Lady of the Lake (The Witcher, #7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

The past, present and future lurk in every moment of time. Eternity is hidden in every moment of time. Do you understand?’ ‘No.’ ‘Never mind.’

Celibacy is good, but for no longer than a semester.

‘They conversed. But it wasn’t an ordinary conversation.’ ‘Was there something extraordinary about it?’ ‘For most of it she had her legs slung over his shoulders.’

And I’ll tell you this, because I’ve experienced it: you puke after Est Est just the same as you do after scrumpy.’

‘An elegant little castle,’ Cahir said in admiration. ‘Well I’ll be, an elegant and pleasing little castle, indeed.’ ‘The duchess lives well,’ said the vampire. ‘You have to admit it.’ ‘Fucking nice gaff,’ added Angoulême.

‘. . . and she fucked him!’ Angoulême finished another foolish anecdote.

The jester tried to amuse the guests, but what chance did he have against Angoulême? Then a bear tamer appeared with a bear, which – to general delight – did a dump on the floor. Angoulême became morose and subdued – it was difficult to compete with something like that.

Fringilla screamed. The Witcher didn’t hear it, because her thighs were clenched against his ears.

They all ate briskly and in silence. Apart from Angoulême, who was talking nonsense.

Why are you looking like that? Women don’t need money. I mean what for? They don’t drink, they don’t play dice, and they’re bloody women themselves.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he finally said, without turning his head. ‘And now go away and leave me alone.’

Perhaps those corrupt mercenaries were bribed with Nilfgaardian gold long ago? And perhaps—’ ‘And perhaps,’ interrupted the landsknecht, enraged, ‘you want a punch in the face, you churl?

The tracks must have been left by some wild animal. Most probably a moufflon.’ ‘Moufflon yourself!’ yelled Angoulême. ‘When I say a horse, I mean a horse!’

‘I knew . . .’ she said quite clearly. ‘I knew that a brothel in Toussaint would be a better fucking way of making a living.’

‘A few broken ribs, concussion, twisted hip joint, bruised spine. Besides that, excellent. And yourself?’

The crowd murmured and fell silent. ‘Hey, people,’ called Dandelion. ‘What cheer? How go you?’ ‘Ah, muddling along,’ muttered someone, after a long silence, in a row towards the back.

‘Shut up!’ shouted Geralt, jostling the fulminating and reluctantly parting crowd with his horse. ‘Shut up, get down and come here, you blockhead!

‘I understand.’ Geralt nodded. ‘In short, you turned out to be as poor a writer as you were a favourite. Or to put it more bluntly: you make a fucking mess of whatever you touch.

‘What are you gawking at, you fool?’ mumbled one of the youngsters. ‘You grey-haired old bum?’

‘And may your guts rot, you human shithead!’ roared the dwarf.

‘What smells so appetising here?’ Dandelion interjected. ‘Dinner,’ said Yarpen Zigrin. ‘Meat. Dandelion, ask me where we got the meat.’ ‘I won’t, because I know that joke.’ ‘Don’t be a swine.’ ‘Where did you get the meat?’ ‘Crawled here itself.’

‘A little more humility, you arrogant slut!