“What do you mean a storm?” Dandelion fanned himself with his bonnet. “Not at all! The weather’s as pretty as a picture, the sky’s pristine, without the faintest zephyr. Pity, we could do with a breath of wind in this heat. A sea breeze…”

The wind began to blow before he finished his sentence. A faint breeze bore the smell of the sea. It was refreshing, and gave pleasant relief. And quickly intensified. Pennants on masts—not long before hanging limply and pitifully—moved and fluttered.

The sky over the horizon grew dark. The wind increased. The faint soughing became a swoosh, the swoosh a whistle.

The pennants on the masts fluttered and flapped violently. Weathervanes on roofs and towers creaked, tin chimney pots grated and clanged. Shutters banged. Clouds of dust swirled up.

Dandelion seized his bonnet in both hands at the last moment, preventing it from being blown away.

Mozaïk caught her dress, a sudden gust lifting up the chiffon almost to her hips. Before she could bring the billowing material under control, Geralt had an enjoyable view of her legs. She saw him looking. And held his gaze.

“A storm…” Coral had to turn away in order to speak. The wind was blowing so hard it drowned out her words. “A storm! There’s a storm coming!”

“Ye gods!” cried Dandelion, who didn’t believe in any. “Ye gods! What’s happening? Is it the end of the world?”

The sky darkened quickly. And the horizon went from deep blue to black.

The wind grew stronger, whistling hellishly.

The sea was rough in the anchorage beyond the headland, the waves were crashing against the breakwater, white foam was splashing. The crashing of the waves intensified. It became as dark as night.

There was a commotion among the ships lying at anchor. Several—including the post clipper Echo and the Novigradian schooner Pandora Parvi—hurriedly hoisted their sails, ready to make for open sea. The rest of the ships dropped theirs and remained at anchor. Geralt remembered some of them, he had observed them from the terrace of Coral’s villa. Alke, a cog from Cidaris. Fuchsia, he couldn’t recall where it was from. And galleons: Pride of Cintra under a flag with a blue cross. The three-master Vertigo from Lan Exeter. The Redanian Albatross: a hundred and twenty feet from prow to stern. And several others. Including the frigate Acherontia under black sails.

The wind wasn’t whistling now. It was howling. Geralt saw the first thatched roof from the Palmyra district fly up and disintegrate in mid-air. A second followed soon after. A third. And a fourth. And the wind was growing ever stronger. The flapping of pennants became a constant clatter, shutters banged, tiles and gutters hailed down, chimneys tumbled, flowerpots smashed on the cobbles. The bell in the belfry, set in motion by the gale, began to toll with an intermittent, anxious, ominous sound.