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bored him. He handed over his rule wholesale to her. And Calanthe, stuffing herself with medicaments and elixirs, dragged her husband into bed day and night. She wanted to reign until the end of her days. And, if not as queen mother, then as the mother of her own son. As I’ve already said, great ambitions, but—’
    ‘You’ve already said it. Don’t repeat yourself.’
    ‘It was too late. Queen Pavetta, wife of the weird Urcheon, was wearing a suspiciously loose-fitting dress even during the marriage ceremony. Calanthe, resigned, changed her plans; if it she couldn’t rule through her son, let it be Pavetta’s son. But she gave birth to a daughter. A curse, or what? Queen Pavetta could still have had a child though. I mean would have been able to. For a mysterious accident occurred. Pavetta and the weird Urcheon perished in an unexplained maritime disaster.’
    ‘Aren’t you implying too much, Codringher?’
    ‘I’m trying to explain the situation, nothing more. Calanthe was devastated after Pavetta’s death, but not for long. Her granddaughter was her final hope. Pavetta’s daughter, Cirilla. Ciri; a little devil incarnate, roaring around the royal palace. She was the apple of some people’s eyes, particularly the older folk because she was so like Calanthe had been as a child. To others . . . she was a changeling, the daughter of the monstrous Urcheon, the girl to whom some witcher or other was also claiming rights. And now we’re getting to the nub of the matter: Calanthe’s little darling, clearly being groomed as her successor, treated almost as a second incarnation, the Lion Cub of the Lioness’s blood, was already viewed by some as bereft of any right to the throne. Cirilla was ill-born. Pavetta’s marriage had been a misalliance. She had mixed royal blood with the inferior blood of a stray of unknown origin.’
    ‘Crafty, Codringher. But it wasn’t like that. Ciri’s father wasn’t inferior in any way. He was a prince.’
    ‘What are you saying? I didn’t know that. From which kingdom?’
    ‘One of the southern ones . . . From Maecht . . . ? Yes, indeed, from Maecht.’
    ‘Interesting,’ mumbled Codringher. ‘Maecht has been a Nilfgaardian march for a long time. It’s part of the Province of Metinna.’
    ‘But it’s a kingdom,’ interrupted Fenn. ‘A king reigns there.’
    ‘Emhyr var Emreis rules there,’ Codringher cut him off. ‘Whoever sits on that throne does so by the grace and will of Emhyr. But while we’re on the subject, find out who Emhyr made king. I can’t recall.’
    ‘Right away,’ said the cripple, pushing the wheels of his chair and creaking off in the direction of a bookcase. He took down a thick roll of scrolls and began looking at them, discarding them on the floor after checking them. ‘Hmm . . . Here it is. The Kingdom of Maecht. Its coat of arms presents quarterly, azure and gules, one and four two fishes argent, two and three a crown of the same—’
    ‘To hell with heraldry, Fenn. The king, who is the king?’
    ‘Hoët the Just. Chosen by means of election . . .’
    ‘By Emhyr of Nilfgaard,’ postulated Codringher coldly.
    ‘. . . nine years ago.’
    ‘Not that one,’ said the lawyer, counting quickly. ‘He doesn’t concern us. Who was before him?’
    ‘Just a moment. Here it is. Akerspaark. Died—’
    ‘Died of acute pneumonia, his lungs having been pierced by the dagger of Emhyr’s hit men or Hoët the Just,’ said Codringher, once again displaying his perspicacity. ‘Geralt, does Akerspaark ring any bells for you? Could he be Urcheon’s father?’
    ‘Yes,’ said the Witcher after a moment’s thought. ‘Akerspaark. I recall that’s what Duny called his father.’
    ‘Duny?’
    ‘That was his name. He was a prince, the son of that Akerspaark—’
    ‘No,’ interrupted Fenn, staring at the scrolls. ‘They are all mentioned here. Legitimate sons: Orm, Gorm, Torm, Horm and Gonzalez. Legitimate daughters: Alia, Valia, Nina,