The Witcher

BLOOD OF ELVES II

Several people started to laugh - as quietly and furtively as they could. Even though the idea that anyone other than another dwarf would desire one of the exceptionally unattractive dwarf-women was highly amusing, it was not a safe subject for teasing or jests - especially not in the presence of the short, stocky, bearded individuals whose axes and short-swords had an ugly habit of leaping from their belts and into their hands at incredible speed. And the dwarves, for some unknown reason, were entirely convinced that the rest of the world was lecherously lying in wait for their wives and daughters, and were extremely touchy about it.

'This had to happen at some point,' the grey-haired druid declared suddenly. 'This had to happen. We forgot that we are not the only ones in this world, that the whole of creation does not revolve around us. Like stupid, fat, lazy minnows in a slimy pond we chose not to accept the existence of pike. We allowed our world, like the pond, to become slimy, boggy and sluggish. Look around you - there is crime and sin everywhere, greed, the pursuit of profit, quarrels and disagreements are rife. Our traditions are disappearing, respect for our values is fading. Instead of living according to Nature we have begun to destroy it. And what have we got for it? The air is poisoned by the stink of smelting furnaces, the rivers and brooks are tainted by s*******r houses and tanneries, forests are being cut down without a thought . . . Ha just look! -even on the living bark of sacred Bleobheris, there just above the poet's head, there's a foul phrase carved out with a knife - and it's misspelled at that - by a stupid, illiterate vandal. Why are you surprised? It had to end badly—'

'Yes, yes!' the fat priest joined in. 'Come to your senses, you Dinners, while there is still time, because the anger and vengeance of the gods hangs over you! Remember Ithlin's oracle, the prophetic words describing the punishment of the gods reserved for a tribe poisoned by crime!

"The Time of Contempt will come, when the tree will lose its leaves, the bud will wither, the fruit will rot, the seed turn bitter and the river valleys will run with ice instead of water. The White Chill will come, and after it the White Light, and the world will perish beneath blizzards." Thus spoke Seeress Ithlin! And before this comes to pass there will be visible signs, plagues will r****h the earth - Remember! - the Nilfgaard are our punishment from the gods! They are the whip with which the Immortals will lash you sinners, so that you may—'

'Shut up, you sanctimonious old man!' roared Sheldon Skaggs, stamping his heavy boots.

'Your superstitious rot make me sick! My guts are churning—'

'Careful, Sheldon.' The tall elf cut him short with a smile. 'Don't mock another's religion. It is not pleasant, polite or . . . safe.'

'I'm not mocking anything,' protested the dwarf. 'I don't doubt the existence of the gods, but it annoys me when someone drags them into earthly matters and tries to pull the wool over my eyes using the prophecies of some crazy elf. The Nilfgaardians are the instrument of the gods?

Rubbish! Search back through your memories to the past, to the days of Dezmod, Radowid and Sambuk, to the days of Abrad, the Old Oak! You may not remember them, because your lives are so very short - you're like MayfIies but I remember, and I'll tell you what it was like in these lands just after you climbed from your boats on the Yaruga Estuary and the Pontar Delta onto the beach. Three kingdoms sprang from the four ships which beached on those shores; the stronger groups absorbed the weaker and so grew, strengthening their positions.

They invaded others territories, conquered them, and their kingdoms expanded, becoming ever larger and more powerful. And now the Nilfgaardians are doing the same, because theirs is strong and united, disciplined and tightly knit country. And unless you close ranks in the same way, Nilfgaard will swallow you as a pike does a minnow - just as this wise druid said!'

'Let them just try!' Donimir of Troy puffed out his lion-emblazoned chest and shook his sword in its scabbard. 'We beat them hollow on Sodden Hill, and we can do it again!'

'You're very cocksure,' snarled Sheldon Skaggs. 'You've evidently forgotten, sir knight, that before the battle of Sodden Hill, the Nilfgaard had advanced across your lands like an iron roller, strewing the land between Marnadal and Transriver with the corpses of many a gallant fellow like yourself. And it wasn't loudmouthed smart-arses like you who stopped the Nilfgaardians, but the united strengths of Temeria, Redania, Aedirn and Kaedwen. Concord and unity, that's what stopped them!'

'Not just that,' remarked Radcliffe in a cold, resonant voice. 'Not just that, Master Skaggs.'

The dwarf hawked loudly, blew his nose, shuffled his feet then bowed a little to the wizard.

'No one is denying the contribution of your fellowship,' he said. 'Shame on he who does not acknowledge the heroism of the brotherhood of wizards on Sodden Hill. They stood their ground bravely, shed blood for the common cause, and contributed most eminently to our victory. Dandilion did not forget them in his ballad, and nor shall we. But note that these wizards stood united and loyal on the Hill, and accepted the leadership of Vilgefortz of Roggeveen just as we, the warriors of the Four Kingdoms, acknowledged the command of Vizimir of Redania. It's just a pity this solidarity and concord only lasted for the duration of the war, because, with peace, here we are divided again. Vizimir and Foltest are choking each other with customs taxes and trading laws, Demawend of Aedirn is bickering with Henselt over the Northern Marches while the League of Hengfors and the Thyssenids of Kovir don't give a toss. And I hear that looking for the old concord amongst the wizards is useless, too.

We are not closely knit, we have no discipline and no unity. But Nilfgaard does!'

'Nilfgaard is ruled by Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, a tyrant and autocrat who enforces obedience with whip, noose and axe!' thundered Baron Vilibert. 'What are you proposing, sir dwarf? How are we supposed to close ranks? With similar tyranny? And which king, which kingdom, in your opinion, should subordinate the others? In whose hands would you like to see the sceptre and knout?'

'What do I care?' replied Skaggs with a shrug. 'That's a human affair. Whoever you chose to be king wouldn't be a dwarf anyway.'

'Or an elf, or even half-elf,' added the tall representative of the Elder Race, his arm still wrapped around the toque-wearing beauty. 'You even consider quarter-elves inferior—'

'That's where it stings,' laughed Vilibert. 'You're blowing the same horn as Nilfgaard because Nilfgaard is also shouting about equality, promising you a return to the old order as soon as we've been conquered and they've scythed us off these lands. That's the sort of unity, the sort of equality you're dreaming of, the sort you're talking about and trumpeting! Nilfgaard pays you gold to do it! And it's hardly surprising you love each other so much, the Nilfgaardians being an elven race—'

Nonsense,' the elf said coldly. 'You talk rubbish, sir knight. You're clearly blinded by racism.

The Nilfgaardians are human, just like you.'

'That's an outright lie! They're descended from the Black Seidhe and everyone knows it!

Elven blood flows through their veins! The blood of elves!'

'And what flows through yours?' The elf smiled derisively. 'We've been combining our blood for generations, for centuries, your race and mine, and doing so quite successfully -

fortunately or unfortunately, I don't know. You started persecuting mixed relationships less than a quarter of a century ago and, incidentally, not very successfully. So show me a human now who hasn't a dash of Seidhe Ichaer, the blood of the Elder Race.'

Vilibert visibly turned red. Vera Loewenhaupt also flushed. Wizard Radcliffe bowed his head and coughed. And, most interestingly, the beautiful elf in the ermine toque blushed too.

'We are all children of Mother Earth.' The grey-haired druid's voice resounded in the silence.

'We are children of Mother Nature. And though we do not respect our mother, though we often worry her and cause her pain, though we break her heart, she loves us. Loves us all. Let us remember that, we who are assembled here in this Seat of Friendship. And let us not bicker over which of us was here first: Acorn was the first to be thrown up by the waves and from Acorn sprouted the Great Bleobheris, the oldest of oaks. Standing beneath its crown, amongst its primordial roots, let us not forget our own brotherly roots, the earth from, which these roots grow. Let us remember the words of Poet Dandilion's song—'

'Exactly!' exclaimed Vera Loewenhaupt. 'And where is he?'

'He's fled,' ascertained Sheldon Skaggs, gazing at the empty place under the oak. 'Taken the money and fled without saying goodbye. Very elf-like!'

'Dwarf-like!' squealed Ironware.

'Human-like,' corrected the tall elf, and the beauty in the toque rested her head against his shoulder.

'Hey, minstrel,' said Mama Lantieri, striding into the room without knocking, the scents of hycinths, sweat, beer and smoked bacon wafting before her. 'You've got a guest. Enter, noble gentleman.'

Dandilion smoothed his hair and sat up in the enormous carved armchair. The two girls sitting on his lap quickly jumped up, covering their charms and pulling down their disordered clothes. The modesty of harlots, thought the poet, was not at all a bad title for a ballad. He got to his feet, fastened his belt and pulled on his doublet, all the while looking at the nobleman standing at the threshold.

'Indeed,' he remarked, 'you know how to find me anywhere, though you rarely pick an opportune moment. You're lucky I'd not yet decided which of these two beauties I prefer. And at your prices, Lantieri, I cannot afford them both.'

Mama Lantieri smiled in sympathy and clapped her hands. Both girls - a fair-skinned, freckled islander and a dark-haired half-elf - swiftly left the room. The man at the door removed his cloak and handed it to Mama along with a small but well-filled money-bag.

T'orgive me, master,' he said, approaching the table and making himself comfortable. 'I know this is not a good time to disturb you, But you disappeared out from beneath the oak so quickly . . . I did not catch you on the High Road as I had intended and did not immediately come across your tracks in this little town. I'll not take much of your time, believe me—'

'They always say that, and it's always a lie,' the bard interrupted. 'Leave us alone, Lantieri, and see to it that we're not disturbed. I'm listening, sir.'

The man scrutinised him. He had dark, damp, almost tearful eyes, a pointed nose and ugly, narrow lips.

'I'll come to the point without wasting your time,' he declared, waiting for the door to close behind Mama. 'Your ballads interest me, master. To be more specific, certain characters of which you sang interest me. I am concerned with the true fate of your ballad's heroes. If I am not mistaken, the true destinies of real people inspired the beautiful work I heard beneath the oak tree? I have in mind . . . Little Cirilla of Cintra. Queen Calanthe's granddaughter.'

Dandilion gazed at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on the table.

'Honoured sir,' he said dryly, 'you are interested in strange matters. You ask strange questions.

Something tells me you are not the person I took you to be.'

'And who did you take me to be, if I may ask?'

'I'm not sure you may. It depends if you are about to convey greetings to me from any mutual friends. You should have done so initially, but somehow you have forgotten.'

'1 did not forget at all.' The man reached into the breast pocket of his sepia-coloured velvet tunic and pulled out a money-bag somewhat larger than the one he had handed the procuress but just as well-filled, which clinked as it touched the table. 'We simply have no mutual friends, Dandilion. But might this purse not suffice to mitigate the lack?'

'And what do you intend to buy with this meagre purse?' The troubadour pouted. 'Mama Lantieri's entire brothel and all the land surrounding it?'

'Let us say that I intend to support the arts. And an artist. In order to chat with the artist about his work.'

'You love art so much, do you, dear sir? Is it so vital for you to talk to an artist that you press money on him before you've even introduced yourself and, in doing so, break the most elementary rules of courtesy?'

'At the beginning of our conversation' - the stranger's dark eyes narrowed imperceptibly - 'my anonymity did not bother you.'

'And now it is starting to.'

'I am not ashamed of my name,' said the man, a faint smile appearing on his narrow lips. 'I am called Rience. You do not know me, Master Dandilion, and that is no surprise. You are too famous and well known to know all of your admirers. Yet everyone who admires your talents feels he knows you, knows you so well that a certain degree of familiarity is permissible. This applies to me, too. I know it is a misconception, so please graciously forgive me.'

'I graciously forgive you.'

'Then I can count on you agreeing to answer a few questions—'

'No! No you cannot,' interrupted the poet, putting on airs. 'Now, if you will graciously forgive me, I am not willing to discuss the subjects of my work, its inspiration or its characters, fictitious or otherwise. To do so would deprive poetry of its poetic veneer and lead to triteness.'

'Is that so?'

' It certainly is. For example, if, having sung the ballad about the miller's merry wife, I were to announce it's really about Zvirka, Miller Loach's wife, and I included an announcement that Zvirka can most easily be bedded every Thursday because on Thursdays the miller goes to market, it would no longer be poetry. It would be cither rhyming couplets, or foul slander.'

'I understand, I understand,' Rience said quickly. 'But perhaps that is a bad example. I am not, after all, interested in anyone's peccadilloes or sins. You will not slander anyone by answering my questions. All I need is one small piece of information: what really happened to Cirilla, the Queen of Cintra's granddaughter? Many people claim she was killed during the siege of the town; there are even eye-witnesses to support the claim. From your ballad, however, it would appear that the child survived. I am truly interested to know if this is your imagination at work, or the truth? True or false?'

'I'm extremely pleased you're so interested.' Dandilion smiled broadly. 'You may laugh, Master whatever-your-name-is, but that was precisely what I intended when I composed the ballad. I wished to excite my listeners and arouse their curiosity.'

'True or false?' repeated Rience coldly.

'If I were to give that away I would destroy the impact of my work. Goodbye, my friend. You have used up all the time I can spare you. And two of my many inspirations are waiting out there, wondering which of them I will choose.'

Rience remained silent for a long while, making no move to leave. He stared at the poet with his unfriendly, moist eyes, and the poet felt a growing unease. A merry din came from the bawdy-house's main room, punctuated from time to time by high-pitched feminine giggles.

Dandilion turned his head away, pretending to show derisive haughtiness but, in fact, he was judging the distance to the corner of the room and the tapestry showing a nymph sprinkling her breasts with water poured from a jug.

'Dandilion,' Rience finally spoke, slipping his hand back into the pocket of his sepia-coloured tunic, 'answer my questions. Please. I have to know the answer. It's incredibly important to me. To you, too, believe me, because if you answer of your own free will then—'

'Then what?'

A hideous grimace crept over Rience's narrow lips.

'Then I won't have to force you to speak.'

'Now listen, you scoundrel.' Dandilion stood up and pretended to pull a threatening face. 'I loathe violence and force, but I'm going to call Mama Lantieri in a minute and she will call a certain Gruzila who fulfils the honourable and responsible role of bouncer in this establishment. He is a true artist in his field. He'll kick your arse so hard you'll soar over the town roofs with such magnificence that the few people passing by at this hour will take you for a Pegasus.'

Rience made an abrupt gesture and something glistened in his hand.

'Are you sure,' he asked, 'you'll have time to call her?'

Dandilion had no intention of checking if he would have time. Nor did he intend to wait.

Before the stiletto had locked in Rience's hand Dandilion had taken a long leap to the corner of the room, dived under the nymph tapestry, kicked open a secret door and rushed headlong down the winding stairs, nimbly steering himself with the aid of the well-worn banisters.

Rience darted after him, but the poet was sure of himself - he knew the secret passage like the back of his hand, having used it numerous times to flee creditors, jealous husbands and furious rivals from whom he had, from time to time, stolen rhymes and tunes. He knew that after the third turning he would be able to grope for a revolving door, behind which there was a ladder leading down to the cellar. He was sure that his persecutor would be unable to stop in time, would run on and step on a trapdoor through which he would fall and land in the pigsty.

He was equally sure that - bruised, covered in s**t and mauled by the pigs - his persecutor would give up the chase.

Dandilion was mistaken, as was usually the case whenever he was too confident. Something flashed a sudden blue behind his back and the poet felt his limbs grow numb, lifeless and stiff.

He couldn't slow down for the revolving door, his legs wouldn't obey him. He yelled and rolled down the stairs, bumping against the walls of the little corridor. The trapdoor opened beneath him with a dry c***k and the troubadour tumbled down into the darkness and stench.

Before thumping his head on the dirt floor and losing consciousness, he remembered Mama Lantieri saying something about the pigsty being repaired.

The pain in his constricted wrists and shoulders, cruelly twisted in their joints, brought him back to his senses. He wanted to scream but couldn't; it felt as though his mouth had been stuck up with clay. He was kneeling on the dirt floor with a creaking rope hauling him up by his wrists. He tried to stand, wanting to ease the pressure on his shoulders, but his legs, too, were tied together. Choking and suffocating he somehow struggled to his feet, helped considerably by the rope which tugged mercilessly at him.

Rience was standing in front of him and his evil eyes glinted in the light of a lantern held aloft by an unshaven ruffian who stood over six feet tall. Another ruffian, probably no shorter, stood behind him. Dandilion could hear his breathing and caught a whiff of stale sweat. It was the reeking man who tugged on the rope looped over a roof beam and fastened to the poet's wrists.

Dandilion's feet tore off the dirt floor. The poet whistled through his nose, unable to do anything more.

'Enough,' Rience snapped at last - he spoke almost immediately, yet it had seemed an age to Dandilion. The bard's feet touched the ground but, despite his most heart-felt desire, he could not kneel again - the tight drawn rope was still holding him as taut as a string.

Rience came closer. There was not even a trace of emotion on his face; the damp eyes had not changed their expression in the least. His tone of voice, too, remained calm, quiet, even a little bored.

'You nasty rhymester. You runt. You scum. You arrogant nobody. You tried to run from me?

No one has escaped me yet. We haven't finished our conversation, you clown, you sheep's head. I asked you a question under much pleasanter circumstances than these. Now you are going to answer all my questions, and in far less pleasant circumstances. Am I right?'

Dandilion nodded eagerly. Only now did Rience smile and make a sign. The bard squealed helplessly, feeling the rope tighten and his arms, twisted backwards, cracking in their joints.

You can't talk,' Rience confirmed, still smiling loathsomely, 'and it hurts, doesn't it? For the moment, you should know I'm having you strung up like this for my own pleasure just because I love watching people suffer. Go on, just a little higher.'

Dandilion was wheezing so hard he almost choked.

'Enough,' Rience finally ordered, then approached the poet and grabbed him by his shirt ruffles. 'Listen to me, you little c**k. I'm going to lift the spell so you can talk. But if you try to raise your charming voice any louder than necessary, you'll be sorry.'

He made a gesture with his hand, touched the poet's cheek with his ring and Dandilion felt sensation return to his jaw, tongue and palate.

'Now,' Rience continued quietly, 'I am going to ask you a few questions and you are going to answer them quickly, fluently and comprehensively. And if you stammer or hesitate even for a moment, if you give me the slightest reason to doubt the truth of your words, then . . . Look down.'

Dandilion obeyed. He discovered to his horror that a short rope had been tied to the knots around his ankles, with a bucket full of lime attached to the other end.

'If I have you pulled any higher,' Rience smiled cruelly, 'and this bucket lifts with you, then you will probably never regain the feeling in your hands. After that, I doubt you will be capable of playing anything on a lute. I really doubt it. So I think you'll talk to me. Am I right?'

Dandilion didn't agree because he couldn't move his head or find his voice out of sheer fright.

But Rience did not seem to require confirmation.

'It is to be understood,' he stated, 'that I will know immediately if you are telling the truth, if you try to trick me I will realise straight away, and I won't be fooled by any poetic ploys or vague erudition. This is a trifle for me - just as paralysing you on the stairs was a trifle. So I advise you to weigh each word with care, you piece of scum. So, let's get on with it and stop wasting time. As you know, I'm interested in the heroine of one of your beautiful ballads, Queen Calanthe of Cintra's granddaughter, Princess Cirilla, endearingly known as Ciri.

According to eye-witnesses this little person died during the siege of the town, two years ago.

Whereas in your ballad you so vividly and touchingly described her meeting a strange, almost legendary individual, the . . . witcher . . . Geralt, or Gerald. Leaving the poetic drivel about destiny and the decrees of fate aside, from the rest of the ballad it seems the child survived the Battle of Cintra in one piece. Is that true?'

'I don't know . . .' moaned Dandilion. 'By all the gods, I'm only a poet! I've heard this and that, and the rest . . .'

'Well?'

XI

'The rest I invented. Made it up! I don't know anything!' The bard howled on seeing Rience give a sign to the reeking man and feeling the rope tighten. 'I'm not lying!'

'True.' Rience nodded. 'You're not lying outright, I would have sensed it. But you are beating about the bush. You wouldn't have thought the ballad up just like that, not without reason.

And you do know the witcher, after all. You have often been seen in his company. So talk, Dandilion, if you treasure your joints. Everything you know.'

'This Ciri,' panted the poet, 'was destined for the witcher. She's a so-called Child Surprise . . .

You must have heard it, the story's well known. Her parents swore to hand her over to the witcher—'

'Her parents are supposed to have handed the child over to that crazed mutant? That murderous mercenary? You're lying, rhymester. Keep such tales for women.'

'That's what happened, I swear on my mother's soul,' sobbed Dandilion. 'I have it from a reliable source . . . The witcher—'

'Talk about the girl. For the moment I'm not interested in the witcher.'

'I don't know anything about the girl! I only know that the witcher was going to fetch her from Cintra when the war broke out. I met him at the time. He heard about the m******e, about Calanthe's death, from me . . . He asked me about the child, the queen's granddaughter . . . But I knew everyone in Cintra was killed, not a single soul in the last bastion survived—'

'Go on. Fewer metaphors, more hard facts!'

'When the witcher learned of the m******e and fall of Cintra he forsook his journey. We both escaped north. We parted ways in Hengfors and I haven't seen him since . . . But because he talked, on the way, a bit about this . . . Ciri, or whatever-her-name-is . . . and about destiny . . .

Well, I made up this ballad. I don't know any more, I swear!'

Rience scowled at him.

'And where is this witcher now?' he asked. 'This hired monster murderer, this poetic butcher who likes to discuss destiny?'

'I told you, the last time I saw him—'

'I know what you said,' Rience interrupted. 'I listened carefully to what you said. And now you're going to listen carefully to me. Answer my questions precisely. The question is: if no one has seen Geralt, or Gerald, the Witcher for over a year, where is he hiding? Where does he usually hide?'

'I don't know where it is,' the troubadour said quickly. 'I'm not lying. I really don't know—'

'Too quick, Dandilion, too quick.' Rience smiled ominously. 'Too eager. You are cunning but not careful enough. You don't know where it is, you say. But I warrant you know what it is.'

Dandilion clenched his teeth with anger and despair.

'Well?' Rience made a sign to the reeking man. 'Where is the witcher hiding? What is the place called?'

The poet remained silent. The rope tightened, twisting his hands painfully, and his feet left the ground. Dandilion let out a howl, brief and broken because Rience's wizardly ring immediately gagged him.

'Higher, higher.' Rience rested his hands on his hips. 'You know, Dandilion, I could use magic to sound out your mind, but it's exhausting. Besides, I like seeing people's eyes pop out of their sockets from pain. And you're going to tell me anyway.'

Dandilion knew he would. The rope secured to his ankles grew taut, the bucket of lime scraped along the ground.

'Sir,' said the first ruffian suddenly, covering the lantern with his cloak and peering through the gap in the pigsty door, 'someone's coming. A lass, I think.'

'You know what to do,' Rience hissed. 'Put the lantern out.'

The reeking man released the rope and Dandilion tumbled inertly to the ground, falling in such a way that he could see the man with the lantern standing at the door and the reeking man, a long knife in his hand, lying in wait on the other side. Light broke in from the bawdy-house through gaps in the planks, and the poet heard the singing and hubbub.

The door to the pigsty creaked open revealing a short figure wrapped in a cloak and wearing a round, tightly fitting cap. After a moment's hesitation, the woman crossed the threshold. The reeking man threw himself at her, slashing forcefully with his knife, and tumbled to his knees as the knife met with no resistance, passing through the figure's throat as though through a cloud of smoke. Because the figure really was a cloud of smoke - one which was already starting to disperse. But before it completely vanished another figure burst into the pigsty, indistinct, dark and nimble as a weasel. Dandilion saw it throw a cloak at the lantern man, jump over the reeking one, saw something glisten in its hand, and heard the reeking man wheeze and choke savagely. The lantern man disentangled himself from the cloak, jumped, took a swing with his knife. A fiery lightning bolt shot from the dark figure with a hiss, slapped over the tough's face and chest with a c***k and spread over him like flaming oil. The ruffian screamed piercingly and the grim reek of burning meat filled the pigsty.