A Scholar's travels with a Witcher

I know it's a cliché but the first thing that I noticed about him were his eyes.

In preparation for my mission, I had read what little formal information there was on the subject of Witchers in the University library, mostly the admittedly wonderful poetry from Professor Dandelion regarding the famed White Wolf and that blatant propaganda that makes up the infamous “Monstrum” leaflet so I was well aware of the fact that their eyes are mutated and freakish in their appearance but until I actually saw them in person I had no idea what that actually meant.

A lot of the tales describe them as Cat's eye's often yellow in the description but that is a little wide of the mark. For my estimation they are a little closer to the eyes of a Lizard than a cat, and rather than being yellow in appearance, I found them to be much closer to a deep burnished Gold.

The second thing that I noticed about him was that he looked tired. Tired, soaked to the skin and more than a little bit ill.

I had been on my journey for roughly a week, setting out from Oxenfurt to the places where I considered it much more likely that I would find my quarry and truth to tell I was surprised and more than a little taken aback that I would find a Witcher so close to home as it were. I had anticipated more time to devise speeches to persuade someone to allow me to tag along on their path but as I stood there, along with the other patrons of the inn that I was staying at that night, staring up at the rather forbidding and imposing presence of the dark-haired man on the horse, I found that I didn't know what to say.

He wasn't looking at me in any case.

“Job's done,” The Witcher grated out through clenched teeth. It was difficult to hear him over the hissing of the rain that fell all around us. He stared past me at the bulk of the innkeeper who had managed to maintain his impressive girth despite the post-wartime famine that was afflicting the area.

“You have proof?” The innkeeper pushed his way past me glaring up at the Witcher in a way that I would have found offensive.

The Witcher untied a sack that was tied to his saddle. I noticed that he was only using one hand and found his other hand pressed tightly to his side.

The sack thumped to the ground with a splash at the innkeeper's feet who bent to inspect the contents before swearing loudly about bringing this filth to his hall. I wasn't listening at this point. I was too busy studying the pale skin of the Witcher's face and the way his left arm was pressed against his side. There was a dark liquid that was mixing with the rain at the bottom of the Dark green cloak that was carefully arranged over the Witcher's body.

The man was injured.

Returning to the conversation I heard that the innkeeper was haggling over the reward, trying to claw back some money from some kind of pre-arranged price. The Witcher was having none of it and calmly and impassively rebutting every new offer with the originally agreed price. When the innkeeper eventually caved and handed up a purse of money the Witcher bent the purse to the light to inspect the contents.

“I would like a room and breakfast,” That same grating, quiet and hoarse voice.

“We're a decent people here,” responded the Innkeeper quickly without even really seeming to think about it. “We want no vagabonds or dirty mutants here. Be off with you.”

“I am willing to pay,” This time I was sure I wasn't imagining it. The Witcher had winced when he shifted his weight. I noticed the Innkeeper licking his lips at the prospect of a little more money but he shook his head.

“No thank you. Besides,” he looked around a little nervously. “We're full.”

The Witcher said nothing. Just sat on his horse looking at the innkeeper who visibly began to wilt in the Witcher's gaze.

“He can share my room,” I said without thinking. I was very conscious of the number of people edging away from me. “There's plenty of room and I could do with sharing the costs.” Someone sniggered at the declaration that there was plenty of room as the rooms were quite pokey in reality. “Also, when I was checking on my horse earlier there was plenty of room in the stables for the Gentleman's horse.” This at least was true as my quiet, ageing mare was the only tenant of the inn's hospitality.

The innkeeper threw up his hands as his greed and my arguments overcame his wobbling scruples.

“Fine, but I want the extra money upfront.”

“Then we'll need some hot water and some clean cloth sent up to my room as well.” I went on,

“Now why don't you have someone to take care of the horse? The Gentleman has clearly injured himself in the defence of the inn so surely the least you can do is care for the man's horse.”

“Defence that I paid through the nose for,” The innkeeper bustled off shouting for someone named Dick to see to the horse and to “clean that fucking mess off my porch.”

Having had their evening entertainment spoiled, the other patrons went back to their drinks. I offered my hand but the Witcher was already sliding out of the saddle and untying some saddle bags, hissing in pain as he did so.

“Let me help you,” I tried but it seemed that the man was oblivious to me, staggering a little bit under the weight of whatever was in the bags. He also untied a long sword from the saddle and strapped it over his shoulder with another grunt, carrying a last, long box under his arm. Then he seemed to acknowledge me for the first time.

“Which way?” he grated. I got the sense that he had locked his jaws against the pain.

We made it through the common room, my supporting him with his arm over my shoulder and by all of the gods he was heavy, but...

This was my first impression of what it's actually like to spend time in the company of a Witcher.

You see I'm a funny-looking man. I'm not handsome by any stretch and I'll admit to that, my teeth are slightly wonky, I have a broken nose from childhood adventures with my elder brothers and I was in the process of going prematurely bald, bearing in mind that at this point I would have, maybe been 19. I'm wiry more than well built, despite many hours of exercise and I walk with a stoop due to spending too much time hunched over desks. I also have this habit of... well... peering at people because of spending far too much time in dimly lit rooms.

I also have a surprisingly deep voice for what I look like which means that people tend to look twice at me and I've tried everything to look attractive. I've tried growing my hair (before the baldness), I've tried growing a beard which came out patchy. Once I even tried going to the village witch who chuckled a bit in what I hoped was solidarity and she gave me a potion which tasted vile, made me vomit and still didn't work.

The kindest of things to be said about my appearance was said by a girl who I was rather optimistically sent to by my father to try and woo her. I knew I had no hope of success in this particular case. I was far from the most handsome, far from the wealthiest, and far from the most titled suitor there. I spent some time with the lady in question, made her laugh and walked with her in her family's gardens a couple of times where we mostly talked about the other suitors. She told me that I was a nice person and that someday I would make some woman very happy. She told me that there wasn't any one thing about me that was unattractive, but that all together it took some getting used to. She told me that if I had been wealthier or more titled then I would have been considered. When I asked if being more handsome would have helped my case, she giggled and admitted that it wouldn't have hurt.

I resigned myself to odd drunken tumbling with other students and occasionally some coin handed out to the right people but all of these things contribute to the fact that when I enter a room, especially in the countryside full of farmers and labourers carrying my bulky bags and staff I get funny looks.

The point was that despite all of this, the looks that the Witcher got as we staggered through that room made me shiver. There was a raw hostility and active dislike of it. It wouldn't be too far for me to describe it as a naked hatred in their eyes.

It wasn't as if he looked particularly different to anyone else, at least to me he didn't. He was a little paler to be sure than the more weather-beaten men in the common room but he had been injured, was hissing in pain and losing blood so being pale was to be expected. He was wearing a leather coat under his oilskin cloak over a shirt and some leather trousers that had been strapped to his legs in a way that I had seen other swordsmen and mercenaries use to leave their movement unrestricted. His boots were large, well made and utterly filthy. I noticed that he didn't have spurs on the back of his boots.

I will grant that his eyes were startling the first time you see them but after a while, you get used to them and the only other ways that I could tell he was different was from the way he carried his sword on his back rather than at his waist, like any other mercenary, and the pendant dangling from his neck that I hadn't been able to see properly. His hair was dark and tied back in a ponytail, his nose was long and he had a jutting chin with a cleft up the middle. He was scarred but to me, that didn't strike me as unusual for a man that carried a sword. The biggest scar was horizontal across his nose, starting above his left eye until it ended on his right cheek.

So why did these people hate him so much? It was a mystery and one that I looked forward to solving in my academic future.

We made it to the stairs and I had to push him ahead of me. He slumped next to the wall when we reached the landing which gave me the opportunity to unlock my door (I had paid extra for the lockable door), get the man's belongings into my room (he protested feebly but didn't seem to have the strength to prevent me from doing what needed to be done before I came back. Levered the man to his feet and across my back.

Just because I'm wiry instead of built doesn't mean that I don't know how to pick someone up when they're not protesting. It's all a matter of leverage and the proper application of force.

I deposited him on the bed and went for my own bags to get my medical things. I had done a side course in field medicine so that I can patch up injuries. If you need surgery then I can't help you but I could probably make a good go of amputation with some help and patching up some wounds. The herbalism part of things is a little bit above my level other than “use the contents of the yellow jar in the wound before stitching it up”. I was optimistic this time as I hadn't had to use any of my precious supplies yet on the road.

I didn't have to use them then either.

The Witcher struggled into a flat position lying on his back making the frame groan in protest. He quickly took his gloves off and laid them next to him.

“Do you have gloves?” he asked me

“What?” I was rooting around in my medicine pouch finding needle, thread and bindings.

“Do you have gloves?” He raged at me the sudden bellow like a hammer, it was shocking and more than a little frightening.

“Y-yes,” I stammered, “Here with the rest of my things.” I'm no coward but his tone of voice promised murder.

“Put them on,”

“Why?”

“Put them on, God's curse you for a fool and a dead one at that. Put them on before I bleed to death.”

“Is there danger?”

“There will be if you don't put those FUCKING GLOVES ON NOW.”

I felt my brain snap then, in a way it occasionally does when my parents would scream at me when I was little, or a particularly strict professor or tutor would catch me daydreaming about girls. I just shut up, shut down and did as I was told.

“In my bags, you will find a small wooden box with wooden hinges, take it out and open it carefully,”

I did as bid and opened the thing on the floor. It was a beautiful old box, obviously much handled and treated with care. It was old, I could tell and expected some resistance in the hinges and the clasp but as it turned out the metalwork was well-oiled and the box opened beautifully. Inside, carefully clipped into specifically made alcoves for their size and shape were tiny little glass bottles. Each was individually clasped into place by metal straps that were also obviously well cared for. Inside the bottles were a variety of liquids.

“I need three bottles,” the Witcher was hyperventilating. Somewhere, the part of my brain that was

aware of such things was screaming at me that I should get some kind of professional medical expert as hyperventilation meant one of several things. I didn't know what those things were but all of them meant “get someone who knows what they're doing,

“I need the one on the top row, third from the left as you look at it. Contains a blue liquid. Then I need the one third from the right, an Amber liquid with silver sparkles. Hold it to the light to make sure you can see the sparkles.”

I did so, holding it to the candle flame to check and it did indeed contain silver sparkles. As I say I knew very little about alchemy and herbalism but fascination was beginning to overtake my fear.

“Lastly, if you take the top try by the handles and lift it out, underneath you will find another tray. Take it out gently.” The Witcher's breathing was becoming more shallow. Again my instincts were telling me that the man might die in my room but I was still too intimidated to go against his wishes.

“Underneath, I need the black bottle, before taking it out examine the bottle carefully for any leaks. If it has leaked, do not touch the liquid residue for ANY reason, even with gloves on it might kill you. Bring the three bottles over to me. Carry the third one carefully as water will form on the bottle's surface making it slippery and if you drop it, you will not survive the effects.”

I noticed that he only said that I would not survive the effects but my body was not obeying my brain at that point. I took the bottles over, taking two trips to do so. I was surprised that he did not complain about that.

“First, uncork the blue bottle and hand it over.”

I did so and he drank it down quickly with the grimace of a man doing an unpleasant job quickly.

“Then the yellow bottle.”

I uncorked and held while he lifted his jacket and shirt to display a significant claw mark along his ribs. He would scar, presuming he survived and I could also see that it wouldn't be his first scar.

He poured the contents of the yellow bottle over the injury liberally, and to my eyes carelessly.

“Put those bottles back in the same places.” He said, breathing heavily. “In the other bag, you will find several lengths of rope and a hard wooden tube with string at either end. Bring them over.”

I did so,

“Now, carefully and properly, tie me to the bed. Allow me no wiggle room and confine me as close as you can. Pay no mind to my comfort.”

Part of me came back then.

“What?” You are injured, what are you?”

“DO AS I SAY,” he roared, surging upright before collapsing back on the bed, plainly exhausted.

“I know that this may seem strange to your eyes and your instincts, but believe me when I say that this will save my life.”

I froze for a second. I would like to say that I was deliberating what he had told me. That I was making my mind up between what my (admittedly limited) professional instincts were telling me and what the Witcher wanted me to do. I was also shocked and appalled at the violence of the man. His rages were sudden, uncompromising and terrifying. That he could crush me in a confrontation was never in any doubt anyway, but now I was honestly scared and I don't mind admitting to that. I was also finding that I was regretting my earlier decisions to help the man and to pursue this line of research. I was honestly considering just dropping everything and either looking for another, more personable Witcher, or returning to Oxenfurt and my tutors to admit that I had made a terrible mistake.

“Please help me.” The Witcher moaned after a while, “Please. I cannot...”

Never let it be said that I am difficult to manipulate. A person asking for help or a pretty face are my weaknesses.

I tied the man up as requested so he was stretched out like a star. He tested his bonds.

“Good, now listen carefully as the next two hours will be the hardest. Take the black bottle and pour two drops into my open mouth. The spout is designed so that you will not find it difficult to measure out two drops so don't worry about that. Then, as quick as you can, put the wood between my mouth and tie it behind my head with the string. Again, do not concern yourself about my comfort. Within a couple of minutes, I will start howling and thrashing around. This is normal, do not concern yourself as I am told the sight is surprising and frightening. Especially to those with any kind of medical training. Do not concern yourself at...All. Do not touch me, do not untie me and do not take the gag out as my teeth may splinter. I will be delirious and I may beg you to untie me. Do not listen. Harden your heart. I swear by whatever Gods you believe in that I will be perfectly fine by morning. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Should I bind your wound?”

“If you wish, but only after I've stopped thrashing around. That might be several hours, however.”

I nodded, and picked up the bottle, unscrewing the cap. The smell immediately filled the room and made me feel dizzy while strange lights danced in front of my eyes.

“Quickly now, before you pass out.”

I put the drops into the Witcher's mouth and re-corked the bottle, gagged him as bid and made it to the window before vomiting the night's dinner out into the night.

I turned back into the room and waited. The Witcher had closed his eyes and seemed relaxed while I started counting. I lost count at 64 heartbeats when the Witcher's back arched and his entire body went taut as a bowstring before coming crashing back down onto the mattress. He screamed then, with a sound that I would have sworn came from some kind of monster had I not been in the room next to him. Then there was silence.

The entire process lasted around two hours as best as I can judge. He screamed, moaned and howled, sometimes thrashing about, sometimes spasming in ways that would cripple ordinary folk. Sometimes his eyes would fly open with a look of absolute terror at whatever apparitions he was seeing before him and other times his eyes would snap closed as his head moved from side to side, his breathing ragged.

I had long since given up any thought that I might be able to help the man. This was well beyond my level of training. When I did eventually get back to Oxenfurt and recounted the story to my tutor, he berated me for not documenting the entire process in detail but I was far too terrified and overwhelmed by the entire process to manage something as petty and...well...ordinary as making notes. At one point there was a pounding on the door telling me to keep the noise down as I was scaring the other guests which were as ridiculous as it sounds. Especially as the Witcher chose that moment to let out one of his more violent cries chasing the innkeeper off with a half-hearted threat that we would have to pay for any furniture that we might break during our ungodly time together.

We would laugh about that much later, but at the time I was mortified and scurried off to my pack to count my funds to see if I could afford to replace a bed.

Eventually, the crying and the shaking started to die down and the Witcher seemed to sink into a sweat-soaked sleep, only occasionally moaning out something from the gag. I fetched my blanket from my pack that had been dumped in the corner and wedged myself in the corner of the room so that I could watch my patient.

I don't know when I fell asleep. All I can comment on the matter is that an uneven wooden floor can feel remarkably soft and comforting when you wake up after far too little sleep. As a result, it took far longer than I would have liked to properly wake up and remember where I was and what had happened the previous evening. I've had hangovers that were more pleasant than how I felt that morning.

Eventually, though I managed to drag myself back into the land of the living, stood, stretched, subsided, stretched again and yawned in a way that cracked my jaw.

Then I saw the empty bed, well ruffled and rather dirty.

I swore. Violently.

Stupid Gods-damned Witchers and their stupid ungrateful faces.

It took me a good couple of minutes to notice that his things were still in the corner, neatly stacked and orderly as a person might do before going in search of breakfast.

Still muttering to myself I relieved myself indiscriminately out the window, splashed some water on my face and went down to meet the world.

The Inn was much quieter in the morning, presumably, the farmers and labourers would come back in the evening for a drink or three before going home to their wives. It was the innkeeper's wife that was behind the bar that morning, cleaning cups, shouting at serving women and generally getting in the way of everyone like good innkeepers do the world over.

The Witcher called me over with a wave and a gesture if not a smile. He was sat in the corner of the common room, back to the wall with his sword propped up against the table. He looked in stupidly good health and remarkably cheerful for a man who had looked like he was in imminent danger of dying, only a matter of hours earlier.

“I didn't want to wake you,” he said between bites of sausage from the huge breakfast that he had in front of him. “So I came down earlier and kicked up a fuss until they fed me. I ordered you breakfast by the way.”

He set about the fried bacon, eggs and sausage with an energy that made me feel faintly ill. A similar plate was deposited in front of me.

“Watered wine or milk?” The serving girl asked me,

“What?” This was all happening a little too fast for comfort and I could still feel bits of my brain waking up and rebelling at how little sleep I had had the previous night. “Oh, umm, watered wine please,”

the girl disappeared.

I forced myself to eat a sausage. The best thing that could be said about it was that I had tasted worse.

“Are you going to eat that?” The Witcher snagged an extra piece of bacon from my plate. He was obviously ravenous and eating like a starving man at a feast.

I manfully ate some more and I will admit that it got better as I went on. Who would have thought that breakfast could be an acquired taste? My drink was brought as I finished and the two of us sat back in our seats and looked at each other.

Yes, trying to stare into a Witcher's eyes is unnerving. Especially as they hardly ever blink.

“So I owe you a thank you.” He said after a long while.

I didn't know how to answer that. I remind everyone that I had barely slept after what was not the most restful evening.

“You're welcome,” I managed after a while.

He nodded at that.

“It's not often that a random member of the public offers helps to a mutant.”

I didn't know how to answer that either.

“So I have to wonder,” he mused, leaning forward. “What your angle is?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you want?”

“Why do I have to want anything?”

He sighed and leant back, his gaze continued to hold mine.

“I've met many people in my time on the path.” He said after a long while. “Many, many people and I would like to think that that has given me a bit of an insight when it comes to human nature. Most prominently that people do not do something for nothing. There is always an angle, always a reason. I hunt monsters. I do it for coin. Some knightly orders have taken up my profession and they do it for fame, adulation and the promise of power and increased rank in whatever knightly order they belong to. The fact that they nearly always fuck it up is generally forgotten. I've never met anyone who does good deeds randomly. There is always an angle. Always. Even if it is just to make themselves feel better because they did something bad earlier. So what do you want?”

I will admit that I was lost for words. A somewhat rare occurrence but it seemed that my breakfast companion was running out of patience.

“Who are you?” he asked in the end.

“My name is Franklin Eriksson Von Coulthard.”

“An impressive name, Do you know what that means?”

“I do,” I answered following up with the familiar joke “But I'm not sure that my Grandfather knew it when he chose the suitably aristocratic name when he managed to buy himself a title.”

The Witcher smiled a little. Just a slight upturning of the lips but I had been watching for it. It meant that he got the joke which I had not expected.

“So, now I know your name, but who are you?”

“I don't know what you mean.

“I want to know what kind of man pulls an injured Witcher off his horse in the middle of the night. While it's raining no less and helps that Witcher across a crowded inn to a bed and then helps him to care for himself. What do you want?”

His voice had turned dangerous and I could see his hands twitching. I thought it was time to come clean.

“I'm a student at Oxenfurt.”

His eyes narrowed and I felt a chill down my spine. “Are you an alchemist?”

“No,”

“A healer then? what do they call themselves? a Doctor?”

“No,”

“Herbalist?”

“No.”

He frowned.

“Then I don't understand why you are here?”

“I want to be a professional scholar.”

For the first time, he looked a little confused.

“A what?”

“I want to be a...”

“Yes yes, I heard you the first time. I thought that being a scholar was something that you either are or are not. How does one become a professional scholar?”

“You get given tenure.”

“Ah, I see.”

He stared at me for a long moment. I felt that I had gone down in his estimation a little, as though I had been downgraded from slime to mucus.

“Why would anyone want to be a tenured scholar?”

I sighed a little. I had asked myself the same question several times over the last few months.

“There are several reasons,” I said, scratching my chin

“I have time.”

“Very well then. The first reason is that it annoys my father.”

The Witcher nodded. “From what I understand, that can occasionally be a worthwhile ambition. Why?”

“He wants me to marry and settle down. I'm not averse to the idea, providing it's a girl I like and who likes me but I wouldn't have a choice. But for the good of the family of course.”

“Of course,”

“And I find that I don't really care about the family that much. I have felt like a piece of meat being bargained over.”

“Such are the problems of being nobly born.”

It was not a new argument.

“I am aware of that,” I replied.

“Then what is the second reason?”

“I like being a student. I like attending lectures and arguing about things with other students and lecturers. I like the way I spend my days.”

“Doesn't sound like a good...”

“I also enjoy the research side of things.” I interrupted him. It was a risk to interrupt the highly trained killing machine in front of me, I was under no illusions about that but I felt that things were getting to the stage where I needed to exert myself. “I want to broaden people's understanding and knowledge. If we lose that knowledge then we step backwards rather than forwards. We need to educate ourselves and learn from the past.”

“Those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.”

“Precisely,”

“Who said that by the way?” The Witcher asked

“I can't remember,” I admitted. “I was always more interested in history itself rather than philosophy.”

The Witcher nodded before shrugging.

“This is all well and good but that still doesn't tell me why you helped me.”

“I would like to think...”

“Oh come on,”

“No, hang on.” I felt that courage was needed here. “I would like to think that I would have helped any injured person who was being turned away from an inn for seemingly arbitrary prejudiced reasons. I knew they had rooms available so...” I held my hands up in what I hoped was a gesture of helplessness. “If you had not been a Witcher I doubt the situation would come up. But yes I would like something from you.”

“A contract?”

“Kind of.”

“That's an odd way of putting it.”

“Not really.” I took a breath and had something to drink before starting my pitch. I had been working on it for a long while and didn't want to ruin it.

The fact that his sword was so close to hand as it were was really off-putting.

“The thing about it is this. No one knows about Witchers. Everyone knows about Witchers but no one knows about Witchers if you follow me. We all know that you turn up occasionally wearing at least one, sometimes two swords on your back and that you have strange eyes that remind people of cats,”

“Or snakes,” he put in. I couldn't read his face.

“Yes...” I tried to regain my stride. “We know that we can hire you to deal with local monster problems. We know that “Monster Problems” are defined by whatever it is that a Witcher decides they are and that the Witcher then charges a certain amount of money for their services before moving on. Often at the urging of the local populace. We also know that the number of Witchers out on the roads is dwindling.”

“How do you know that?”

I had expected the question this time.

“Because there are fewer reports of you.”

He shrugged.

“But beyond that, we know nothing.” I continued. “For instance, people call you mutants, but what does that mean to you? Why do you carry your weapons on your backs rather than at your sides as everyone else does? Is being a Witcher a calling? A job? An obligation of some sort? Why do you never hear about retired Witchers? And so on.”

He sniffed. “One of my more famous peers had the dubious fortune to befriend a world-famous poet who then chronicled his exploits.”

“Yes, I know.” I had a copy of the chronicles in my bag upstairs that I had begun rereading on my travels to prepare myself for this meeting. “I have read it several times. However, there are some problems with it from a historical standpoint.”

“Such as?”

“It is written by a world-famous poet and saga master. Therefore, in generations to come, most of the chronicle will be dismissed as being mostly fiction. That there was a Witcher with white hair who did some incredible things will not be in doubt but what the chronicles say? I'm afraid that that will mostly be dismissed.”

The Witcher nodded.

“However, my findings will be published in the Oxenfurt university Chronicle and combined into a book. This will automatically give it more weight by future historians.”

The Witcher stared into space for a long time.

“Why do you think that the “Life and Times of a Witcher” is a worthwhile thing to record?”

“Because no one else does what you do. Yes, you charge for your services, but you do provide them and those services have saved many lives. I, for one, think it would be a shame if “The Witchers” as a whole disappeared into history without a mention other than the works of a poet and an obvious piece of propaganda which is obvious now but will be taken as fact in the future unless it is contended now. That and because no one has done it before.”

“Chronicling us will not make you popular in certain circles.”

“Religious ones you mean?”

“Indeed,”

“The thought had occurred. I find that I don't really care that much.”

He smiled. He actually smiled. I nearly fell off my bench in shock.

“My work can be dangerous,” he warned.

I had him and I knew it.

“I know. I trained for some time with a fencing master and with a quarterstaff.”

“Even so, sometimes I will order you to stay behind and you will do so. Or you will die. By my hand or by the monster's hand. I cannot defend you and worry about the monster at the same time and the distraction could be deadly.”

“I understand.”

“My job often doesn't pay well and will not support both of us in provisions and the like,”

“I have an allowance that is paid to me by the university in the form of credit with most merchants and moneylenders. I can take care of myself in that regard.”

“Payment? As you say, I don't work for free and I feel that carting you around with me will not be entirely pleasurable.”

“Shall we say ten per cent of my allowance? I can also cook when we have to camp and am hardier than I look.”

The Witcher grunted.

“Will there be questions?”

“Yes, but only about method, philosophy and history. If you are uncomfortable answering then you should say so and I will leave the subject behind.”

He nodded.

“It's part of our code,” he said after a while, “that our secrets remain our secrets. Any attempt to see or divine the formulae from my potions and tools will be met with death. Any sign that you are trying to see how my mutations could be done will be met with the same.”

“I understand. Can I ask what they do and how it feels to have them?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Yes, but don't expect a regular answer.”

I nodded.

“Then do we have a deal?”

“We do,”

I held out my hand.

He hesitated for a brief moment before taking it.

“I don't know your name?”

“Kerrass.” He said, “Kerrass of Maecht.”