“Why them?”

“Those they’re allied with aren’t attacked as often as others.”

“A good reason.”

“And not the sole one. In Cintra women can’t rule. King Roegner died some time ago and the queen doesn’t want another husband: our Lady Calanthe is wise and just, but a king is a king. Whoever marries the princess will sit on the throne, and we want a tough, decent fellow. They have to be found on the islands. They’re a hard nation. Let’s go.”

Geralt stopped halfway down the gallery surrounding the small inner courtyard and looked around.

“Castellan,” he said under his breath, “we’re alone. Quickly, tell me why the queen needs a witcher. You of all people must know something.”

“For the same reasons as everyone else,” Haxo grunted. “Cintra is just like any other country. We’ve got werewolves and basilisks and a manticore could be found, too, if you looked hard enough. So a witcher might also come in useful.”

“Don’t twist my words, Castellan. I’m asking why the queen needs a witcher in disguise as a bear passant, with hair loose at that, at the banquet.”

Haxo also looked around, and even leaned over the gallery balustrade.

“Something bad’s happening, Geralt,” he muttered. “In the castle. Something’s frightening people.”

“What?”

“What usually frightens people? A monster. They say it’s small, hunchbacked, bristling like a Urcheon. It creeps around the castle at night, rattles chains. Moans and groans in the chambers.”

“Have you seen it?”

“No,” Haxo spat, “and I don’t want to.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Castellan,” grimaced the witcher. “It doesn’t make sense. We’re going to an engagement feast. What am I supposed to do there? Wait for a hunchback to jump out and groan? Without a weapon? Dressed up like a jester? Haxo?”

“Think what you like,” grumbled the castellan. “They told me not to tell you anything, but you asked. So I told you. And you tell me I’m talking nonsense. How charming.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, Castellan. I was simply surprised…”

“Stop being surprised.” Haxo turned away, still sulking. “Your job isn’t to be surprised. And I strongly advise you, witcher, that if the queen orders you to strip naked, paint your arse blue and hang yourself upside down in the entrance hall like a chandelier, you do it without surprise or hesitation. Otherwise you might meet with a fair, amount of unpleasantness. Have you got that?”

“I’ve got it. Let’s go, Haxo. Whatever happens, that bath’s given me an appetite.”

II

Apart from the curt, ceremonious greetings with which she welcomed him as “Lord of Fourhorn,” Queen Calanthe didn’t exchange a single word with the witcher. The banquet was about to begin and the guests, loudly announed by the herald, were gathering.

The table was huge, rectangular, and could seat more than forty men. Calanthe sat at the head of the table on a throne with a high backrest. Geralt sat on her right and, on her left, a gray-haired bard called Drogodar, with a lute. Two more chairs at the head of the table, on the queen’s left, remained empty.