‘Put the iron aside.’ Bonhart did not take his eyes off Ciri, utterly ignoring the swordsmith. ‘Aside, I said. Or I’ll hack off your hand!’

She obeyed after a moment’s hesitation. Bonhart smiled ghoulishly.

‘I know who you are, you viper. But I’ll make you reveal it yourself. By word or deed! I’ll make you reveal who you are. And then I’ll kill you.’

Esterhazy hissed as though wounded.

‘That sword–’ Bonhart didn’t even glance at him ‘–was too hefty for you. And because of it you were too slow. You were as slow as a pregnant snail. Esterhazy! What you gave her was too heavy by at least four ounces.’

The swordsmith was pale. His eyes ran from her to him, from him to her, and his face was strangely altered. At last he beckoned a servant and issued an order in hushed tones.

‘I’ve something,’ he said slowly, ‘which ought to satisfy you, Bonhart.’

‘Why, then, didn’t you show it to me at once?’ snarled the hunter. ‘I wrote that I wanted something extraordinary. Perhaps you thought I can’t afford a better sword?’

‘I know what you can afford,’ Esterhazy said with emphasis. ‘I’ve known that for no little time. But why didn’t I show you this one right away? I had no way of knowing who you would bring here… on a leash, with a collar around her neck. I couldn’t guess who the sword was meant for and what it was to serve. Now I do.’

The servant had returned, bearing an oblong box.

‘Come closer, girl,’ Esterhazy said softly. ‘Look.’

Ciri approached. And looked. And sighed audibly.

She unsheathed the sword with a deft movement. The fire from the hearth flared blindingly on the blade’s wavily outlined edge, glowed red in the openwork of the ricasso.

‘This is it,’ said Ciri. ‘As you’ve probably guessed. Hold it, if you wish. But beware, it’s sharper than a razor. You feel how the hilt sticks to your hand? It’s made from the skin of a flatfish which has a venomous spine on its tail.’

‘A ray.’

‘I guess. That fish has tiny teeth in its skin, so the hilt doesn’t slide in the hand, even when it sweats. Look what’s etched on the blade.’

Vysogota leaned over and examined it, squinting.

‘An elven mandala,’ he said soon after, raising his head. ‘The so-called blathan caerme, or garland of destiny: stylised oak blossom, bridewort and broom flowers. A tower being struck by lightning–a symbol of chaos and destruction, for the Old Races… And above the tower–’

‘A swallow,’ Ciri completed. ‘Zireael. My name.’

‘Indeed, a fine thing,’ said Bonhart finally. ‘Gnomish handiwork, that’s clear at once. Only the gnomes forged such dark iron. Only the gnomes used undulating blades and only they open-worked their blades to reduce the weight… Come clean, Esterhazy. Is it a replica?’