“But if I so wish I shall call it all off and designate somebody quite different as my successor.” The king grimaced and winked at the marshal of the court. “After all, it is a morganatic marriage and issue from such unions don’t inherit titles, do they? And who’s capable of predicting how long I’ll stand her? For are there no other prettier and younger wenches in the world? It’ll be necessary to draw up the appropriate documents, a prenuptial agreement or something. Hope for the best, expect the worst, hee, hee, hee.”

The chamber man handed the king a tray piled up with jewels.

“Take it away.” Belohun grimaced. “I won’t be bedecking myself with trinkets like some fop or arriviste. I’ll only put this on. It’s a gift from my betrothed. Small, but tasteful. A medallion with the crest of my country, it behoves me to wear such a coat of arms. They are her words: the country’s crest on my chest, the country’s good in my heart.”

Some time passed before Geralt, standing pressed against the wall, put two and two together.

The cat, patting the medallion with its paw. The golden medallion on a chain. The blue enamel, the dolphin. D’or, dauphin naiant d’azur, lorré, peantré, oreillé, barbé et crêté de gueules.

It was too late to react. He didn’t even manage to cry out or give a warning. He saw the golden chain suddenly contract and tighten around the king’s neck like a garrotte. Belohun flushed and opened his mouth, but was incapable of taking a breath or screaming. He grabbed his neck with both hands, struggling to tear the medallion off or at least jam his fingers under the chain. He couldn’t, as the chain had cut deeply into his flesh. The king fell from the stool, and danced, bumping into the tailor. The tailor staggered and choked; he’d probably swallowed his pins. He fell against the notary and they both went over. Meanwhile, Belohun turned blue, eyes goggling, tumbled onto the floor, kicked out with his legs a few times and tensed up. And stopped moving.

“Help! The king has collapsed!”

“The physician!” called the marshal of the court. “Summon the physician!”

“Ye Gods! What has happened? What’s happened to the king?”

“The physician! Quickly!”

Ferrant de Lettenhove put his hands to his brow. His face wore a strange expression. The expression of a man who was slowly beginning to understand.

The king was laid down on a chaise longue. The physician took a long time examining him. Although close by, Geralt wasn’t allowed through, couldn’t watch. In spite of that, he knew that the chain had already loosened before the physician came running.