‘How beautiful it is,’ said Ciri, enraptured. ‘Oh my! Those castles are like children’s toys… Like icing decorations on a birthday cake. It makes me want to lick them!’

‘Architecture by Faramond himself,’ Geralt informed her knowledgeably. ‘Wait till you see the palace and grounds of Beauclair close up.’

‘Palace? We’re going to a palace? Do you know the king here?’

‘Duchess.’

‘Does the duchess,’ she asked sourly, observing him intently under her fringe, ‘have green eyes, perhaps? And short, black hair—?’

‘No.’ He cut her off, looking away. ‘She looks completely different. I don’t know where you got that from—’

‘Leave it, Geralt, will you? What is it about this duchess, then?’

‘As I said, I know her. A little. Not too well and… not too close, if you want to know. But I do know the duchess’s consort, or rather a candidate for the duchess’s consort. You do too, Ciri.’

Ciri jabbed Kelpie with a spur, making her dance around the highway.

‘Don’t torment me any longer!’

‘Dandelion.’

‘Dandelion? And the duchess? How come?’

‘It’s a long story. We left him here, at the side of his beloved. We promised to visit him, returning after—’

He fell silent and turned gloomy.

‘You can’t do anything about it,’ Ciri said softly. ‘Don’t torment yourself, Geralt. It’s not your fault.’

Yes it is, he thought. It’s mine. Dandelion’s going to ask. And I’ll have to answer.

Milva. Cahir. Regis. Angoulême.

A sword is a double-edged weapon.

Oh, by the Gods, I’ve had enough of this. Enough. Time I was done with this!

‘Let’s go, Ciri.’

‘In these clothes?’ she croaked. ‘To a palace—?’

‘I don’t see anything wrong with our clothes,’ he cut her off. ‘We aren’t going there to present our credentials. Or to a ball. We can even meet Dandelion in the stables.

‘Anyhow,’ he added, seeing her looking sulky, ‘I’m going to the bank in the town first. I’ll take a little cash out, and there are countless tailors and milliners in the cloth halls in the town square. You can buy what you want and dress as you wish.’

‘Have you got so much cash?’ she tilted her head mischievously.

‘You can buy what you want,’ he repeated. ‘Even ermine. And basilisk-leather slippers. I know a shoemaker who ought to have some of it left in stock.’

‘How did you make so much money?’

‘By killing. Let’s ride, Ciri, and not waste time.’

Geralt made a transfer and prepared a letter of credit, received a cheque and some cash in the branch of the Cianfanellis’ bank. He wrote some letters that were to be taken by the express courier service heading over the Yaruga. He politely excused himself from the luncheon the attentive and hospitable banker wanted to entertain him with.

Ciri was waiting in the street, watching the horses. The street, empty a moment earlier, now teemed with people.

‘We must have happened on some feast or other.’ Ciri gestured with her head towards a crowd heading for the town square. ‘A fair, perhaps…’