Lady of the Lake (The Witcher, #7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

‘Or we won’t meet again,’ he added softly. ‘No one knows what’s written for anybody. Or what will befall them.’

‘I beg your pardon, officer, sir.’ Jarre blushed. ‘I only want to prevent a possible error . . . For the commissioner clearly . . . He distinctly spoke of a posting to the pee-eff-eye, so I—’ ‘You’re at home, my lad,’ snorted the sergeant, somewhat disarmed by the ‘officer’. ‘This is your posting. Welcome to the Poor Fucking Infantry.’