“Your Majesty,” said Geralt calmly, “while I was riding to Cintra, I met villagers, merchants, peddlers, dwarves, tinkers and woodcutters. They told me about a black annis who has its hideout somewhere in these woods, a little house on a chicken-claw tripod. They mentioned a chimera nestling in the mountains. Aeschnes and centipedeanomorphs. Apparently a manticore could also be found if you look hard enough. So many tasks a witcher could perform without having to dress up in someone else’s feathers and coat of arms.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Your Majesty, I don’t doubt that a marriage alliance with Skellige is necessary for Cintra. It’s possible, too, that the schemers who want to prevent it deserve a lesson—using means which don’t involve you. It’s convenient if this lesson were to be given by an unknown lord from Fourhorn, who would then disappear from the scene. And now I’ll answer your question. You mistake my trade for that of a hired killer. Those others, of whom there are so many, are rulers. It’s not the first time I’ve been called to a court where the problems demand the quick solutions of a sword. But I’ve never killed people for money, regardless of whether it’s for a good or bad cause. And I never will.”

The atmosphere at the table was growing more and more lively as the beer diminished. The red-haired Crach an Craite found appreciative listeners to his tale of the battle at Thwyth. Having sketched a map on the table with the help of meat bones dipped in sauce, he marked out the strategic plan, shouting loudly. Coodcoodak, proving how apt his nickname was, suddenly cackled like a very real sitting hen, creating general mirth among the guests, and consternation among the servants who were convinced that a bird, mocking their vigilance, had somehow managed to make its way from the courtyard into the hall.

“Thus fate has punished me with too shrewd a witcher.” Calanthe smiled, but her eyes were narrowed and angry. “A witcher who, without a shadow of respect or, at the very least, of common courtesy, exposes my intrigues and infamous plans. But hasn’t fascination with my beauty and charming personality clouded your judgment? Don’t ever do that again, Geralt. Don’t speak to those in power like that. Few of them would forget your words, and you know kings—they have all sorts of things at their disposal: daggers, poisons, dungeons, red-hot pokers. There are hundreds, thousands, of ways kings can avenge their wounded pride. And you wouldn’t believe how easy it is, Geralt, to wound some rulers’ pride. Rarely will any of them take words such as ‘No,’ ‘I won’t,’ and ‘Never’ calmly. But that’s nothing. Interrupt one of them or make inappropriate comments, and you’ll condemn yourself to the wheel.”

The queen clasped her narrow white hands together and lightly rested her chin on them. Geralt didn’t interrupt, nor did he comment.

“Kings,” continued Calanthe, “divide people into two categories—those they order around, and those they buy—because they adhere to the old and banal truth that everyone can be bought. Everyone. It’s only a question of price. Don’t you agree? Ah, I don’t need to ask. You’re a witcher, after all; you do your job and take the money. As far as you’re concerned, the idea of being bought has lost its scornful undertone. The question of your price, too, is clear, related as it is to the difficulty of the task and how well you execute it. And your fame, Geralt. Old men at fairs and markets sing of the exploits of the white-haired witcher from Rivia. If even half of it is true, then I wager your services are not cheap. So it would be a waste of money to engage you in such simple, trite matters as palace intrigue or murder. Those can be dealt with by other, cheaper hands.”