‘How long have you had this nasty weather, Excellency?’ he asked only to break the annoying silence.
‘Since mid-September, Count,’ replied the ambassador. ‘Since the full moon. It is going to be an early winter. Talgar has already had its first snowfall.’
‘I thought in Talgar the snow never melted,’ Dijkstra said.
The ambassador looked to make sure it was a joke and not ignorance.
‘In Talgar,’ he joked too, ‘winter begins in September and ends in May. The other seasons are spring and fall. There is also summer… It usually falls on the first Tuesday in August. And it lasts until Wednesday morning…’
Dijkstra did not laugh.
‘But even there,’ the ambassador’s face clouded over, ‘snow at the end of October is unique.’
The ambassador, like most of the aristocracy of Redania, could not stand Dijkstra. The fact that he was to be subordinate to him, was a disgrace, and the fact that the Regency Council had appointed Dijkstra to take charge of negotiations with Kovir was a mortal insult. What infuriated him, De Ruyter, the most famous branch of the family of De Ruyter, Baron for nine generations, would call this Count spoilt and an upstart. But as an experienced diplomat he beautifully concealed his resentment.
The oars rose and fell rhythmically, the ship glided swiftly through the canal. They were just passing beside the Palace of Culture and Art, a small but tasteful building.
‘Are we going to Ensenada?’
‘Yes, Count’ confirmed the ambassador. ‘The foreign minister pointed out that he would like to meet with you immediately after your arrival, So I’ll lead you directly to Ensenada. In the afternoon we will send you by boat to the palace, as they would like to invite you to dinner…’
‘Excuse me, Excellency,’ Dijkstra interrupted him quickly, ‘but obligations do not allow me to accept. I have many issues to be resolved and soon, we must solve them at the expense of pleasure. Dinner will need to be another time. In happier, more peaceful times.’
The ambassador bowed and furtively breathed a sigh of relief.
Dijkstra entered Ensenada, of course, through the back door. With sincere delight. The main entrance of the monarch’s winter residence was located under pediment supported on slender columns and was access directly from the Grand Canal through white marble stairs, which were impressive, but awfully long. The stairs leading to one of the many back doors were much less impressive but also much easier to walk up. Despite this, Dijkstra, as he walked, bit his lip and cursed under his breath so the guards, footmen and the butler who escorted him could not hear.
Inside the palace he was expecting more stairs and a further climbing. Dijkstra again cursed softly. The moisture, cold and the uncomfortable position in the boat made his foot, which had been broken and cured by magic, begin to make its presence felt with a dull and unpleasant ache. And bad memories. Dijkstra clenched his teeth. He knew that the Witcher had also suffered broken bones. He hoped the Witcher also aches and wished with all his heart that it ache as long and strong as possible.
Outside it was already dark; the corridors in Ensenada were also dark. However, the way that they went following the silent butler, was illuminated by a line of lackeys with candles. In front of the wooden doors to which the butler led him, were guards with halberds, tense and rigid as if they had a reserve halberd up their ass. There were more lackeys with candles, the light hurt the eyes. Dijkstra was surprised a little by the pomp with which he was greeted.
He entered the room and stopped immediately, astonished. He bowed.
‘Welcome, Dijkstra,’ said Esterad Thyssen, King of Kovir, Poviss, Narok, Velhad and Talgar. ‘Do not stand at the door, come here, closer. Leave the labels outside; this is not an official audience.’
‘Your Majesty.’
Esterad’s wife, Queen Zuleyka, responded to his bow full of respect with a slight nod, never for a moment pausing with her crocheting.
Apart from the royal couple, there was not a soul in the room.
‘That’s right,’ Esterad noticed his gaze, ‘We’ll talk in private, excuse me, just the six eyes. I consider this to be the most sensible solution.’
Dijkstra sat in the chair that was opposite Esterad that was offered to him. The king wore across his shoulders an ermine, crimson mantle, a jacket and a matching velvet hat. Like all men of the House of Thyssen, he was tall, powerfully built and criminally handsome. He always looked sturdy and healthy, like a sailor who had just returned from sea, until it seemed that he emanated a scent of cold seawater and salty wind. As with all Thyssens, it was difficult to guess the exact age of the king. Looking at his hair, his complexion and hands, places that clearly showed age, he could guess that Esterad was forty-five. But Dijkstra knew that the king was fifty-six.
‘Zuleyka,’ the King leaned towards his wife. ‘Look at him. If you did not know he was a spy, would you believe it?’
Queen Zuleyka was small, rather plumb and sympathetically plain. She was dressed in a manner typical for many women of her type, for whom fashion is just an empty concept. She wore a style of baggy clothes in shades of gray. Her hair was hidden under a bonnet, which she had apparently inherited from her grandmother. She did not wear any jewellery or use makeup.
‘A good book teaches us,’ she said in a soft, pleasant voice, ‘that we should be cautious in judging our neighbors. For we will also be judged. And certainly not for our appearance.’
Esterad Thyssen gave his wave a warm look. It was not secret that he loved her immeasurably. Love, which for twenty-nine years of marriage had never waned, and still clearly burned. Esterad, so it was claimed, had never betrayed Zuleyka ever. Dijkstra did not think too much on something so unlikely, but he had more than three times tried to insert a female agent into the king’s favor, to gather information. Nothing had ever come of it.
‘I do not like beating around the bush,’ said the king, ‘so I am going to get to the point of why I decided to talk to you personally. There are several reasons. First, I know that you do not shy away from bribery. In fact, I am sure of my officials, but why expose them to such trials, and great temptation? Why did you intend to offer as a bride to the minister of foreign affairs?’
‘A thousand Novigrad crowns,’ said the spy, unblinking. ‘If he had bargained I would have gone as high as fifteen hundred.’
‘And that is why I like you,’ Esterad said after a moment of silence. ‘You’re a fucking bastard. I remember my own youth. I look and I see myself at your age.’
Dijkstra thanked him with a bow. He was only eight years younger than the king. He was sure that Esterad knew exactly that.
‘You’re a fucking bastard,’ repeated the king, frowning. ‘But a bastard who is decent and honest. And that is a rarity in these wretched times.’
Dijkstra bowed again.
‘You see,’ continued Esterad. ‘In every country you can find blind fanatics seeking the idea of a social order. They are so committed to that idea that they are willing to do anything. Perhaps even commit the worst crimes, because according to them the end justifies the means and justifies their actions. They do not kill, they safeguard the order. They do not torture, or blackmail, they protect the right of state and the struggle for order. The life of an individual if the individual interferes with their dogmas, their established rules, such people are not even worth a shrug. They never become aware that the society they serve consist of precisely these individuals. These people have a so-called broad outlook… Such a view is the surest way not to see other people.’
‘Nicodemus de Boot,’ Dijkstra said.
‘Almost, but not quite,’ the king of Kovir showed his alabaster teeth. ‘Vysogota of Corvo. A lesser-known philosopher and ethicist, but also very good. Read him, I recommend it. There will still be a book in your country, they will not all been burned. But to the point, to the point. You, Dijkstra, also use unscrupulous, intrigue, bribery, blackmail and torture. You do not blink an eye when sentencing someone to death or
ordering a covert assassination. The fact that you do everything for the kingdom you serve faithfully, does not excuse you nor earn my sympathy. Not at all. Know this.’
The spy nodded to indicate that he knew.
‘But you,’ said Esterad, ‘as I said, are a bastard character. So I appreciate and respect you, which is why I have offered you a private audience. For you, Dijkstra, having on many occasions being able to make yourself millions, you have never in your life done anything for personal gain or stolen a penny from the state treasury. Not even half a farthing. Zuleyka, look! He blushed, or did I just imagine it?’
The queen looked up from her needlework.
‘When you see the color of modesty you will know the appearance of authenticity,’ she quoted a passage from the Good Book, but she could see that on the face of the spy there was not a trace of a blush.
‘Well,’ said Esterad. ‘Let’s move onto more serious matters. He has crossed the sea directed by patriotic duty. Redania, his homeland is in danger. After the tragic death of King Vizimir, chaos reigns there. Redania is governed by a band of aristocratic idiots called the Council of Regency. This band, my Zuleyka is not going to do anything for Redania. At the moment of danger they will flee or lie down like dogs and lick the pearl adorned boots of the Nilfgaardian Emperor. Dijkstra is despised by this band because he is a spy, murderer and upstart, but it was Dijkstra who has crossed the sea to save Redania. Showing who it is that really cares for Redania.’
Esterad Thyssen paused to catch his breath and adjusted his hat , which had slipped lower onto his forehead.
‘Well, Dijkstra,’ said the king, ‘what plagues your kingdom? Except for a lack of money, I mean?’
‘Except for a lack of money,’ the spy’s face was like stone, ‘nothing, everyone is healthy, thank you.’
‘Ah,’ the King nodded and again moved the hat back onto his head. ‘Ah. I understand. I understand and applaud the idea. When you have money, you can buy a cure for every ailment. The important thing is to have money. And you do not have it. If you did then you would not be here. Is my reasoning correct?’
‘No objection.’
‘And how much do you need, out of curiosity?’
‘Not much. A million.’
‘Not much?’ said Esterad, with an exaggerated gesture, grabbing his hat in both hands. ‘This is not much? Ay, ay.’
‘For Your Majesty,’ stammered the spy,’ this amount is only a pittance…’
‘A pittance?’ the King released his hat and raised his hands towards the ceiling. ‘Ay, ay! A million is a pittance; did you hear what he said, Zuleyka? Did you know, Dijkstra that one million and one million are together two million? I understand that you and Philippa Eilhart are frantically rushing to build a defense against Nilfgaard, but what do you want? To buy all of Nilfgaard?’
Dijkstra did not answer. Zuleyka crocheted with eagerness. Esterad during this time, pretended to be admiring the naked nymph painted on the ceiling.
‘Follow me,’ he suddenly stood up and nodded to the spy. They went to a huge painting showing King Gedovius sitting on a grey horse with a sceptre of the military pointing to something not on the canvas, probably in the right direction. Esterad dug out of his pocket a tiny gilded wand, and touched the picture frame, uttering an incantation under his breath. Gedovius and the grey horse disappeared and in their place was a map of the known world. The King touched the wand to the edge of the map and it magically changed scale, bringing closer the visible world of the Yaruga Valley and the four kingdoms.
‘Blue is Nilfgaard,’ he explained. ‘Red is for the kingdoms… Or rather what is left of them. What the hell are you looking at? Look here!’
Dijkstra looked away from the other paintings, mostly of seafaring acts and scenes. He wondered which of them would camouflage, Esterad’s other famous maps that showed the commercial intelligence and military of Kovir, the complete network of blackmail and bribed informants, operational contacts, saboteurs and paid murderers. He knew there was such a map and had long sought without success how to find it.
‘The red is your Kingdoms, Esterad repeated. ‘It looks bad, huh?’
Bad, Dijkstra admitted to himself. Lately he did nothing but look at strategic maps, but now, looking at Esterad’s map, the situation seemed even worse. The blue squares were in the shape of a terrible dragon’s maw, ready at any time to catch and tear with their teeth the poor red squares.
Esterad looked around for something that might serve as a pointer to the map, and finally pulled out a decorative rapier.
‘Nilfgaard,’ he started his lesson, pointing with his rapier when needed, ‘attacked Lyria and Aedirn as a casus belli by declaring an attack on the frontier fort of Glevitzingen. I’m not interested to find out who actually attacked Glevitzingen and in what disguise. I also consider it senseless in wondering how many days or hours the armed actions of Emhyr preceded a similar undertaking in Aedirn and Temeria. I will leave that to the historians. I am most interested in the current situation and what will come tomorrow. At this time, Nilfgaard is in Dol Angra and Aedirn and protected by a buffer state in the form of the Elvish domain Dol Blathanna, which borders on a portion of Aedirn that King Henselt of Kaedwen, to talk picturesquely, ripped from Emhyr’s mouth and ate himself.’
Dijkstra did not comment.
‘I will also leave to the historians the moral assessment of the performance of King Henselt,’ continued Esterad. ‘But a look at the map suffices to show that with the annexation of the Northern Marches, Henselt is blocking Emhyr’s way into the Pontar Valley. Protecting the flank of Temeria. And yours, Redania. You ought to thank him.’
‘I’ll thank him,’ muttered Dijkstra. ‘But silently. In Tretogor we are hosting King Demavend of Aedirn. And Demavend has quite an explicit assessment of the moral conduct of Henselt. He is accustomed to expressing it in short but sonorous words.’
‘I can imagine,’ the King of Kovir nodded. ‘Let us leave this for a moment and look to the south to the Yaruga River. In attacking Dol Angra, Emhyr secured his flank while signing a separate peace treaty with Foltest of Temeria. But immediately after completing his war efforts in Aedirn, the emperor broke the pact and unceremoniously attacked Brugge and Sodden. With his cowardly pact, Foltest gained two weeks of peace. More precisely, sixteen days. And today is the twenty-six of October.’
‘It is.’
‘The situation on October twenty-six is as follows: Sodden and Brugge are occupied. The fortresses of Mayena and Razwan have fallen. The Temerian army was defeated at the Battle of Maribor, driven back north. Maribor is besieged. This morning they were still holding. But it is evening now, Dijkstra.’
‘Maribor will stand. Nilfgaard could not have surrounded them.’
‘That is true. They have penetrated too deeply into foreign territory, stretching their supply lines and leaving their flank dangerously exposed. Before the coming of winter they will be forced to break their siege and withdraw to the Yaruga and shorten their front. But what will happen in the spring, Dijkstra? What will happen when the grass comes out from under the snow? Come. Look at the map.’
Dijkstra looked.
‘Look at the map,’ repeated the king. ‘I’ll tell you what Emhyr var Emreis will do in the spring.’
‘With spring will begin an offensive on an unprecedented scale,’ Carthia van Canten announced, arranging her golden curls before the mirror. ‘Oh, I know this information in itself is not revolutionary, in every rural woman gossip circle they are talking about the offensive.’
Assire var Anahid was exceptionally angry and impatient that day, yet managed to contain and not express the question about why on earth she listened to this banal information. But she knew Cantarella. If Cantarella started talking about something, she had good reasons. And her conclusions were usually accurate.
‘I, however, know a little more than the village gossip,’ said Cantarella. ‘Vattier told me everything about what was discussed at the meeting with the
Emperor. He even brought me a folder with maps and when he fell asleep, I looked for myself… Shall I continue?’
‘Certainly,’ Assire narrowed her eyes. ‘Speak, my dear.’
‘The direction of the main attack is, of course, Temeria, the Pontar River, Novigrad, Vizima and Ellander. The Centre Army Group, under the command of Menno Coehoorn, will strike. The flanking armies will be the East Army Group, which will strike from Aedirn’s Pontar valley and Kaedwen…’
‘From Kaedwen?’ Assire raised her eyebrows. ‘Does this mean the end of a fragile friendship, concluded once the spoils are divided?’
‘Kaedwen threatens the right flank,’ Carthia van Canten opened her mouth slightly. Her doll’s mouth was a terrible contrast to the strategic wisdom she was speaking. ‘The attack will be preventive in nature. A detachment of the East Army Group will attack King Henselt and head off any possible aid to Temeria.’
‘From the west,’ continued the blonde, ‘will attack the Verden Operations Group, with the task of controlling Cidaris and blocking Novigrad, Gors Velen and Vizima. The General Staff foresees a long siege of the three cities.’
‘You have not mentioned the names of the heads of the two army groups.’
‘The East Group, Ardal aep Dahy,’ smiled Cantarella, ‘and Verden, Joachim de Wett.’
Assire blinked in surprise.
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘The two nobles offended that their daughters were excluded from Emhyr’s marriage plans. Our Emperor is either very naïve or very clever.’
‘If Emhyr knew anything about the noble’s conspiracy,’ said Carthia, ‘it was not from Vattier. He did not say anything to him.’
‘Go on.’
‘Never before has there been a military operation of this scale. In total, counting the frontline units, reserves, auxiliary services and the rear-guard, the operation will be attended by over three hundred thousand people. And elves, of course.’