Vattier did not grace the illusion with a glance. Instead he watched the algae-covered carp idly churning up the sludge in the pond.

‘Profit in some way?’ he repeated slowly, pouting his lips contemptuously. ‘From you? And what could you give me? The real Cirilla, perhaps? Perhaps your patron, Vilgefortz? Perhaps Cahir aep Ceallach?’

‘Hold hard!’ Rience raised an illusory hand. ‘You mentioned him.’

‘Who?’

‘Cahir. We shall bring you Cahir’s head. I, and my master, Vilgefortz…’

‘Have mercy, Rience,’ Vattier snorted. ‘Reverse the order.’

‘As you wish. Vilgefortz, with my humble help, will give you the head of Cahir, son of Ceallach. We know where he is and can pluck him out like a lobster from a pot, if you wish.’

‘So you have such capabilities, well, well. Such good stool-pigeons in Queen Meve’s army?’

‘Are you testing me?’ Rience grimaced. ‘You really don’t know? Must be the latter. Cahir, my dear viscount, is… We know where he is. We know where he’s headed and in what company. You want his head? You shall have it.’

‘A head,’ Vattier smiled, ‘which won’t be able to tell anyone what really happened on Thanedd.’

‘That’s probably for the best,’ said Rience cynically. ‘Why give Cahir the chance to talk? Our task is to ease–not exacerbate–the animosity between Vilgefortz and the emperor. I shall bring you the mute head of Cahir aep Ceallach. We’ll do it in such a way that it looks like your, and only your, achievement. Delivery in the next three weeks.’

The ancient carp in the fishpond fanned the water with its pectoral fins. That beast, thought Vattier, must be very wise. But why does it need that wisdom? It’s still the same sludge and the same water lilies.

‘Your price, Rience?

‘A trifle. Where is Stefan Skellen and what is he plotting?’

‘I told him what he wanted to know.’ Vattier de Rideaux stretched out on the pillows, playing with a ringlet of Carthia van Canten’s golden hair. ‘You see, my sweet, one has to approach some matters wisely. And to approach them wisely means to conform. If one behaves differently, one won’t get anything. Just the putrid water and foul-smelling sludge in a fishpond. And so what if the pond is made of marble and is three paces from the palace? Aren’t I right, my sweet?’

Carthia van Canten, known by the pet-name of Cantarella, did not answer. Vattier in no way expected an answer. The girl was eighteen and–to put it mildly–no genius. Her interests, at least for the moment, were limited to making love with–at least for the moment–Vattier. Cantarella was a natural talent in sexual matters, combining enthusiasm and wholeheartedness with technique and artistry. That was not the most important thing about her, though.

Cantarella spoke little and seldom, while listening willingly and splendidly. With Cantarella one could unload oneself, relax, spiritually unwind and psychologically regenerate oneself.