Philippa Eilhart was quiet for a long time, her eyes fixed on his.
‘I should have guessed,’ she said quietly. ‘Dijkstra couldn’t restrain himself, could he? He made you an offer. And I warned him you detest spies.’
‘I don’t detest spies. I detest spying. And I detest contempt. Don’t propose any wagers to me, Philippa. Of course I can sense something in the air. And it can hang there, for all I care. It doesn’t affect or interest me.’
‘You already told me that. In Oxenfurt.’
‘I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. You also recall the circumstances, I trust?’
‘Very clearly. Back then I didn’t reveal to you who Rience – or whatever his name is – was working for. I let him get away. Oh, you were so angry with me . . .’
‘To put it mildly.’
‘Then the time has come for me to be exonerated. I’ll give you Rience tomorrow. Don’t interrupt and don’t make faces. This isn’t a wager à la Dijkstra. It’s a promise, and I keep my promises. No, no questions, please. Wait until tomorrow. Now let’s concentrate on caviar and trivial gossip.’
‘There’s no caviar.’
‘One moment.’
She looked around quickly, waved a hand and mumbled a spell. The silver dish in the shape of a leaping fish immediately filled with the roe of the endangered shovelnose sturgeon. The Witcher smiled.
‘Can one eat one’s fill of an illusion?’
‘No. But snobbish tastes can be pleasantly titillated by it. Have a try.’
‘Hmm . . . Indeed . . . I’d say it’s tastier than the real thing . . .’
‘And it’s not at all fattening,’ said the enchantress proudly, squeezing lemon juice over a heaped teaspoon of caviar. ‘May I have another goblet of white wine?’
‘At your service. Philippa?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m told etiquette precludes the use of spells here. Wouldn’t it be safer, then, to conjure up the illusion of the taste of caviar alone, without the caviar? Just the sensation? You’d surely be able to . . .’
‘Of course I would,’ said Philippa Eilhart, looking at him through her crystal goblet. ‘The construction of such a spell is easy as pie. But were you only to have the sensation of taste, you’d lose the pleasure the activity offers. The process, the accompanying ritual movements, the gestures, the conversation and eye contact which accompanies the process . . . I’ll entertain you with a witty comparison. Would you like that?’
‘Please do. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘I’d also be capable of conjuring the sensation of an orgasm.’
Before the Witcher had regained the power of speech, a short, slim sorceress with long, straight, straw-coloured hair came over to him. He recognised her at once – she was the one in the horned agama skin slippers and the green tulle top, which didn’t even cover a minor detail like the small mole above her left breast.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I have to interrupt your little flirting session, Philippa. Radcliffe and Detmold would like to talk to you for a moment. It’s urgent.’
‘Well, if it’s like that, I’m coming. Bye, Geralt. We’ll continue our flirting later!’
‘Ah,’ said the blonde, sizing him up. ‘Geralt. The Witcher, the man Yennefer lost her head over? I’ve been watching you and wondering who you might be. It was tormenting me terribly.’
‘I know that kind of torment,’ he replied, smiling politely. ‘I’m experiencing it right now.’
‘Do excuse the gaffe. I’m Keira Metz. Oh, caviar!’
‘Be careful. It’s an illusion.’
‘Bloody hell, you’re right!’ said the sorceress, dropping the spoon as though it was the tail of a black scorpion. ‘Who was so barefaced . . . You? Can you create fourth-level illusions?’
‘I,’ he lied, continuing to smile, ‘am a master of magic. I’m pretending to be a witcher to remain incognito. Do you think Yennefer would bother with an ordinary witcher?’
Keira Metz looked him straight in the eyes and scowled. She was wearing a medallion in the form of an ankh cross; silver and set with zircon.
‘A drop of wine?’ he suggested, trying to break the awkward silence. He was afraid his joke hadn’t been well received.
‘No thank you . . . O fellow master,’ said Keira icily. ‘I don’t drink. I can’t. I plan to get pregnant tonight.’
‘By whom?’ asked the fake-redheaded friend of Sabrina Glevissig, who was dressed in a transparent, white, georgette blouse, decorated with cleverly positioned details, walking over to them. ‘By whom?’ she repeated, innocently fluttering her long eyelashes.