‘The methods of the special units are remarkably similar to those of Falka. But that’s not the point, Rita. I’m not getting sentimental about the fate of elves and I know what war is. I know how wars are won, too. They’re won by soldiers who fight for their countries and homes with conviction and sacrifice. Not by soldiers like her, by mercenaries fighting for money who are unable and unwilling to sacrifice themselves. They don’t even know what sacrifice is. And if they do, they despise it.’

‘To hell with her, her dedication and her contempt. What does it matter to us? Ciri, throw something decent on, pop upstairs and fetch us another carafe. I feel like getting drunk today.’

Tissaia de Vries sighed, shaking her head. It didn’t escape Margarita’s attention.

‘Fortunately,’ she giggled, ‘we aren’t at school any longer, mistress dear. We can do what we want now.’

‘Even in the presence of a future novice?’ asked Tissaia scathingly. ‘When I was rectoress at Aretuza—’

‘We remember, we remember,’ interrupted Yennefer with a smile, ‘and even if we’d prefer to forget, we never will. Go and fetch that carafe, Ciri.’

Upstairs, waiting for the carafe, Ciri witnessed the officer depart with her squad of four soldiers. She watched their posture, expressions, clothing and arms in fascination and admiration. Right then Rayla, the captain with the black plait, was arguing with the innkeeper.

‘I’m not going to wait until daybreak! And I couldn’t give a damn if the gates are locked. I want to leave immediately. I know the inn has its own postern in the stables. I order it to be opened!’

‘But the regulations—’

‘I don’t give a damn about the regulations! I’m carrying out the orders of Arch-Mistress de Vries!’

‘All right, all right, captain. Don’t shout. I’ll open up…’

The postern, it turned out, was in a narrow, securely gated passageway, leading straight beyond the city walls. Before Ciri took the carafe from the servant’s hands, she saw the postern being opened and Rayla and her unit riding out, into the night.

Ciri was deep in thought.

‘Oh, at last,’ said Margarita cheerfully, though it was unclear whether she was referring to the sight of Ciri or the carafe she was carrying. Ciri put the carafe on the table – very clearly wrongly, because Tissaia de Vries repositioned it at once. When Yennefer poured, she spoiled the entire arrangement too, and Tissaia had to put it right again. Imagining Tissaia as a teacher filled Ciri with dread.

Yennefer and Margarita returned to their interrupted conversation, not sparing the contents of the carafe. Ciri realised it wouldn’t be long before she would have to go and get a fresh one. She pondered, listening to the enchantresses’ discussion.

‘No, Yenna.’ Margarita shook her head. ‘You aren’t up to speed, I see. I’ve dumped Lars. That’s history. Elaine deireadh, as the elves would say.’

‘And that’s why you want to get drunk?’