“Apoplexy,” the physician pronounced, straightening up. “Brought on by airlessness. Bad vapours entered the body and poisoned the humours. The unceasing storms raising the heat of the blood are to blame. Science is powerless, I can do nothing. Our good and gracious king is dead. He has departed this life.”

The marshal of the court gave a cry, burying his face in his hands. The herald seized his beret in both hands. A courtier sobbed. Others knelt down.

The corridor and vestibule abruptly resounded with the echo of heavy steps. In the doorway appeared a giant, a fellow measuring a good seven feet tall. In the uniform of a guardsman, but a senior one. The giant was accompanied by men in headscarves and earrings.

“Gentlemen, you are to proceed to the throne room. At once,” said the giant amid the silence.

“What throne room?” retorted the marshal of the court, irritably. “And why? Do you realise, Lord de Santis, what has just happened? What misfortune has occurred? You don’t understand—”

“To the throne room. By order of the king.”

“The king is dead!”

“Long live the king. To the throne room, please. Everybody. At once.”

About a dozen men were gathered in the throne room, beneath the maritime plafond with the tritons, mermaids and hippocampi. Some were wearing colourful scarves, some sailor’s caps with ribbons. They were all weather-beaten and had earrings.

Mercenaries. It wasn’t difficult to guess. The crew of the frigate Acherontia.

A dark-haired, dark-eyed man with a prominent nose was sitting on the throne on a dais. He was also weather-beaten. But he didn’t have an earring.

Beside him sat Ildiko Breckl on an extra chair, still in her snow-white gown and still bedecked in diamonds. The—until recently—royal fiancée and betrothed was staring at the dark-haired man with an expression of adoration. For some time, Geralt had been wondering how events would proceed and guessing at their causes, had been connecting facts and putting two and two together. Now, though, at that moment someone with even very limited intellect would have seen and understood that Ildiko Breckl and the dark-haired man knew each other. And very well, at that. And had for quite some time.

“Prince Viraxas, Prince of Kerack, a moment ago still the heir to the throne and crown, now the King of Kerack, the rightful ruler of the country,” announced the giant, de Santis, in a booming baritone.

The marshal of the court was the first to bow and then go down on one knee. After him, the herald paid homage. The seneschals, bowing low, followed suit. The last person to bow was Ferrant de Lettenhove.

“Your Royal Highness.”

“ ‘Your Highness’ will do for the moment,” corrected Viraxas. “I shall be entitled to style myself in full after the coronation. Which, indeed, we shall not delay. The sooner, the better. Am I right, marshal?”