‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Geralt,’ she said with a smile. Like all enchantresses, she didn’t recognise any ‘sirs’, ‘Your Excellencies’ or other forms of address used among the nobility. ‘You can’t believe how delighted I am. You’ve finally stopped hiding him from us, Yenna. Speaking frankly, I’m amazed you put it off for so long. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘I agree,’ replied Yennefer nonchalantly, narrowing her eyes a little and ostentatiously tossing her hair back from her own earrings. ‘Gorgeous blouse, Sabrina. Simply stunning. Isn’t it, Geralt?’
The Witcher nodded and swallowed. Sabrina Glevissig’s blouse, made of black chiffon, revealed absolutely everything there was to reveal, and there was plenty of it. Her crimson skirt, gathered in by a silver belt with a large rose-shaped buckle, was split up the side, in keeping with the latest fashion. Fashion demanded it be split halfway up the thigh, but Sabrina wore hers split to halfway up her hip. And a very nice hip at that.
‘What’s new in Kaedwen?’ asked Yennefer, pretending not to see what Geralt was looking at. ‘Is your King Henselt still wasting energy and resources chasing the Squirrels through the forests? Is he still thinking about a punitive expedition against the elves from Dol Blathann?’
‘Let’s give politics a rest,’ smiled Sabrina. Her slightly too-long nose and predatory eyes made her resemble the classic image of a witch. ‘Tomorrow, at the Council, we’ll be politicking until it comes out of our ears. And we’ll hear plenty of moralising, too. About the need for peaceful coexistence . . . About friendship . . . About the necessity to adopt a loyal position regarding the plans and ambitions of our kings . . . What else shall we hear, Yennefer? What else are the Chapter and Vilgefortz preparing for us?’
‘Let’s give politics a rest.’
Sabrina Glevissig gave a silvery laugh, echoed by the gentle jingling of her earrings.
‘Indeed. Let’s wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow . . . Everything will become clear tomorrow. Oh, politics, and those endless debates, what an awful effect they have on the complexion. Fortunately, I have an excellent cream. Believe me, darling, wrinkles disappear like morning mist . . . Shall I give you the formula?’
‘Thank you, darling, but I don’t need it. Truly.’
‘Oh, I know. I always envied your complexion at school. How many years is it now, by the gods?’
Yennefer pretended she was returning a greeting to someone passing alongside, while Sabrina smiled at the Witcher and joyously thrust out everything the black chiffon wasn’t hiding. Geralt swallowed again, trying not to look too blatantly at her pink nipples, only too visible beneath the transparent material. He glanced timidly at Yennefer. The enchantress smiled, but he knew her too well. She was incandescent.
‘Oh, forgive me,’ said Yennefer suddenly. ‘I can see Philippa over there; I just have to talk to her. Come with me, Geralt. Bye-bye, Sabrina.’
‘Bye, Yenna,’ said Sabrina Glevissig, looking the Witcher in the eyes. ‘Congratulations again on your . . . taste.’
‘Thank you,’ said Yennefer, her voice suspiciously cold. ‘Thank you, darling.’
Philippa Eilhart was accompanied by Dijkstra. Geralt, who’d once had a fleeting contact with the Redanian spy, ought in principle to have been pleased; he had finally met someone he knew, who – like he – didn’t belong to the fraternity. Yet he wasn’t glad at all.
‘How lovely to see you, Yenna,’ said Philippa, giving Yennefer an air kiss. ‘Greetings, Geralt. You both know Count Dijkstra, don’t you?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ said Yennefer, bowing her head and proffering her hand to Dijkstra. The spy kissed it with reverence. ‘I’m delighted to see you again, Your Excellency.’
‘It’s a joy for me to see you again, Yennefer,’ replied the chief of King Vizimir’s secret service. ‘Particularly in such agreeable company. Geralt, my respects come from the bottom of my heart . . .’
Geralt, refraining from telling Dijkstra his respect came from the heart of his bottom, shook the proffered hand – or rather tried to. Its dimensions exceeded the norm which made made shaking it practically impossible.
The gigantic spy was dressed in a light beige doublet, unbuttoned informally. He clearly felt at ease in it.
‘I noticed,’ said Philippa, ‘you talking to Sabrina.’
‘That’s right,’ snorted Yennefer. ‘Have you seen what she’s wearing? You’d either have to have no taste or no shame to . . . She’s bloody older than me by at least— Never mind. And as if she still had anything to show! The revolting cow!’
‘Did she try to question you? Everyone knows she spies for Henselt of Kaedwen.’
‘You don’t say?’ said Yennefer, faking astonishment, which was rightly considered an excellent joke.
‘And you, Your Excellency, are you enjoying our celebration?’ asked Yennefer, after Philippa and Dijkstra had stopped laughing.
‘Extraordinarily,’ said King Vizimir’s spy, giving a courtly bow.
‘If we presume,’ said Philippa, smiling, ‘that the Count is here on business, such an assurance is extremely complimentary. And, like every similar compliment, not very sincere. Only a moment ago, he confessed he’d prefer a nice, murky atmosphere, the stink of flaming brands and scorched meat on a spit. He also misses a traditional table swimming in spilt sauce and beer, which he could bang with his beer mug to the rhythm of a few filthy, drunken songs, and which he could gracefully slide under in the early hours, to fall asleep among hounds gnawing bones. And, just imagine, he remains deaf to my arguments extolling the superiority of our way of banqueting.’
‘Indeed?’ said the Witcher, looking at the spy more benignly. ‘And what were those arguments, if I might ask?’
This time his question was clearly treated as an excellent joke, because both enchantresses began laughing at the same time.
‘Oh, you men,’ said Philippa. ‘You don’t understand anything. How can you show off your dress or your figure if you’re hiding behind a table in the gloom and smoke?’
Geralt, unable to find the words, merely bowed. Yennefer squeezed his arm gently.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see Triss Merigold over there. I just have to exchange a few words with her . . . Excuse me for abandoning you. Take care, Philippa. We will certainly find an opportunity for a chat today. Won’t we, Your Excellency?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Dijkstra, smiling and bowing low. ‘At your service, Yennefer. Your wish is my command.’
They went over to Triss, who was shimmering in shades of blue and pale green. On seeing them, Triss broke off her conversation with two sorcerers, smiled radiantly and hugged Yennefer; the ritual of kissing the air near each other’s ears was repeated. Geralt took the proffered hand, but decided to act contrary to the rules of etiquette; he embraced the chestnut-haired enchantress and kissed her on her soft cheek, as downy as a peach. Triss blushed faintly.
The sorcerers introduced themselves. One of them was Drithelm of Pont Vanis, the other his brother, Detmold. They were both in the service of King Esterad of Kovir. Both proved to be taciturn and both moved away at the first opportunity that presented itself.
‘You were talking to Philippa and Dijkstra of Tretogor,’ observed Triss, playing with a lapis-lazuli heart set in silver and diamonds, which hung around from her neck. ‘You know who Dijkstra is, of course?’
‘Yes, we do,’ said Yennefer. ‘Did he talk to you? Did he try to get anything out of you?’
‘He tried,’ said the enchantress, smiling knowingly and giggling. ‘Quite subtly. But Philippa was doing a good job throwing him off his stride. And I thought they were on better terms.’
‘They’re on excellent terms,’ Yennefer warned her gravely. ‘Be careful, Triss. Don’t breathe a word to him about – about you know who.’
‘I know. I’ll be careful. And by the way . . .’ Triss lowered her voice. ‘How’s she doing? Will I be able to see her?’
‘If you finally decide to ru
n classes at Aretuza,’ smiled Yennefer, ‘you’ll be able to see her very often.’
‘Ah,’ said Triss, opening her eyes widely. ‘I see. Is Ciri . . . ?’
‘Be quiet, Triss. We’ll talk about it later. Tomorrow. After the Council.’
‘Tomorrow?’ said Triss, smiling strangely. Yennefer frowned, but before she had time to ask a question, a slight commotion suddenly broke out in the hall.
‘They’re here,’ said Triss, clearing her throat. ‘They’ve finally arrived.’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Yennefer, tearing her gaze from her friend’s eyes. ‘They’re here. Geralt, at last you’ll have a chance to meet the members of the Chapter and the High Council. If the opportunity presents itself I’ll introduce you, but it won’t hurt if you know who’s who beforehand.’
The assembled sorcerers parted, bowing with respect at the personages entering the hall. The first was a middle-aged but vigorous man in extremely modest woollen clothing. At his side strode a tall, sharp-featured woman with dark, smoothly combed hair.
‘That is Gerhart of Aelle, also known as Hen Gedymdeith, the oldest living sorcerer,’ Yennefer informed Geralt in hushed tones. ‘The woman walking beside him is Tissaia de Vries. She isn’t much younger than Hen, but is not afraid of using elixirs to hide it.’
Behind the couple walked an attractive woman with very long, dark golden hair, and a grey-green dress decorated with lace, which rustled as she moved.
‘Francesca Findabair, also called Enid an Gleanna, the Daisy of the Valleys. Don’t goggle, Witcher. She is widely considered to be the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘Is she a member of the Chapter?’ he whispered in astonishment. ‘She looks very young. Is that also thanks to magical elixirs?’
‘Not in her case. Francesca is a pure-blooded elf. Observe the man escorting her. He’s Vilgefortz of Roggeveen and he really is young. But incredibly talented.’
In the case of sorcerers, as Geralt knew, the term ‘young’ covered any age up to and including a hundred years. Vilgefortz looked thirty-five. He was tall and well-built, wore a short jerkin of a knightly cut – but without a coat of arms, naturally. He was also fiendishly handsome. It made a great impression, even considering that Francesca Findabair was flowing gracefully along at his side, with her huge, doe eyes and breathless beauty.
‘That short man walking alongside Vilgefortz is Artaud Terranova,’ explained Triss Merigold. ‘Those five constitute the Chapter—’
‘And that girl with a strange face, walking behind Vilgefortz?’
‘That’s his assistant, Lydia van Bredevoort,’ said Yennefer coldly. ‘A meaningless individual, but looking her directly in the face is considered a serious faux pas. Take note of those three men bringing up the rear; they’re all members of the Council. Fercart of Cidaris, Radcliffe of Oxenfurt and Carduin of Lan Exeter.’
‘Is that the whole Council? In its entirety? I thought there were more of them.’
‘The Chapter numbers five, and there are another five in the Council. Philippa Eilhart is another Council member.’
‘The numbers still don’t add up,’ he said, shaking his head. Triss giggled.
‘Haven’t you told him? Do you really not know, Geralt?’
‘Know what, exactly?’
‘That Yennefer’s also a member of the Council. Ever since the Battle of Sodden. Haven’t you boasted about it to him yet, darling?’
‘No, darling,’ said the enchantress, looking her friend straight in the eyes. ‘For one thing, I don’t like to boast. For another, there’s been no time. I haven’t seen Geralt for ages, and we have a lot of catching up to do. There’s already a long list. We’re going through it point by point.’
‘I see,’ said Triss hesitantly. ‘Hmm . . . After such a long time I understand. You must have lots to talk about . . .’
‘Talking,’ smiled Yennefer suggestively, giving the Witcher another smouldering glance, ‘is way down the list. Right at the very bottom, Triss.’
The chestnut-haired enchantress was clearly discomfited and blushed faintly.
‘I see,’ she said, playing in embarrassment with her lapis-lazuli heart.
‘I’m so glad you do. Geralt, bring us some wine. No, not from that page. From that one, over there.’
He complied, sensing at once a note of compulsion in her voice. As he took the goblets from the tray the page was carrying, he discreetly observed the two enchantresses. Yennefer was speaking quickly and quietly, while Triss Merigold was listening intently, with her head down. When he returned, Triss had gone. Yennefer didn’t show any interest in the wine, so he placed the two unwanted goblets on a table.
‘Sure you didn’t go a bit too far?’ he asked coldly. Yennefer’s eyes flared violet.
‘Don’t try to make a fool out of me. Did you think I don’t know about you and her?’
‘If that’s what you—’
‘That’s precisely what,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Don’t make stupid faces, and refrain from comments. And above all, don’t try to lie to me. I’ve known Triss longer than I’ve known you. We like each other. We understand each other wonderfully and will always do so, irrespective of various minor . . . incidents. Just then it seemed to me she had some doubts. So I put her right, and that’s that. Let’s not discuss it any further.’
He didn’t intend to. Yennefer pulled her curls back from her cheek.
‘Now I shall leave you for a moment; I must talk to Tissaia and Francesca. Have some more food, because your stomach’s rumbling. And be vigilant. Several people are sure to accost you. Don’t let them walk all over you and don’t tarnish my reputation.’
‘You can be sure of that.’
‘Geralt?’
‘Yes.’
‘A short while ago you expressed a desire to kiss me here, in front of everyone. Do you still hold to that?’
‘I do.’
‘Just try not to smudge my lipstick.’
He glanced at the assembly out of the corner of his eye. They were watching the kiss, but not intrusively. Philippa Eilhart, standing nearby, with a group of young sorcerers, winked at him and feigned applause.
Yennefer pulled her mouth away from his and heaved a deep sigh.
‘A trifling thing, but pleasing,’ she purred. ‘All right, I’m going. I’ll be right back. And later, after the banquet . . . Hmm . . .’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please don’t eat anything containing garlic.’
After she had gone the Witcher abandoned convention, unfastened his doublet, drank both goblets of wine and tried to get down to some serious eating. Nothing came of it.
‘Geralt.’
‘Your Excellency.’
‘Lay off the titles,’ frowned Dijkstra. ‘I’m no count. Vizimir ordered me to introduce myself like that, so as not affront courtiers or sorcerers with my peasant origins. So, how’s it going impressing people with your outfit and your figure? And pretending to have fun?’
‘I don’t have to pretend. I’m not here in a professional capacity.’
‘That’s interesting,’ smiled the spy, ‘but confirms the general opinion, that says you’re special; one of a kind. Because everyone else is here in a professional capacity.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ said Geralt, also deeming it appropriate to smile. ‘I guessed I’d be one of a kind. Meaning out of place.’
The spy inspected the nearby dishes and then picked up and devoured the large, green pod of a vegetable unfamiliar to Geralt.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘thank you for the Michelet brothers. Plenty of people in Redania sighed with relief when you hacked the four of them to death in the port in Oxenfurt. I laughed out loud when the university physician who was summoned to the investigation concluded – after examining the wounds – that someone had used a scythe blade mounted upright.’
Geralt didn’t comment. Dijkstra put another pod into his mouth.
‘It’s a pity,’ he cont
inued, chewing, ‘that after dispatching them you didn’t report to the mayor. There was a bounty on them, dead or alive. A considerable one.’
‘Too many problems with my tax return already,’ said the Witcher, also deciding to sample a green pod, which turned out to taste like soapy celery. ‘Besides, I had to get away quickly, because . . . But I’m probably boring you, Dijkstra. You know everything, after all.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ smiled the spy. ‘I really don’t. Where would I learn such things from, anyway?’
‘From the reports of, oh, I don’t know, Philippa Eilhart.’
‘Reports, tales, rumours. I have to listen to them; it’s my job. But at the same time, my job forces me to sift every detail through a very fine sieve. Recently, just imagine, I heard that someone hacked the infamous Professor and his two comrades to death. It happened outside an inn in Anchor. The person who did it was also in too much of a hurry to collect the bounty.’
Geralt shrugged.
‘Rumours. Sift them through a fine sieve and you’ll see what remains.’
‘I don’t have to. I know what will remain. Most often, it’s a deliberate attempt at disinformation. Ah, and while we’re on the subject of disinformation, how is little Cirilla doing? Poor, sickly little girl, so prone to diphtheria? She’s healthy, I trust?’
‘Drop it, Dijkstra,’ replied the Witcher coldly, looking the spy straight in the eye. ‘I know you’re here in a professional capacity, but don’t be overzealous.’
The spy chortled and two passing sorceresses looked at him in astonishment. And with interest.
‘King Vizimir,’ said Dijkstra, his chuckle over, ‘pays me an extra bonus for every mystery I solve. My zealousness guarantees me a decent living. You can laugh, but I have a wife and children.’
‘I don’t see anything funny about it. Work to support your wife and children, but not at my expense, if you don’t mind. It seems to me there’s no shortage of mysteries and riddles in this hall.’
‘Quite. The whole of Aretuza is one great riddle. You must have noticed. Something’s in the air, Geralt. And, for the sake of clarity, I don’t mean the candelabras.’