‘And we believe you,’ said Sheala de Tancarville, extremely dryly. ‘Please continue.’

Fringilla coughed into her fist.

‘The problem was his troop,’ she went on. ‘That strange assemblage he called a company. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, who watched me and flushed with effort trying to remember me. But he couldn’t recall, because when I stayed at Darn Dyffra, his grandparents’ family castle, he was six or seven. Milva, an apparently swashbuckling and haughty girl, and whom I happened to catch crying twice hiding in a corner of the stable. Angoulême, a flighty whelp. And Regis Terzieff-Godefroy. A character I was unable to fathom. That entire gang had an influence on him I couldn’t eradicate.’

Very well, very well, she thought, don’t raise your eyebrows so high, don’t sneer. Wait. That’s not the end of the story yet. You’re yet to hear of my triumph.

‘Every morning,’ she continued, ‘the whole company would meet in the kitchen in the basement of Beauclair Palace. The royal chef was fond of them, God knows why. He always cooked something up for them, so ample and tasty that breakfast usually lasted two, and occasionally even three, hours. Geralt and I ate with them many times. Which is how I know what absurd conversations they used to have.’

Two hens, one black, the other speckled, were walking around the kitchen, stepping timidly on their clawed feet. Glancing at the company breaking their fast, the hens pecked crumbs from the floor.

The company had gathered in the palace kitchen, as they did every morning. The royal chef was fond of them, God knows why, and always had something tasty for them. Today it was scrambled eggs, sour rye soup, stewed aubergine, rabbit forcemeat, goose breasts and sausage with beetroot, with a large circle of goat’s cheese on the side. They all ate briskly and in silence. Apart from Angoulême, who was talking nonsense.

‘And I tell you we should set up a brothel here. When we’ve done what we have to do, let’s return and open a house of ill repute. I’ve looked around in town. There’s everything here. There are ten barber’s shops alone, and eight apothecaries. But there’s only one knocking shop and it’s more like a seedy shithouse than a proper cathouse, I tell you. There’s no competition. We’ll open a luxury bordello. We’ll buy a big house with a garden—’

‘Angoulême, have mercy.’

‘—just for respectable punters. I’ll be the madam. I tell you, we’ll make a fortune and live like kings. Finally they’ll elect me councillor, and then I won’t let you die for sure, because when they elect me, I’ll elect you and before you can say Jack Robinson—’

‘Angoulême, we’ve asked. There, eat some bread and forcemeat.’

It was quiet for a while.

‘What are you hunting today, Geralt? Tough job?’