“Ildiko Breckl,” Coral repeated. “That’s her name. She was turfed out of Aretuza in the third year. For petty theft. She’s done well for herself, as you can see. She didn’t become a sorceress, but she’ll be a queen in a few hours. The cherry on the tart, dammit? She’s only meant to be seventeen. The old fool. Ildiko is a good twenty-five.”

“And appears not to like you.”

“The feeling’s mutual. She’s a born schemer, trouble always follows her around. But that’s not all. The frigate that sailed into the harbour under black sails? I know what she is, I’ve heard about her. She’s the Acherontia. And is extremely infamous. Wherever she appears something happens.”

“What, for example?”

“She has a crew of mercenaries who can allegedly be hired to do anything. And what do you hire mercenaries for? Bricklaying?”

“I have to go. Forgive me, Coral.”

“Whatever occurs,” she said slowly, looking him in the eyes, “whatever happens, I can’t be embroiled in it.”

“Never fear. I don’t mean to ask for your help.”

“You misunderstood me.”

“No doubt. Forgive me, Coral.”

* * *

Just beyond the ivy-grown colonnade he bumped into Mozaïk coming the other way. Astonishingly calm and cool among the heat, hubbub and commotion.

“Where’s Dandelion? Did he leave you?”

“He did,” she sighed. “But excused himself politely and also asked me to apologise to you. He was invited to perform in private. In the palace chambers, for the queen and her ladies-in-waiting. He couldn’t refuse.”

“Who asked him?”

“A man with a soldierly look. And a strange expression in his eyes.”

“I have to go. Forgive me, Mozaïk.”

A small crowd had gathered beyond the pavilion, which was decorated with colourful ribbons. Food was being served: pasties, salmon and duck in aspic. Geralt cleared a path for himself, looking out for Captain Ropp or Ferrant de Lettenhove. Instead he ran straight into Febus Ravenga. The restaurateur resembled an aristocrat. He was dressed in a brocade doublet, while his head was adorned with a hat bearing a plume of ostrich feathers. He was accompanied by Pyral Pratt’s daughter, chic and elegant in a black male outfit.

“Oh, Geralt,” said Ravenga, looking pleased. “Antea, let me introduce you: Geralt of Rivia, the famous witcher. Geralt, this is Madam Antea Derris, commercial agent. Have a glass of wine with us…”

“Forgive me but I’m in a hurry,” he apologised. “I’m aware of Madam Antea, although I haven’t met her personally. In your shoes, I wouldn’t buy anything from her, Febus.”

The portico over the palace entrance had been decorated by some scholarly linguist with a banner reading CRESCITE ET MULTIPLICAMINI. And Geralt was stopped by crossed halberd shafts.

“No entry.”

“I have to see the royal instigator urgently.”