The Witcher

THE LESSER EVIL III

The Golden Court, the country town's elegant inn, was crowded and noisy. The guests, locals and visitors, were mostly engaged in activities typical for their nation or profession. Serious merchants argued with dwarves over the price of goods and credit interest. Less serious merchants pinched the backsides of the girls carrying beer, cabbage and beans. Local nitwits pretended to be well-informed. Harlots were trying to please those who had money while discouraging those who had none. Carters and fishermen drank as if there were no tomorrow.

Some seamen were singing a song which celebrated the ocean waves, the courage of captains and the graces of mermaids, the latter graphically and in considerable detail.

'Exert your memory, friend,' Caldemeyn said to the innkeeper, leaning across the counter in order to be heard over the din. 'Six men and a wench, all dressed in black leather studded with silver in the Novigradian style. I saw them at the turnpike. Are they staying here or at The Tuna Fish?'

The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his striped apron.

'Here, Alderman,' he finally said. 'They say they've come for the market but they all carry swords, even the woman. Dressed, as you said, in black.'

'Well,' the alderman nodded. 'Where are they now? I don't see them here.'

'In the lesser alcove. They paid in gold.

'I'll go in alone,' said Geralt. 'There's no point in making this

an official affair in front of them all, at least for the time being. I'll bring her here.'

'Maybe that's best. But be careful, I don't want any trouble.'

'I'll be careful.'

The seamen's song, judging by the growing intensity of obscene words, was reaching its grand finale. Geralt drew aside the curtain -stiff and sticky with dirt - which hid the entrance to the alcove.

Six men were seated at the table. Shrike wasn't with them.

'What d'you want?' yelled the man who noticed him first. He was balding and his face was disfigured by a scar which ran across his left eyebrow, the bridge of his nose and his right cheek.

'I want to see Shrike.'

Two identical figures stood up - identical motionless faces and fair, dishevelled, shoulder-length hair, identical tight-fitting black outfits glistening with silver ornaments. And with identical movements the twins took identical swords from the bench.

'Keep calm, Vyr. Sit down, Nimir,' said the man with the scar, leaning his elbows on the table.

'Who d'you say you want to see, brother? Who's Shrike?'

'You know very well who I mean.'

'Who's this then?' asked a half-n***d athlete, sweaty, girded crosswise with belts, and wearing spiked pads on his forearms. 'D'you know him, Nohorn?'

'No,' said the man with the scar.

'It's some albino,' giggled a slim, dark-haired man sitting next to Nohorn. Delicate features, enormous black eyes and pointed ears betrayed him to be a half-blood elf. 'Albino, mutant, freak of nature. And this sort of thing is allowed to enter pubs among decent people.'

'I've seen him somewhere before,' said a stocky, weatherbeaten man with a plait, measuring Geralt with an evil look in his narrowed eyes.

'Doesn't matter where you've seen him, Tavik,' said Nohorn. 'Listen here. Civril insulted you terribly a moment ago. Aren't you going to challenge him? It's such a boring evening.'

'No,' said the witcher calmly.

'And me, if I pour this fish soup over your head, are you going to challenge me?' cackled the man sitting n***d to the waist.

'Keep calm, Fifteen,' said Nohorn. 'He said no, that means no. For the time being. Well, brother, say what you have to say and clear out. You've got one chance to clear out on your own. You don't take it, the attendants will carry you out.'

'I don't have anything to say to you. I want to see Shrike. Renfri.'

'Do you hear that, boys?' Nohorn looked around at his companions. 'He wants to see Renfri.

And may I know why?'

'No.'

Nohorn raised his head and looked at the twins as they took a step forward, the silver clasps on their high boots jangling.

'I know,' the man with the plait said suddenly. 'I know where I've seen him now!'

'What's that you're mumbling, Tavik?'

'In front of the alderman's house. He brought some sort of dragon in to trade, a cross between a spider and a crocodile. People were saying he's a witcher.'

'And what's a witcher?' Fifteen asked. 'Eh? Civril?'

'A hired magician,' said the half-elf. 'A conjurer for a fistful of silver. I told you, a freak of nature. An insult to human and divine laws. They ought to be burned, the likes of him.'

'We don't like magicians,' screeched Tavik, not taking his narrowed eyes off Geralt. 'It seems to me, Civril, that we're going to have more work in this hole than we thought. There's more than one of them here and everyone knows they stick together.'

'Birds of a feather.' The half-breed smiled maliciously. 'To think the likes of you walk the earth. Who spawns you freaks?'

A bit more tolerance, if you please,' said Geralt, calmly, 'as I see your mother must have wandered off through the forest alone often enough to give you good reason to wonder where you come from yourself.'

'Possibly,' answered the half-elf, the smile not leaving his face. 'But at least I knew my mother. You witchers can't say that much about yourselves.'

Geralt grew a little pale and tightened his lips. Nohorn, noticing it, laughed out loud.

'Well, brother, you can't let an insult like that go by. That thing that you have on your back looks like a sword. So? Are you going outside with Civril? The evening's so boring.'

The witcher didn't react.

'Shitty coward,' snorted Tavik.

'What did he say about Civril's mother?' Nohorn continued monotonously, resting his chin on his clasped hands. 'Something extremely nasty, as I understood it. That she was an easy lay, or something. Hey, Fifteen, is it right to listen to some straggler insulting a companion's mother?

A mother, you son-of-a-b***h, is sacred!'

Fifteen got up willingly, undid his sword and threw it on the table. He stuck his chest out, adjusted the pads spiked with silver studs on his shoulders, spat and took a step forward.

'If you've got any doubts,' said Nohorn, 'then Fifteen is challenging you to a fist fight. I told you they'd carry you out of here. Make room.'

Fifteen moved closer and raised his fists. Geralt put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

'Careful,' he said. 'One more step and you'll be looking for your hand on the floor.'

Nohorn and Tavik leapt up, grabbing their swords. The silent twins drew theirs with identical movements. Fifteen stepped back. Only Civril didn't move.

'What's going on here, dammit? Can't I leave you alone for a minute?'

Geralt turned round very slowly and looked into eyes the colour of the sea.

She was almost as tall as him. She wore her straw-coloured hair unevenly cut, just below the ears. She stood with one hand on the door, wearing a tight, velvet jacket clasped with a decorated belt. Her skirt was uneven, asymmetrical - reaching down to her calf on the left, side and, on the right, revealing a strong thigh above a boot made of elk's leather. On her left side, she carried a sword;

on her right, a dagger with a huge ruby set in its pommel.

'Lost your voices?'

'He's a witcher,' mumbled Nohorn.

'So what?'

'He wanted to talk to you.'

'So what?'

'He's a sorcerer!' Fifteen roared.

'We don't like sorcerers,' snarled Tavik.

'Take it easy, boys,' said the girl. 'He wants to talk to me; that's no crime. You carry on having a good time. And no trouble. Tomorrow's market day. Surely you don't want your pranks to disrupt the market, such an important event in the life of this pleasant town?'

A quiet, nasty giggle reverberated in the silence which fell. Civril, still sprawled out carelessly on the bench, was laughing.

'Come on, Renfri,' chuckled the half-blood. 'Important . . . event!'

'Shut up, Civril. Immediately.'

Civril stopped laughing. Immediately. Geralt wasn't surprised. There was something very strange in Renfri's voice - something associated with the red reflection of fire on blades, the wailing of people being murdered, the whinnying of horses and the smell of blood. Others must also have had similar associations - even Tavik's weather-beaten face grew pale.

'Well, white-hair,' Renfri broke the silence. 'Let's go into the larger room. Let's join the alderman you came with. He wants to talk to me too, no doubt.'

At the sight of them, Caldemeyn, who was waiting at the counter, broke off his quiet conversation with the innkeeper, straightened himself and folded his arms across his chest.

'Listen, young lady,' he said severely, not wasting time with banal niceties, 'I know from this witcher of Rivia here what brings you to Blaviken. Apparently you bear a grudge against our wizard.'

'Maybe. What of it?' asked Renfri quietly, in an equally brusque tone.

'Only that there are tribunals to deal with grudges like that. He

who wants to revenge a grudge using steel - here in Arcsea - is considered a common bandit.

And also, that either you get out of Blaviken early in the morning with your black companions, or I throw you into prison, pre- How do you say it, Geralt?'

'Preventively.'

'Exactly. Understood, young lady?'

Renfri reached into the purse on her belt and pulled out a parchment which had been folded several times.

'Read this, Alderman. If you're literate. And don't call me 'young lady'.'

Caldemeyn took the parchment, spent a long time reading it, then, without a word, gave it to Geralt.

''To my regents, vassals and freemen subjects,'' the witcher read out loud. ''To all and sundry. I proclaim that Renfri, the Princess of Creyden, remains in our service and is well seen by us; whosoever dares maltreet her will incur our wrath. Audoen, King—'' Maltreat is not spelt like that. But the seal appears authentic'

'Because it is authentic,' said Renfri, snatching the parchment from him. 'It was affixed by Audoen, your merciful lord. That's why I don't advise you to maltreat me. Irrespective of how you spell it, the consequences for you would be lamentable. You are not, honourable Alderman, going to put me in prison. Or call me 'young lady'. I haven't infringed any law.

For the time being.'

'If you infringe by even an inch,' Caldemeyn looked as if he wanted to spit, 'I'll throw you in the dungeon together with this piece of paper. I swear on all the gods, young lady. Come on, Geralt.'

'With you, witcher,' Renfri touched Geralt's shoulder, I'd still like a word.'

'Don't be late for supper,' the alderman threw over his shoulder, 'or Libushe will be furious.'

'I won't.'

Geralt leant against the counter. Fiddling with the wolf's head medallion hanging around his neck, he looked into the girl's blue-green eyes.

'I've heard about you,' she said. 'You're Geralt, the white-haired witcher from Rivia. Is Stregobor your friend?'

'No.'

'That makes things easier.'

'Not much. Don't expect me to look on peacefully.'

Renfri's eyes narrowed.

'Stregobor dies tomorrow,' she said quietly, brushing the unevenly cut hair off her forehead. 'It would be the lesser evil if he died alone.'

'If he did, yes. But in fact, before Stregobor dies several other people will die too. I don't see any other possibility.'

'Several, witcher, is putting it mildly.'

'You need more than words to frighten me, Shrike.'

'Don't call me Shrike. I don't like it. The point is, I see other possibilities. It would be worth talking it over . . . but Libushe is waiting. Is she pretty, this Libushe?'

'Is that all you had to say to me?'

'No. But you should go. Libushe's waiting.'