‘No. I haven’t. Not now, or in the past. So forgive me, lord prefect, but the whole matter is either a complete misunderstanding or humbug. Or a trap directed against me. In the latter case I would suggest we don’t waste any more time and proceed to the nub of the matter.’

‘It appears that the thought of a trap troubles you,’ the prefect observed, furrowing his scarred brow. ‘Could you, perhaps, in spite of your assurances, have some reason to fear the law?’

‘No. I’m beginning, though, to fear that the fight against crime is being conducted hurriedly, wholesale and not meticulously enough, without painstaking inquiries to determine guilt or innocence. But well, perhaps that’s just an exaggerated simplification, typical of a dull Nordling. And this Nordling continues not to understand in what way the Prefect of Riedbrune is saving his life.’

Fulko Artevelde observed him in silence for a moment, then clapped his hands.

‘Bring her in,’ he ordered the soldiers who’d appeared at his signal.

Geralt calmed himself with several breaths, for suddenly a certain thought made his heart race and his adrenaline flow. A moment later he had to take several more breaths, and even–astonishingly–had to make a Sign with his hand out of sight beneath the table. And the effect–astonishingly–was none. He felt hot. And cold.

For the guards had shoved Ciri into the room.

‘Well I never,’ said Ciri, right after she’d been sat down in a chair and had her hands handcuffed behind the backrest. ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in!’

Artevelde made a brief gesture. One of the guards, a huge fellow with the face of a slow-witted child, drew his arm back in an unhurried swing and struck Ciri in the face so hard it made the chair rock.

‘Forgive her, Your Lordship,’ said the guard apologetically and astonishingly mildly. ‘She’s young and foolish. Skittish.’

‘Angoulême,’ Artevelde said slowly and emphatically. ‘I promised you I’d hear you out. But I meant I’d listen to your answers to my questions. Not to your badinage. You will be rebuked for your lack of respect. Understand?’

‘Sure, nuncle.’

The gesture. The slap. The chair rocked.

‘Young,’ mumbled the guard, rubbing his hand on his hip. ‘Skittish…’

From the young woman’s snub nose–Geralt could see now that it wasn’t Ciri and was astonished at his mistake–trickled a thin stream of blood. The young woman sniffed hard and smiled predatorily.

‘Angoulême,’ the prefect repeated. ‘Do you understand me?’

‘Yes sir, Mr Fulko.’

‘Who’s this, Angoulême?’

The girl sniffed again, inclined her head and fixed Geralt with her huge eyes. Hazel, not green. Then she shook her untidy mane of flaxen hair, causing it to fall onto her forehead in unruly locks.