Ferrant de Lettenhove escorted Geralt towards the main entrance to the palace grounds. Shortly after, they found themselves in a stone-slabbed courtyard where seneschals were greeting the guests as they arrived, and guardsmen and pages were escorting them further into the grounds.

“What may I expect?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What may I expect today? What part of that didn’t you understand?”

“Prince Xander has boasted in front of witnesses that he will be crowned king tomorrow,” said the instigator in a low voice. “But it isn’t the first time he’s said that and he’s always been in his cups when he has.”

“Is he capable of carrying out a coup?”

“Not especially. But he has a camarilla, confidants and favourites. They are more capable.”

“How much proof is there in the rumour that Belohun will today announce as his successor the son his betrothed is carrying?”

“Quite some.”

“And Egmund, who’s losing his chances for the throne, lo and behold, is hiring a witcher to guard and protect his father. What commendable filial love.”

“Don’t digress. You took on the task. Now execute it.”

“I did and I shall. Although it’s extremely vague. I don’t know who, if anything happens, will be pitted against me. But I probably ought to know who will support me if anything happens.”

“If such a need arises, the sword, as the prince promised, will be given to you by Captain Ropp. He will also back you up. I shall help, as far as I’m able. Because I wish you well.”

“Since when?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’ve never spoken face to face. Dandelion has always been with us and I didn’t want to bring up the subject with him there. The detailed documentation about my alleged frauds. How did Egmund come by it? Who forged it? Not him, of course. You did, Ferrant.”

“I had nothing to do with it. I assure you—”

“You’re a rotten liar for a guardian of the law. It’s a mystery how you landed your position.”

Ferrant de Lettenhove pursed his lips.

“I had to,” he said. “I was carrying out orders.”

The Witcher looked long and hard at him.

“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard similar words,” he finally said. “But it’s comforting to think it was usually from the mouths of men who were about to hang.”

* * *

Lytta Neyd was among the guests. He spotted her easily. Because she looked eye-catching.

The bodice of her vivid green crêpe de chine gown with its plunging neckline was decorated with embroidery in the form of a stylised butterfly sparkling with tiny sequins. It was edged with frills. Frilly dresses on women older than ten usually evoked ironic sympathy in the Witcher, while on Lytta’s dress they harmonised with the rest of it with more than attractive results.