‘With the greatest regret I’m compelled to further spoil your splendid mood, my dear,’ the sorcerer said coldly. ‘Because I imagine you’ll be saddened to hear that the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, is also dead. Yes, yes, the same Witcher Geralt, with whom, as with Ciri, you were bound by an ersatz emotion, a ridiculous, foolish and sickly sweet fondness. Know, Yennefer, that our dear Witcher departed from this world in a truly ardent and spectacular fashion. In this case you don’t have to reproach yourself. You’re not to blame in the slightest for the Witcher’s death. I’m responsible for the entire fracas. Try the marinated pears, they are simply delicious.’

Cold hatred lit up Yennefer’s violet eyes. Vilgefortz burst out laughing.

‘I prefer you like this,’ he said. ‘Indeed, were it not for the dimeritium bracelet you’d reduce me to ashes. But the dimeritium is working, so you can only scorch me with your gaze.’

The man with the cold sneezed, blew his nose and coughed until tears trickled from his eyes. The tall man scrutinised the sorceress with his unpleasant, fishy gaze.

‘And where is Mr Rience?’ asked Yennefer, drawing out her words. ‘Mr Rience, who promised me so much, told me so much about what he’d do to me? Where is Mr Shirrú, who never passed up a chance to shove or kick me? Why have the guards, until quite recently boorish and brutal, begun to behave with timid respect? No, Vilgefortz, you don’t have to answer. I know. What you’ve been talking about is one big lie. Ciri escaped you and Geralt escaped you, taking the time, I expect, to give your thugs a bloody good hiding. And what now? Your plans have fallen through, turned to dust. You admitted it yourself, your dreams of power have vanished like smoke. And the sorcerers and Dijkstra are fixing your position, oh yes. Not without reason and not from mercy have you stopped torturing me and forcing me to scan for information you need. And Emperor Emhyr is tightening his net, and is no doubt very, very angry. Ess a tearth, me tiarn? A’pleine a cales, ellea?’

‘I use the Common Speech,’ said the one with the runny nose, holding her gaze. ‘And my name is Stefan Skellen. And by no means, by no means at all, have I filled my britches. Why, I still have the impression that I’m in a much better situation than you, Madam Yennefer.’

The speech tired him, he coughed hard again and blew his nose into the sodden cambric handkerchief.

Vilgefortz struck the table with his hand.