Sabrina and Marti, listening intently from their table, snorted noisily. Dorregaray sized them both up with a contemptuous glance, turned, clinked his goblet against the Witcher’s and smiled, this time genuinely.
‘A point to you,’ he admitted freely. ‘You learn quickly. Where the hell did you acquire that wit, Witcher? On the road you insist on roaming around, hunting endangered species? Your good health. You may laugh, but you’re one of the few people in this hall I feel like proposing such a toast to.’
‘Indeed?’ said Geralt, delicately slurping the wine and savouring the taste. ‘In spite of the fact I make my living slaughtering endangered species?’
‘Don’t try to trip me up,’ said the sorcerer, slapping him on the back. ‘The banquet has only just begun. A few more people are sure to accost you, so ration out your scathing ripostes more sparingly. But as far as your profession is concerned . . . You, Geralt, at least have enough dignity not to deck yourself out with trophies. But take a good look around. Go on, forget convention for a moment; they like people to stare at them.’
The Witcher obediently fixed his gaze on Sabrina Glevissig’s breasts.
‘Look,’ said Dorregaray, seizing him by the sleeve and pointing at a sorceress walking past, tulle fluttering. ‘Slippers made from the skin of the horned agama. Had you noticed?’
He nodded, ingenuously, since he’d only noticed what her transparent tulle blouse wasn’t covering.
‘Oh, if you please, rock cobra,’ said the sorcerer, unerringly spotting another pair of slippers being paraded around the hall. The fashion, which had shortened hemlines to a span above the ankle, made his task easier. ‘And over there . . . White iguana. Salamander. Wyvern. Spectacled caiman. Basilisk . . . Every one of those reptiles is an endangered species. Can’t people bloody wear shoes of calfskin or pigskin?’
‘Going on about leather, as usual, Dorregaray?’ asked Philippa Eilhart, stopping beside them. ‘And tanning and shoemaking? What vulgar, tasteless subjects.’
‘People find a variety of things tasteless,’ said the sorcerer grimacing contemptuously. ‘Your dress has a beautiful trim, Philippa. Diamond ermine, if I’m not mistaken? Very tasteful. I’m sure you’re aware this species was exterminated twenty years ago owing to its beautiful pelt?’
‘Thirty,’ corrected Philippa, stuffing the last of the prawns – which Geralt hadn’t been quick enough to eat – into her mouth one after the other. ‘I know, I know, the species would surely have come back to life, had I instructed my dressmaker to trim my dress with bunches of raw flax. I considered it. But the colours wouldn’t have matched.’
‘Let’s go to that table over there,’ suggested the Witcher easily. ‘I saw a large bowl of black caviar there. And, since the shovelnose sturgeon has almost totally died out, we ought to hurry.’
‘Eating caviar in your company? I’ve dreamed about that,’ said Philippa, fluttering her eyelashes and smelling enticingly of cinnamon and muskroot as she slipped her arm into his. ‘Let’s not hang around. Will you join us, Dorregaray? You won’t? Well, see you later and enjoy yourself.’
The sorcerer snapped his fingers and turned away. Sabrina Glevissig and her redheaded friend watched them walk away with looks more venomous than the endangered rock cobra’s.
‘Dorregaray,’ murmured Philippa, unashamedly snuggling up to Geralt, ‘spies for King Ethain of Cidaris. Be on your guard. That reptiles and skin talk of his is the prelude to being interrogated. And Sabrina Glevissig was listening closely –’
‘– because she spies for Henselt of Kaedwen,’ he finished. ‘I know; you mentioned it. And that redhead, her friend—’
‘She’s no redhead – it’s dyed. Haven’t you got eyes? That’s Marti Södergren.’
‘Who does she spy for?’
‘Marti?’ Philippa laughed, her teeth flashing behind her vividly painted lips. ‘Not for anyone. Marti isn’t interested in politics.’
‘Outrageous! I thought everyone here was a spy.’
‘Many of them are,’ said the enchantress, narrowing her eyes. ‘But not everyone. Not Marti Södergren. Marti is a healer. And a nymphomaniac. Oh, damn, look! They’ve scoffed all the caviar! Down to the last egg; they’ve licked the plate clean! What are we going to do now?’
‘Now,’ smiled Geralt innocently, ‘you’ll announce that some thing’s in the air. You’ll say I have to reject neutrality and make a choice. You’ll suggest a wager. I daren’t even imagine what the prize might be. But I know I’ll have to do something for you should I lose.’