standing next to Ciri.
‘I admonish you all, good and pious people,’ yelled the priest. ‘Don’t believe the sorcerers, don’t turn to them for advice or aid! Be beguiled neither by their
beautiful looks nor their clever speech, for verily I do say to you that those magicians are like whitened graves, beautiful on the outside but full of putrefaction and rotten bones on the
inside!’
‘See what a powerful gob ’e ’as on ’im?’ remarked a young woman with a basket full of carrots. ’E’s ’aving a go at the magicians, coz
’e’s jealous of ’em and that’s that.’
‘Course he is,’ said the bricklayer. ‘Look at his noggin, he’s bald as an egg, and that belly hangs down to his knees. On the other hand, sorcerers are handsome; they
don’t get fat or bald . . . And sorceresses, well, they’re just gorgeous . . .’
‘Only because they’ve sold their souls to the devil for their beauty!’ yelled a short individual with a shoemaker’s hammer stuck into his belt.
‘Fool of a cobbler! Were it not for the ladies of Aretuza, you’d long since have gone begging! Thanks to them you’ve got food in your belly!’
Fabio pulled Ciri by the sleeve, and they plunged once more into the crowd, which carried them towards the middle of the square. They heard the pounding of a drum and loud shouting, calling for
silence. The crowd had no intention of being quiet, but it didn’t bother the town crier on the wooden platform in the least. He had a powerful, trained voice and knew how to use it.
‘Let it be known,’ he bellowed, unfurling a roll of parchment, ‘that Hugo Ansbach of halfling stock is outlawed, for he gave lodgings and victuals to those villainous elves
called Squirrels. The same applies to Justin Ingvar, a blacksmith of dwarven stock, who forged arrowheads for those wrongdoers. Thus does the burgrave announce that both are wanted and orders them
to be hunted down. Whosoever seizes them will earn a reward of fifty crowns. Any who gives them victuals or shelter shall be considered an accomplice to their crime and shall suffer the same
punishment. And should they be apprehended in a village or hamlet, the entire village or hamlet will pay a fine—’
‘But who,’ shouted someone in the crowd, ‘would give a halfling shelter? They should be hunted on their farms, and when they’re found, all those non-humans should be
slung into the dungeons!’
‘To the gallows, not the dungeons!’
The town crier began to read further announcements issued by the burgrave and town council, and Ciri lost interest. She was just about to extricate herself from the crowd when she suddenly felt
a hand on her bottom. A totally non-accidental, brazen and extremely skilled hand.
The crush ought to have prevented her from turning around to look, but in Kaer Morhen Ciri had learned how to manoeuvre in places that were difficult to move around in. She turned around,
causing something of a disturbance. The young priest with the shaved head standing right behind her smiled an arrogant, rehearsed smile. ‘Right, then,’ said that smile, ‘what are
we going to do now? You’ll blush sweetly and that’ll be the end of it, won’t it?’
It was clear the priest had never had to deal with one of Yennefer’s pupils.
‘Keep your hands to yourself, baldy!’ yelled Ciri, white with rage. ‘Grab your own arse, you . . . You whitewashed tomb!’
Taking advantage of the fact that the priest was pinned in by the crowd and couldn’t move, she intended to kick him, but Fabio prevented that, hurriedly pulling her well away from the
priest and the site of the incident. Seeing that she was trembling with rage, he treated her to a few fritters dusted with caster sugar, at the sight of which Ciri immediately calmed down and
forgot about the incident. From where they were standing by the stall they had a view of a scaffold with a pillory, but with no criminal in it. The scaffold itself was decorated with
‘I admonish you all, good and pious people,’ yelled the priest. ‘Don’t believe the sorcerers, don’t turn to them for advice or aid! Be beguiled neither by their
beautiful looks nor their clever speech, for verily I do say to you that those magicians are like whitened graves, beautiful on the outside but full of putrefaction and rotten bones on the
inside!’
‘See what a powerful gob ’e ’as on ’im?’ remarked a young woman with a basket full of carrots. ’E’s ’aving a go at the magicians, coz
’e’s jealous of ’em and that’s that.’
‘Course he is,’ said the bricklayer. ‘Look at his noggin, he’s bald as an egg, and that belly hangs down to his knees. On the other hand, sorcerers are handsome; they
don’t get fat or bald . . . And sorceresses, well, they’re just gorgeous . . .’
‘Only because they’ve sold their souls to the devil for their beauty!’ yelled a short individual with a shoemaker’s hammer stuck into his belt.
‘Fool of a cobbler! Were it not for the ladies of Aretuza, you’d long since have gone begging! Thanks to them you’ve got food in your belly!’
Fabio pulled Ciri by the sleeve, and they plunged once more into the crowd, which carried them towards the middle of the square. They heard the pounding of a drum and loud shouting, calling for
silence. The crowd had no intention of being quiet, but it didn’t bother the town crier on the wooden platform in the least. He had a powerful, trained voice and knew how to use it.
‘Let it be known,’ he bellowed, unfurling a roll of parchment, ‘that Hugo Ansbach of halfling stock is outlawed, for he gave lodgings and victuals to those villainous elves
called Squirrels. The same applies to Justin Ingvar, a blacksmith of dwarven stock, who forged arrowheads for those wrongdoers. Thus does the burgrave announce that both are wanted and orders them
to be hunted down. Whosoever seizes them will earn a reward of fifty crowns. Any who gives them victuals or shelter shall be considered an accomplice to their crime and shall suffer the same
punishment. And should they be apprehended in a village or hamlet, the entire village or hamlet will pay a fine—’
‘But who,’ shouted someone in the crowd, ‘would give a halfling shelter? They should be hunted on their farms, and when they’re found, all those non-humans should be
slung into the dungeons!’
‘To the gallows, not the dungeons!’
The town crier began to read further announcements issued by the burgrave and town council, and Ciri lost interest. She was just about to extricate herself from the crowd when she suddenly felt
a hand on her bottom. A totally non-accidental, brazen and extremely skilled hand.
The crush ought to have prevented her from turning around to look, but in Kaer Morhen Ciri had learned how to manoeuvre in places that were difficult to move around in. She turned around,
causing something of a disturbance. The young priest with the shaved head standing right behind her smiled an arrogant, rehearsed smile. ‘Right, then,’ said that smile, ‘what are
we going to do now? You’ll blush sweetly and that’ll be the end of it, won’t it?’
It was clear the priest had never had to deal with one of Yennefer’s pupils.
‘Keep your hands to yourself, baldy!’ yelled Ciri, white with rage. ‘Grab your own arse, you . . . You whitewashed tomb!’
Taking advantage of the fact that the priest was pinned in by the crowd and couldn’t move, she intended to kick him, but Fabio prevented that, hurriedly pulling her well away from the
priest and the site of the incident. Seeing that she was trembling with rage, he treated her to a few fritters dusted with caster sugar, at the sight of which Ciri immediately calmed down and
forgot about the incident. From where they were standing by the stall they had a view of a scaffold with a pillory, but with no criminal in it. The scaffold itself was decorated with
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