The Witcher

A SHARD OF ICE VII

"Hey, Witcher!"

Geralt lifted his head from surface of the table, upon which, while lost in his thoughts, he'd drawn fancy curlicues in the beer that had spilled.

"It wasn't easy to find you." Alderman Herbolth sat down and pushed aside the jugs and tankards. "At the inn they said you had gone to the stables, but at the stables I found only your horse and packs. And now you're here... It's probably the foulest tavern in town. Only the worst r****e comes here. What are you doing here?"

"Drinking."

"I see. I wanted to talk with you. Are you sober?"

"As an infant."

"Glad to hear it."

"What do you want, Herbolth? I am, as you can see, busy." Geralt smiled at the girl who placed another jug on the table. 

"Rumour has it," frowned the alderman, "that you and the magician have decided to kill each other."

"That's our business. His and mine. Mind your own business."

"No, it's not just your business." Herbolth disagreed. "We need Istredd, we can't afford another magician."

"Then go to the temple and pray for his victory."

"Do not mock," barked the alderman. "And don't get clever with me, vagabond. By the gods, if I didn't know that the magician will never forgive me, I'd throw you in the hole, into the very bottom of the dungeons, or have you dragged out of the city walls by horses, or even order The Cicada to gut you like a pig. But unfortunately, Istredd is very enthusiastic about matters of honour and he'd never forgive me. I know that he wouldn't."

"That's fantastic." The witcher downed another pint and spat out under the table a blade of straw that had fallen into his tankard. "I'm getting off lightly. Is that all?"

"No," said Herbolth, drawing from inside his coat a purse stuffed with silver. "Here's a hundred marks, witcher, take them and get out of Aedd Gynvael. Get out of here, preferably immediately, in any case before sunrise. I told you that we can't afford another magician and I will not allow him to risk his life in a duel with someone like you, for a reason as stupid as..."

He stopped short, even though the witcher hadn't moved.

"Take your foul face away from this table, Herbolth." Geralt said. "And stick your one hundred marks up your arse. Go now, because your face is making me sick and if I have to look at it for much longer, I'm going to puke on you - from your hat to your boots."

The alderman put away the purse and laid both hands on the table.

"No, I won't," he said. "I wanted to do the right thing, but if it's not to be, it's not to be. Fight, flay, burn, hack each other to pieces for this w***e who will spread her legs for anyone who wants her. I think that Istredd will be able to finish you off, you cutthroat for hire, and that only your boots will remain, but if not, I'll get you, even before his corpse cools, and break every bone in your body under t*****e. Not a single part of your body will be left intact, you..."

He didn't have enough time to remove his hands from the table; the witcher's movement was too fast as his hand flew out from under the table, blurred before the alderman's eyes; a dagger struck between his fingers with a dull thud.

"Maybe." the witcher hissed, gripping the hilt of the dagger, staring into Herbolth's face, from which the blood had drained. "Maybe Istredd will kill me. But if not... I'm getting out of here and you, you little s**t, don't try to stop me unless you want the filthy streets of this city to fill with blood. Get out of here." 

"Mr. Alderman! What's going on here? Hey, you..."

"Easy, Cicada," Herbolth said, slowly moving his hands across the table, as far away from the blade of the dagger as possible. "Nothing's going on. Nothing."

The Cicada re-sheathed his half-drawn sword. Geralt didn't look at him. He didn't look at the alderman as he exited the tavern, under the protection of The Cicada who shielded him from staggering bargemen and coach drivers. He gazed at the little man with a rat-like race and black, piercing eyes sitting a few tables away.

I'm on edge, he thought, alarmed, My hands are shaking. My hands are actually shaking. This is impossible, what's happening to me... Does this mean that...

Yes, he thought, looking at the rat-faced man. I think so.

It's so cold...

He stood up.

He looked at the little man and smiled. Then he parted the flaps of his coat, and withdrew two gold coins from a pouch, tossing them onto the table. They clinked, one spinning and striking the blade of the dagger still stuck in the polished wood.