“As regards the rest,” I promised, “you can count on me. I shall have my ears and eyes in readiness and directed at where they’re needed. And I’ve become acquainted with the dear, local royal family and heard enough gossip. Our Gracious King Belohun has produced numerous offspring. He has changed his wife quite often. Whenever he spots a new one, the old one conveniently bids farewell to this world, by an unfortunate twist of fate, suddenly falling into infirmity, in the face of which medicine turns out to be impotent. In this way, the king has four legal sons today, each one with a different mother. Not counting his innumerable daughters, as they can’t pretend to the throne. Or bastards. It’s worth mentioning, however, that all the significant positions and offices in Kerack are filled by his daughters’ husbands—my cousin Ferrant is an exception. And his illegitimate sons manage commerce and industry.”

The Witcher, I heed, is listening attentively.

“The four legitimate sons,” I go on, “are, in order of seniority, the firstborn, whose name I don’t know; it’s forbidden to mention his name at court. After a quarrel with his father he went away and disappeared without trace, no one has seen him since. The second, Elmer, is a deranged drunk kept under lock and key. It’s supposedly a state secret, but in Kerack it’s common knowledge. Egmund and Xander are the real pretenders. They detest each other, and Belohun exploits it cunningly, keeping both of them in a state of permanent uncertainty. In matters of the succession he is also often capable of ostentatiously favouring one of the bastards, and tantalising him with promises. Whereas now it’s whispered in dark corners that he has promised the crown to the son to be borne by his new wife, the one he’s officially marrying at Lughnasadh.

“Cousin Ferrant and I think, however, that they are but fine words,” I continue, “used by the old prick with the intention of stirring the young thing to sexual fervour, since Egmund and Xander are the only true heirs to the throne. And if it comes to a coup d’état it’ll be carried out by one of the two. I’ve met them both, through my cousin. They are both—I had the impression—as slippery as turds in mayonnaise. If you know what I mean.”

Geralt confirmed he knew and that he had the same impression when he spoke to Egmund, only he was unable to express it in such beautiful words. Then he pondered deeply.

“I’ll return soon,” he finally said. “And you, don’t sit around, and keep an eye on things.”