Esterad Thyssen fell silent, exhaled loudly, wearied by his speech, and adjusted his crimson chapeau, which had slipped down slightly over his nose.

‘Well, Dijkstra,’ he continued. ‘What ails your kingdom? Aside from a shortage of money, naturally?’

‘Aside from a shortage of money,’ the spy’s face was inscrutable, ‘all are well, thank you.’

‘Aha,’ the king nodded. His chapeau once more slipped down over his nose and had to be adjusted again. ‘Aha. I comprehend.’

‘I comprehend,’ he continued. ‘And I applaud the idea. When one has money, one may purchase medicaments for every affliction. The crux is to have the money. Which you do not. If you did, you wouldn’t be here. Do I understand correctly?’

‘Impeccably.’

‘And how much do you need, I wonder?’

‘Not much. A million bizants.’

‘Not much?’ Esterad Thyssen grasped his chapeau in both hands in an exaggerated gesture. ‘You call that not much? Oh, my!’

‘But for Your Royal Highness,’ the spy mumbled, ‘such a sum is a trifle—’

‘A trifle?’ The king released his chapeau and raised his hands towards the ceiling. ‘Oh, my! A million bizants is a trifle. Do you hear, Zuleyka, what he’s saying? And do you know, Dijkstra, that to have a million and not to have a million, is two million together? I understand, I comprehend, that you and Philippa Eilhart are looking desperately and feverishly for an idea to defend yourselves against Nilfgaard, but what do you want? Do you plan to buy the whole of Nilfgaard?’

Dijkstra did not reply. Zuleyka crocheted on. For a moment Esterad pretended to be admiring the nude nymphs on the ceiling.

‘Come along.’ He suddenly rose and nodded to the spy. They walked over to a huge painting portraying King Gedovius sitting astride a grey horse, pointing out something which wasn’t included on the canvas to the army with his sceptre, probably indicating the right direction. Esterad fished a tiny, gilded wand from his pocket, tapped the frame of the picture with it, and murmured a spell in hushed tones. Gedovius and his grey horse vanished, and a relief map of the known world appeared. The king touched a silver button in the corner of the map with his wand and magically transformed the scale, narrowing the visible sweep of the world to the Yaruga Valley and the Four Kingdoms.

‘The blue is Nilfgaard,’ he explained. ‘The red is you. What are you gawping at? Look here!’

Dijkstra tore his gaze away from the other paintings–chiefly nudes and seascapes. He wondered which was the magical camouflage for another notorious map of Esterad’s: the one which depicted Kovir’s military and trade intelligence service, an entire network of bribed informers and blackmailed individuals, agents, operational contacts, saboteurs, hired killers, moles and active resident spies. He knew such a map existed; he had been trying unsuccessfully for many years to gain access to it.

‘The red is you,’ Esterad Thyssen repeated. ‘Looks pretty hopeless, doesn’t it?’