‘Drop it, Dijkstra,’ replied the Witcher coldly, looking the spy straight in the eye. ‘I know you’re here in a professional capacity, but don’t be overzealous.’
The spy chortled and two passing sorceresses looked at him in astonishment. And with interest.
‘King Vizimir,’ said Dijkstra, his chuckle over, ‘pays me an extra bonus for every mystery I solve. My zealousness guarantees me a decent living. You can laugh, but I have a wife and children.’
‘I don’t see anything funny about it. Work to support your wife and children, but not at my expense, if you don’t mind. It seems to me there’s no shortage of mysteries and riddles in this hall.’
‘Quite. The whole of Aretuza is one great riddle. You must have noticed. Something’s in the air, Geralt. And, for the sake of clarity, I don’t mean the candelabras.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘I believe you. Because I don’t get it either. And I’d like very much to. Wouldn’t you? Oh, I beg your pardon. Because you’re sure to know it all too. From the reports of, oh, I don’t know, the enchanting Yennefer of Vengerberg. But just think, there were times when I would pick up scraps of information from the enchanting Yennefer too. Ah, where are the snows of yesteryear?’
‘I really don’t know what you mean, Dijkstra. Could you express your thoughts more lucidly? Do your best. On condition you’re not doing it out of professional considerations. Forgive me, but I have no intention of earning you an extra bonus.’
‘Think I’m trying to trick you dishonourably?’ scowled the spy. ‘To get information out of you using deceit? You’re being unfair, Geralt. It simply interests me whether you see the same patterns in this hall that are so obvious to me.’
‘So what’s so obvious to you?’
‘Doesn’t the total absence of crowned heads – which is blatantly apparent at this gathering – surprise you?’
‘It doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ said Geralt, finally managing to stab a marinated olive with a toothpick. ‘I’m sure kings prefer traditional banquets, seated at a table, which one can gracefully slide beneath in the early hours. And what’s more . . .’
‘What is more?’ asked Dijkstra, putting four olives – which he had unceremoniously extracted from the bowl with his fingers – into his mouth.
‘What is more,’ said the Witcher, looking at the small crowd passing through the hall, ‘the kings didn’t bother to make the effort. They sent an army of spies in their stead. Both members of the fraternity and not. Probably in order to find out what’s really in the air here.’
Dijkstra spat the olive stones out onto the table, took a long fork from the silver tray and used it to rummage around in a deep, crystal bowl.
‘And Vilgefortz,’ he said, continuing to rummage, ‘made sure no spy was absent. He has all the royal spies in one pot. Why would Vilgefortz want all the royal spies in one pot, Witcher?’
‘I have no idea. And it interests me little. I told you I’m here as a private individual. I’m – how shall I put it? – outside the pot.’
King Vizimir’s spy fished a small octopus out of the bowl and examined it in disgust.
‘People eat these?’ he said, shaking his head in fake sympathy, and then turning towards Geralt.
‘Listen to me carefully, Witcher,’ he said quietly. ‘Your convictions about privacy, your certainty that you don’t care about anything and that you couldn’t possibly care about anything . . . they perturb me and that inclines me to take a gamble. Do you like a flutter?’
‘Be precise, please.’
‘I suggest a wager,’ said Dijkstra, raising the fork with the octopus impaled on it. ‘I venture that in the course of the next hour, Vilgefortz will ask you to join him in a long conversation. I venture that during this conversation he will prove to you that you aren’t here as a private individual and you are in his pot. Should I be wrong, I’ll eat this shit in front of you, tentacles and all. Do you accept the wager?’
‘What will I have to eat, should I lose?’
‘Nothing,’ said Dijkstra and quickly looked around. ‘But should you lose, you’ll report the entire content of your conversation with Vilgefortz to me.’
The Witcher was silent for a while, and looked calmly at the spy.
‘Farewell, Your Excellency,’ he said at last. ‘Thank you for the chat. It was educational.’
Dijkstra was somewhat annoyed.
‘Would you say so—?’
‘Yes, I would,’ interrupted Geralt. ‘Farewell.’