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Beanpole interjected gloomily. ‘And what did we eat? Marmot! And what’s a marmot, I ask you? A rat, nothing else. So what have we eaten? Rat!’
    ‘Never mind,’ Gar said, ‘We’ll soon be sampling dragon’s tail. There’s nothing like dragon’s tail, roasted over charcoal.’
    ‘Yennefer,’ Boholt went on, ‘is a foul, nasty, mouthy bint. Not like your lasses, Lord Borch. They are quiet and agreeable, just look, they’ve sat down by the horses, they’re sharpening their sabres. I walked past, said something witty, they smiled and showed their little teeth. Yes, I’m glad they’re here, not like Yennefer, all she does is scheme and scheme. And I tell you, we have to watch out, because we’ll end up with shit all from our agreement.’
    ‘What agreement, Boholt?’
    ‘Well, Yarpen, do we tell the Witcher?’
    ‘Ain’t got nothing against it,’ the dwarf answered.
    ‘There’s no more booze,’ Beanpole interjected, turning the demijohn upside down.
    ‘Get some then. You’re the youngest, m’lord. The agreement was our idea, Geralt, because we aren’t hirelings or paid servants, and we won’t be having Niedamir send us after that dragon and then toss a few pieces of gold in our direction. The truth is we’ll cope with that dragon without Niedamir, but Niedamir won’t cope without us. So it’s clear from that who’s worth more and whose share should be bigger. And we put the case fairly–whoever takes on the dragon in mortal combat and bests it takes half of the treasure hoard. Niedamir, by virtue of his birthright and title, takes a quarter, in any event. And the rest, provided they help, will share the remaining quarter between themselves, equally. What do you think about that?’
    ‘And what does Niedamir think about it?’
    ‘He said neither yes nor no. But he’d better not put up a fight, the whippersnapper. I told you, he won’t take on the dragon himself, he has to count on experts, which means us, the Reavers, and Yarpen and his lads. We, and no one else, will meet the dragon at a sword’s length. The rest, including the sorcerers, if they give honest assistance, will share a quarter of the treasure among themselves.’
    ‘Who do you include in the rest, apart from the sorcerers?’ Dandelion asked with interest.
    ‘Certainly not buskers and poetasters,’ Yarpen Zigrin cackled. ‘We include those who put in some work with a battle-axe, not a lute.’
    ‘Aha,’ Three Jackdaws said, looking up at the starry sky. ‘And how will the cobbler Sheepbagger and his rabble be contributing?’
    Yarpen Zigrin spat into the campfire, muttering something in dwarven.
    ‘The constabulary from Barefield know these bloody mountains and will act as guides,’ Boholt said softly, ‘hence it will be fair to allow them a share of the spoils. It’s a slightly different matter with the cobbler. You see, it will go ill if the peasantry become convinced that when a dragon shows up in the land, instead of sending for professionals, they can casually poison it and go back to humping wenches in the long grass. If such a practice became widespread, we’d probably have to start begging. Yes?’
    ‘That’s right,’ Yarpen added. ‘For which reason, I tell you, something bad ought to befall that cobbler, before the bastard passes into legend.’
    ‘If it’s meant to befall him, it’ll befall him,’ Gar said with conviction. ‘Leave it to me.’
    ‘And Dandelion,’ the dwarf took up, ‘will blacken his name in a ballad, make him look a fool. So that he’ll suffer shame and dishonour, for generations to come.’
    ‘You’ve forgotten about one thing,’ Geralt said. ‘There’s one person here who could throw a spoke in the wheel. Who won’t assent to any divisions or agreements. I mean Eyck of Denesle. Have you talked to him?’
    ‘What about?’ Boholt said, grinding his teeth, using a stout stick to move the logs around in the campfire. ‘You won’t get anywhere with Eyck, Geralt. He