‘I shall, then, stop sending the king dreams for some time,’ the sorceress promised. ‘Returning, however, to Your Majesty’s dream, I repeat, he can be confident. Prince Tankred will bid farewell to that bad company. He will not linger at the Baron of Surcratasse’s castle. Nor at Lady de Lisemore’s residence. Nor at the Redanian ambassador’s wife’s.’

‘He will no longer visit those personages? Never?’

‘Those personages,’ Sheala de Tancarville’s dark eyes lit up with a strange glint, ‘will no longer dare to trifle with Prince Tankred, for they shall be made aware of the consequences. I vouch for what I say. I vouch for the fact that Prince Tankred will take up his studies again and be a diligent scholar, a serious and level-headed young man. He shall also stop chasing skirts. He shall lose his ardour… until the moment we introduce to him Cirilla, Princess of Cintra.’

‘Oh, if only I could believe that!’ Zuleyka wrung her hands and raised her eyes. ‘If only I could believe that!’

‘It is sometimes difficult,’ Sheala de Tancarville smiled, unexpectedly even for herself, ‘to believe in the power of magic, Your Royal Highness. And actually, so should it be.’

Philippa Eilhart adjusted the gossamer-thin strap of her sheer nightdress and wiped the rest of the lipstick smudges from her cleavage. Such a smart woman, thought Sheala de Tancarville with slight distaste, and she can’t keep her hormones in check.

‘May we talk?’

Philippa surrounded herself with a sphere of discretion.

‘We can now.’

‘Everything has been sorted out in Kovir. Positively.’

‘Thank you. Has Dijkstra set sail?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why does he delay?’

‘He conducts long conversations with Esterad Thyssen.’ Sheala de Tancarville grimaced. ‘They’ve taken an uncommon liking for each other, the king and the spy.’

‘Do you know the jokes about our weather, Dijkstra? That there are only two seasons in Kovir—’

‘Winter and August. I do.’

‘And do you know how to tell if summer has reached Kovir?’

‘No. How?’

‘The rain becomes a little warmer.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘Joking aside,’ Esterad Thyssen said gravely, ‘it worries me somewhat that the winters come earlier and earlier and last longer and longer. It was prophesied. You’ve read, I presume, Ithlinne’s prophecy? It’s said there that decades of unending winter will come. Some claim it’s some kind of allegory, but I’m a little afraid. In Kovir we once had four summers of cold, rainy weather and poor harvests. Were it not for the tremendous import of food from Nilfgaard, people would have begun to die of starvation in droves. Can you imagine?’

‘To be honest, I can’t.’

‘Well I can. The cooling climate may starve us all to death. Famine is a foe that is bloody hard to fight.’

The spy nodded, lost in thought.

‘Dijkstra?’

‘Your Majesty?’

‘Is there peace inside the country now?’

‘I wouldn’t say so. But I’m doing my best.’