Mr. Samsa took him by surprise. Although lacking his right hand, although gushing blood from the stump, he found the misericorde on the floor with his left hand. And aimed it at Dandelion. The poet screamed, yet demonstrated presence of mind. He fell from his chair and put it between himself and the assailant. Geralt didn’t let Mr. Samsa do anything else. Blood once again splashed the ceiling, the chandelier and the candle-ends stuck into it.

Dandelion got up from his knees, rested his forehead against the wall, then vomited extremely copiously and splattering the floor.

Ferrant de Lettenhove rushed into the chamber with several guardsmen.

“What’s going on? What happened? Julian! Are you in one piece? Julian!”

Dandelion raised a hand, signalling that he would answer in a moment, because he didn’t have time right then. And vomited again.

The instigator ordered the guardsmen to leave and closed the door behind them. He looked at the bodies, cautiously, so as not to tread in the spilt blood and making certain that the blood dripping from the chandelier didn’t stain his doublet.

“Samsa, Tverdoruk, Richter,” he said, listing them. “And Master Captain Ropp. Prince Egmund’s confidants.”

“They carried out their orders,” said the Witcher, shrugging, looking down at his sword. “Like you, they obeyed their orders. And you didn’t know anything about it. Confirm that, Ferrant.”

“I didn’t know anything about it,” the instigator confirmed hastily and stepped back, leaning against the wall. “I swear! You can’t possibly suspect… You don’t think…”

“If I did you’d be dead. I believe you. You wouldn’t have risked Dandelion’s life, after all.”

“The king must be informed. I’m afraid that for Prince Egmund it may mean amendments and appendices to the indictment. Ropp is alive, I think. He’ll testify…”

“I doubt he’ll be in a fit state.”

The instigator examined the captain, who was lying, stretched out in a pool of urine, salivating copiously and trembling incessantly.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Shards of nasal bones in the brain. And probably several splinters in his eyeballs.”

“You struck him too hard.”

“That was my intention,” said Geralt, wiping the sword blade with a napkin taken from the table. “Dandelion, how are you? Everything in order? Can you stand?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” gibbered Dandelion. “I’m feeling better. Much better…”

“You don’t look like someone who’s feeling better.”