‘That’s not true!’ the cobbler Sheepbagger said, hurrying to the king, who was still busy watching a point on the horizon of interest only to him. ‘O King! Just wait a little, and our men from Barefield will be arriving, they’ll be ‘ere any moment! To hell with the cocksure nobility, chase them away! You’ll see who is really brave, who is strong in deed, and not just in word!’

‘Shut your trap,’ Boholt said calmly, wiping a spot of rust from his breastplate. ‘Shut your trap, peasant, because if you don’t I’ll shut it so hard I’ll shove your teeth down your throat.’

Sheepbagger, seeing Kennet and Gar approaching, quickly backed away and hid among the Barefield constables.

‘King!’ Gyllenstiern called. ‘O King, what do you command?’

The expression of boredom suddenly vanished from Niedamir’s face. The underage monarch wrinkled his freckly nose and stood up.

‘What do I command?’ he said in a shrill voice. ‘You’ve finally asked, Gyllenstiern, rather than decide for me and speak for me and on my behalf? I’m very pleased. And may it thus remain, Gyllenstiern. From this moment you will be silent and listen to my orders. Here is the first of them. Muster the men and order Eyck of Denesle be placed on a wagon. We’re going back to Caingorn.’

‘But sire—’

‘Not a word, Gyllenstiern. Madam Yennefer, noble lords, I bid you farewell. I’ve lost some time on this expedition, but have gained much. I have learned a great deal. Thank you for your words, Madam Yennefer, Master Dorregaray, Sir Boholt. And thank you for your silence, Sir Geralt.’

‘O King,’ Gyllenstiern said. ‘What do you mean? The dragon is in our grasp. It’s there for the taking. King, your dream…’

‘My dream,’ Niedamir repeated pensively. ‘I do not have it yet. And should I stay here… Then I might never have it.’

‘But Malleore? And the hand of the princess?’ The chancellor waved his arms, not giving up. ‘And the throne? King, the people there will acknowledge you as…’

‘I don’t give a shit about the people there, as Sir Boholt would say,’ Niedamir laughed. ‘The throne of Malleore is mine anyway, because in Caingorn I have three hundred armoured troops and fifteen hundred foot soldiers against their thousand crappy spearmen. Do they acknowledge me? They will have to. I’ll keep hanging, beheading and dismembering until they do. And their princess is a fat goose and to hell with her hand, I only need her womb. Let her bear me an heir, and then I’ll poison her anyway. Using Master Sheepbagger’s method. That’s enough chatter, Gyllenstiern. Set about carrying out my orders.’

‘Indeed,’ Dandelion whispered to Geralt, ‘he has learned a great deal.’

‘A great deal,’ Geralt confirmed, looking at the hillock where the golden dragon, with its triangular head lowered, was licking something grey-green sitting in the grass beside it with its forked, scarlet tongue. ‘But I wouldn’t like to be his subject, Dandelion.’

‘And what do you think will happen now?’