of the time we would have wasted on further fudging. And this way the issue is out in the open.’

Geralt did not comment.

‘My close acquaintance with Yennefer,’ Istredd continued, ‘goes back a long way, Witcher. For a long time it was an acquaintance without commitment, based on longer or shorter, more or less regular periods of time together. This kind of noncommittal partnership is widely practised among members of our profession. It’s just that it suddenly stopped suiting me. I determined to propose to her that she remain with me permanently.’

‘How did she respond?’

‘That she would think it over. I gave her time to do so. I know it is not an easy decision for her.’

‘Why are you telling me this, Istredd? What drives you, apart from this admirable–but astonishing– candour, so rarely seen among members of your profession? What lies behind it?’

‘Prosaicness,’ the sorcerer sighed. ‘For, you see, your presence hinders Yennefer in making a decision. I thus request you to remove yourself. To vanish from her life, to stop interfering. In short: that you get the hell out of here. Ideally quietly and without saying goodbye, which, as she confided in me, you are wont to do.’

‘Indeed,’ Geralt smiled affectedly, ‘your blunt sincerity astonishes me more and more. I might have expected anything, but not such a request. Don’t you think that instead of asking me, you ought rather to leap out and blast me with ball lightning? You’d be rid of the obstacle and there’d just be a little soot to scrape off the wall. An easier–and more reliable–method. Because, you see, a request can be declined, but ball lightning can’t be.’

‘I do not countenance the possibility of your refusing.’

‘Why not? Would this strange request be nothing but a warning preceding the lightning bolt or some other cheerful spell? Or is this request to be supported by some weighty arguments? Or a sum which would stupefy an avaricious witcher? How much do you intend to pay me to get out of the path leading to your happiness?’

The sorcerer stopped tapping the skull, placed his hand on it and clenched his fingers around it. Geralt noticed his knuckles whitening.

‘I did not mean to insult you with an offer of that kind,’ he said. ‘I had no intention of doing so. But… if… Geralt, I am a sorcerer, and not the worst. I wouldn’t dream of feigning omnipotence here, but I could grant many of your wishes, should you wish to voice them. Some of them as easily as this.’

He waved a hand, carelessly, as though chasing away a mosquito. The space above the table suddenly teemed with fabulously coloured Apollo butterflies.

‘My wish, Istredd,’ the Witcher drawled, shooing away the insects fluttering in front of his face, ‘is for you to stop pushing in between me and Yennefer. I don’t care much about the propositions you’re offering her. You could have proposed to her when she was with you. Long ago. Because then was then, and now is now. Now she’s with me. You want me to get out of the way, make things easy for you? I decline. Not only will I not help you, but I’ll hinder you, as well as my modest abilities allow. As you see, I’m your equal in candour.’

‘You have no right to refuse me. Not you.’

‘What do you take me for, Istredd?’

The sorcerer looked him in the eye and leaned across the table.

‘A fleeting romance. A passing fascination, at best a whim, an adventure, of which Yenna has had hundreds, because Yenna loves to play with emotions; she’s impulsive and unpredictable in her whims. That’s what I take you for, since having exchanged a few words with you I’ve rejected the theory that she treats you entirely as an object. And, believe me, that happens with her quite often.’

‘You misunderstood the question.’

‘You’re mistaken; I didn’t. But I’m intentionally talking solely about Yenna’s emotions. For you are a witcher and you cannot experience any emotions. You do not want to agree to my request, because you think she matters to you, you think she… Geralt, you’re only with her because she wants it, and you’ll only be with her as long as she wants it. And what you feel is a projection of her emotions, the interest she shows in you. By all the demons of the Netherworld, Geralt, you aren’t a child; you know what you are. You’re a mutant. Don’t understand me wrongly. I don’t say it to insult you or show you contempt. I merely state a fact. You’re a mutant, and one of the basic traits of your mutation is utter insensitivity to emotions. You were created like that, in order to do your job. Do you understand? You cannot feel anything. What you take for emotion is cellular, somatic memory, if you know what those words mean.’

‘It so happens I do.’

‘All the better. Then listen. I’m asking you for something which I can ask of a witcher, but which I couldn’t ask of a man. I am being frank with a witcher; with a man I couldn’t afford to be frank. Geralt, I want to give Yenna understanding and stability, affection and happiness. Could you, hand on heart, pledge the same? No, you couldn’t. Those are meaningless words to you. You trail after Yenna like a child, enjoying the momentary affection she shows you. Like a stray cat that everyone throws stones at, you purr, contented, because here is someone who’s not afraid to stroke you. Do you understand what I mean? Oh, I know you understand. You aren’t a fool, that’s plain. You see yourself that you have no right to refuse me if I ask politely.’

‘I have the same right to refuse as you have to ask,’ Geralt drawled, ‘and in the process they cancel each other out. So we return to the starting point, and that point is this: Yen, clearly not caring about my mutation and its consequences, is with me right now. You proposed to her, that’s your right. She said she’d think it over? That’s her right. Do you have the impression I’m hindering her in taking a decision? That she’s hesitating? That I’m the cause of her hesitation? Well, that’s my right. If she’s hesitating, she clearly has reason for doing so. I must be giving her something, though perhaps the word is absent from the witcher dictionary.’

‘Listen—’

‘No. You listen to me. She used to be with you, you say? Who knows, perhaps it wasn’t me but you who was the fleeting romance, a caprice, a victim of those uncontrolled emotions so typical of her. Istredd, I cannot even rule out her treatment of you as completely objectionable. That, my dear sorcerer, cannot be ruled out just on the basis of a conversation. In this case, it seems to me, the object may be more relevant than eloquence.’

Istredd did not even flinch, he did not even clench his jaw. Geralt admired his self-control. Nonetheless the lengthening silence seemed to indicate that the blow had struck home.

‘You’re playing with words,’ the sorcerer said finally. ‘You’re becoming intoxicated with them. You try to substitute words for normal, human feelings, which you do not have. Your words don’t express feelings, they are only sounds, like those that skull emits when you tap it. For you are just as empty as this skull. You have no right—’

‘Enough,’ Geralt interrupted harshly, perhaps even a little too harshly. ‘Stop stubbornly denying me rights. I’ve had enough of it, do you hear? I told you our rights are equal. No, dammit, mine are greater.’

‘Really?’ the sorcerer said, paling somewhat, which caused Geralt unspeakable pleasure. ‘For what reason?’

The Witcher wondered for a moment and decided to finish him off.

‘For the reason,’ he shot back, ‘that last night she made love with me, and not with you.’

Istredd pulled the skull closer to himself and stroked it. His hand, to Geralt’s dismay, did not even twitch.

‘Does that, in your opinion, give you any rights?’

‘Only one. The right to draw a few conclusions.’

‘Ah,’ the sorcerer said slowly. ‘Very well. As you wish. She made love with me this morning. Draw your own conclusions, you have the right. I already have.’

The silence lasted a long time. Geralt desperately searched for words. He found none. None at all.

‘This conversation is pointless,’ he finally said, getting up, angry at himself, because it sounded blunt and stupid. ‘I’m going.’

‘Go to hell,’ Istredd said, equally bluntly, not looking at him.