The sorceress’s neck was adorned with a necklace of polished emeralds. None smaller than an almond. And one considerably larger.

Her red hair was like a forest fire.

Mozaïk was standing at Lytta’s side. In a black and astonishingly bold dress of silk and chiffon, quite transparent on the shoulders and sleeves. The girl’s neck and cleavage were veiled in something like a fancifully draped chiffon ruff which, in combination with the long black sleeves, gave her figure an aura of flamboyance and mystery.

They were both wearing four-inch heels. Lytta’s were made of iguana skin and Mozaïk’s of patent leather.

Geralt hesitated to approach for a moment. But only a moment.

“Greetings,” Lytta said guardedly. “What a pleasant surprise, it’s lovely to see you. Mozaïk, you won, the white slippers are yours.”

“A wager,” he guessed. “What did it concern?”

“You. I thought we wouldn’t see you again and wagered that you wouldn’t show up. Mozaïk took the bet, because she thought differently.”

Lytta gave him a deep, jade-green glance, clearly waiting for a response. For a word. For anything. Geralt remained silent.

“Greetings, fair ladies!” said Dandelion, springing up from nowhere, a veritable deus ex machina. “My respects, I bow before your beauty. Madame Neyd, Miss Mozaïk. Forgive the absence of flowers.”

“We forgive you. What of the arts?”

“All that you’d expect: everything and nothing,” said Dandelion, snatching two goblets of wine from a passing page and handing them to the women. “The party’s somewhat dull, isn’t it? But the wine’s good. Est Est, forty a pint. The red’s not bad, either, I’ve tried it. Just don’t drink the hippocras, they don’t know how to spice it. And there’s no end of guests, have you seen? As usual in high society, the race is back-to-front, it’s à rebours; whoever arrives last wins and claims the laurels. And will have a splendid entrance. I think we’re observing the finish right now. The owner of a chain of lumber mills and wife are crossing the finishing line, losing out in the process to the harbourmaster and wife who are just behind. Who in turn are losing out to a dandy I don’t know…”

“That’s the head of the Koviran commercial mission. And wife,” explained Coral. “I wonder whose.”

“Pyral Pratt, that old villain, will make it into the leading pack. With a pretty good-looking partner… Bloody hell!”

“What’s the matter?”

“The woman beside Pratt…” Dandelion choked. “Is… is Etna Asider… The little widow who sold me the sword…”

“Is that how she introduced herself?” snorted Lytta. “Etna Asider? A cheap anagram. She’s Antea Derris. Pratt’s eldest daughter. And no little widow, for she’s never married. Rumour has it she isn’t fond of men.”

“Pratt’s daughter? Impossible! I’ve visited him—”