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Jaskier jumped up nimbly and slung his lute onto his back. "To the horses, gentlemen! And ladies!"
    "Raise the barrier," the wealthy lieutenant with a promising career as a captain shouted to the halberdiers.
    On the bridge, behind the barrier, Vea pulled on the reins. Her horse danced, the beat of its hooves resounding on the planks of the bridge. The girl, braids flitting in the wind, gave a piercing cry.
    "Right, Vea!" Three Jackdaws replied. "Let's get to it Zerricanian! Like the wind in an uproar! "
    IV
    "So," declared the oldest of the Reavers. Boholt, imposing and powerful like the trunk of a thousand year old oak. "Apparently Niedamir did not scatter you to the four winds, noble lords. Though I could have sworn he would have done so. Well in the end, it's not down to us, the commoners, to discuss royal decisions. Come and share the fire. Make a place, lads. Just between us, witcher, tell me the subject of your conversation with the king."
    "We spoke of nothing," Geralt replied, leaning comfortably against his saddle positioned near the fire. "He didn't even come out of his tent to meet us. He only sent one of his footmen, what's his name..?"
    "Gyllenstiern," Yarpen Zigrin told him, a stocky and bearded dwarf whose huge neck, tarry and covered with dust, shone in the light of fire. "A bombastic clown. An overfed pig. When we arrived, he put on lofty airs, drivelled on and on, 'remember well, dwarves,' he said, 'who commands here and to whom you owe obedience. It is King Niedamir who commands and his word is law,' and so on. I just listened, all the while wanting to send the boys in to throw him down and trample him into the ground. But I had self-control, you know. They only would have said that dwarves are dangerous, aggressive sons of bitches and that it's impossible for... for... as it's said, for the devil... to coexist or something like that. And there would have been another race riot in a small city. So I just listened politely, nodding my head."
    "It seems from what you say that Sir Gyllenstiern doesn't know how to do anything else," Geralt continued, "because he dressed us down in exactly the same way. Of course, we also deferred to his opinion."
    "In my opinion," another Reaver intervened as he deposited a large blanket onto a heap of firewood. "It's a pity that Niedamir didn't send you away. Everyone is hot on the heels of this dragon, it's incredible. The place is teeming. It's not an expedition any more, it's a funeral procession. I don't like to fight in a crowd."
    "Calm down, Nischuka," Boholt cut in. "It's better for us to travel with one another. Haven't you ever hunted a dragon? There's always a whole crowd nearby, a veritable fair, a brothel on wheels. But when the reptile shows itself, you well know who stays put. Us. Nobody else."
    Boholt remained silent for a moment. He drank a good mouthful from a demijohn covered with wicker and sniffed loudly. He then cleared his throat:
    "All the better," he continued, "as it so often happens that feasting and butchery begin just after the death of the dragon and before you know it heads are rolling like pears in an
    orchard. When the treasure is found, the hunters launch themselves at one another's throats. Geralt? Huh? Am I right? Witcher, I'm telling you."
    "I know of such cases," confirmed Geralt in a dry tone.
    "You know, so you say. Perhaps from hearsay, because I have never heard of a witcher hunting a dragon. Your presence here is all the stranger."
    "That's true," interjected Kennet, nicknamed Ripper, the youngest of the Reavers. "It is strange. And we..."
    "Wait, Ripper, I'm the one doing the talking," Boholt interrupted him. "Besides, I don't intend to dwell on the subject. The witcher already knows what I'm getting at. I know it and he also knows it. Our paths have never crossed before and never will again. Imagine, my lads, for example, that I want to disturb the witcher while he's doing his job or that I try to steal his dues from him. Would he