‘Yennefer,’ Crach said after another moment’s silence. ‘Yet more tidings have reached us from the continent. I know that your Witcher–who hid in Brokilon after the affray on Thanedd–set off from there with the aim of reaching Nilfgaard and freeing Ciri.’

‘I repeat, Ciri is not in Nilfgaard. I know not what my Witcher–as you chose to describe him–is planning. But he… Crach, it’s no secret that I… am fond of him. But I know he won’t rescue Ciri. He won’t achieve anything. I know him. He’ll become entangled in something, get lost, start philosophising and feeling sorrow for himself. Then he’ll vent his rage, hacking whatever and whoever he can to pieces with his sword. Afterwards, to atone for it, he’ll carry out some noble, but senseless feat. Then finally he’ll be killed, foolishly, senselessly, probably by a stab in the back—’

‘They say,’ Crach quickly interjected, alarmed by the sorceress’s ominously changing, strangely trembling voice. ‘They say Ciri is bound to him by destiny. I saw it myself, back in Cintra, during Pavetta’s betrothal—’

‘Destiny,’ Yennefer interrupted sharply, ‘can be interpreted in many, many different ways. Anyway, let’s not waste time on digressions. I repeat; I don’t know what Geralt’s plans are or even whether he has any. I mean to get down to work myself. Using my own methods. And actively, Crach, actively. I’m not accustomed to sitting and weeping, holding my head in both hands. I act!’

The yarl raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

‘I shall take action,’ the sorceress repeated. ‘I’ve already devised a plan. And you, Crach, will assist me with it, in accordance with your vow.’

‘I’m ready,’ he announced firmly. ‘For anything. The longships are moored in the harbour. Give the order, Yennefer.’

She couldn’t stifle a snort of laughter.

‘Always the same. No, Crach, no demonstrations of bravery and manliness. It won’t be necessary to sail to Nilfgaard and plunge a battle axe into the lock of the City of the Golden Towers. I need less spectacular, but more tangible help… What’s the state of your treasury?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Yarl Crach an Craite. The help I need is expressible in cash.’

It began the next day, at dawn. A frantic commotion broke out in the chambers put at Yennefer’s disposal, which seneschal Guthlaf–who had been assigned to the sorceress–was having great difficulty controlling. Yennefer was sitting at a table, almost not raising her head from various papers. She was counting, totting up columns and doing calculations, which were immediately rushed to the treasury and the island branch of Cianfanellis’ bank. She was making drawings and charts which immediately ended up in the hands of craftsmen: alchemists, goldsmiths, glaziers and jewellers.

Everything went smoothly for a while and then the problems began.

‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ seneschal Guthlaf said slowly. ‘But if there isn’t any, there isn’t any. We gave you everything we had. We can’t make magic or do miracles! And I’ll take the liberty of observing that what’s lying before you, madam, are diamonds with a combined value of—’