‘No,’ the swordsmith snapped. ‘It’s original. A genuine gnomish gwyhyr. The blade is more than two hundred years old. The finishing, naturally, is much more recent, but I wouldn’t call it a replica. The gnomes of Tir Tochair made it to my order. Following ancient techniques, methods and patterns.’

‘Dammit. It may be too dear for me after all. How much do you wish for this blade?’

Esterhazy was silent for some time. His face was inscrutable.

‘I shall give it to her for nothing, Bonhart,’ he finally said in hushed voice. ‘As a gift. So that what is to come about, will come about.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bonhart, visibly astonished. ‘Thank you, Esterhazy. A kingly gift, kingly indeed… I accept, I accept. I am indebted to you…’

‘You are not. The sword is for her, not for you. Come here, girl with a collar on her neck. Examine the marks etched into the blade. You don’t understand them, naturally. But I shall explain them to you. Look. The line delineated by destiny is winding, but leads to this tower. Towards annihilation, towards the destruction of established values, of the established order. But there, above the tower, do you see? A swallow. The symbol of hope. Take this sword. And may what is to come about, come about.’

Ciri cautiously extended a hand, and gently stroked the dark blade, its edge gleaming like a mirror.

‘Take it,’ Esterhazy said slowly, looking at Ciri with eyes wide open. ‘Take it. Hold it, girl. Take it…’

‘No!’ Bonhart suddenly barked, leaping up, seizing Ciri by the arm and shoving her suddenly and forcefully. ‘Away!’

Ciri fell onto her knees, the gravel of the courtyard painfully pricking her hands, which she had to spread to keep her balance.

Bonhart slammed the box shut.

‘Not yet!’ he snarled. ‘Not today! The time is not yet come!’

‘Most evidently,’ Esterhazy nodded calmly, looking him in the eyes. ‘Aye, it most evidently hasn’t come yet. Pity.’

‘It was of little avail, Illustrious Tribunal, reading that swordsmith’s thoughts. We were there on the sixteenth of September, three days before the full moon. And while we were returning from Fano to Rocayne, a patrol caught us up. Ola Harsheim and seven horse. Mr Harsheim ordered us to race as fast as we could to reach the rest of the unit. For the day before–the fifteenth of September–there had been a massacre in Claremont… I suppose I don’t need to tell you; the illustrious tribunal doubtlessly knows about the massacre in Claremont…’

‘Please testify, without worrying what the tribunal knows.’

‘Bonhart was a day ahead of us. He brought Falka to Claremont on the fifteenth of September…’

‘Claremont,’ Vysogota nodded. ‘I know that town. Where did he take you?’

‘To a large house in the town square. With arcades and columns at the entrance. It was obvious at once that a wealthy man lived there…’