The Witcher

THE LAST WISH II

'By all the gods!' The guard stepped back and lowered the lantern. 'What's the matter with him?'

 'Let us through, my good man,' said the witcher quietly, supporting Dandilion, who was huddled up in the saddle. 'We're in great haste, as you see.'

 'I do.' The guard swallowed, looking at the poet's pale face and chin covered in black, dried blood. 'Wounded? It looks terrible, sir.'

 'I'm in haste,' repeated Geralt. 'We've been travelling since dawn. Let us through, please.'

 'We can't,' said the other guard. 'You're only allowed through between sunrise and sunset.

 None may pass at night. That's the order. There's no way through for anyone unless they've got a letter of safe-conduct from the king or the mayor. Or they're nobility with a coat of arms.'

 Dandilion croaked, huddled up even more, resting his forehead on the horse's mane, shuddered, shook and retched dryly. Another stream of blood trickled down the branched, dried pattern on his mount's neck.

 'My good men,' Geralt said as calmly as he could, 'you can see for yourselves how badly he fares. I have to find someone who can treat him. Let us through. Please.'

 'Don't ask.' The guard leant on his halberd. 'Orders are orders. I'll go to the pillory if I let you through. They'll chase me from service, and then how will I feed my children? No, sir, I can't.

 Take your friend down from the horse and put him in the room in the barbican. We'll dress him and he'll last out until dawn, if that's his fate. It's not long now,'

 'A dressing's not enough.' The witcher ground his teeth. 'We need a healer, a priest, a gifted doctor—'

 'You wouldn't be waking up anyone like that at night anyway,' said the second guard. 'The most we can do is see that you don't have to camp out under the gate until dawn. It's warm in there and there's somewhere to put your friend; he'll fare better there than in the saddle. Come on, let us help you lower him from the horse.'

 It was warm, stuffy and cosy in the room within the barbican. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and behind it a cricket chirped fiercely.

 Three men sat at the heavy square table laid with jugs and plates.

 'Forgive us for disturbing you, squires ...' said the guard, holding Dandilion up. 'I trust you won't mind . . . This one here is a knight, hmm . .. And the other one is wounded, so I thought—'

 'You thought well,' one of the men turned his slender, sharp, expressive face towards them and got up. 'Here, lay him down on the pallet.'

 The man was an elf, like the other one sitting at the table. Both, judging by their clothes, which were a typical mixture of human and elven fashion, were elves who had settled and integrated. The third man, who looked the eldest, was human, a knight, judging by the way he was dressed and by his salt-and-pepper hair, cut to fit beneath a helmet.

 'I'm Chireadan,' the taller of the elves, with an expressive face, introduced himself. As was usual with representatives of the Old People, it was difficult to guess his age; he could have been twenty or one hundred and twenty. 'This is my cousin Errdil. And this nobleman is the knight Vratimir.'

 'A nobleman,' muttered Geralt, but a closer look at the coat of arms embroidered on his tunic shattered his hopes: a shield divided per cross and bearing golden lilies was cut diagonally by a silver bar. Vratimir was not only illegitimate but came from a mixed, human-nonhuman union. As a result, although he was entitled to use a coat of arms, he couldn't consider himself a true nobleman, and the privilege of crossing the city gate after dusk most certainly wasn't extended to him.

 'Unfortunately,' - the witcher's scrutiny did not escape the elf's attention - 'we, too, have to remain here until dawn. The law knows no exceptions, at least not for the likes of us. We invite you to join our company, sir knight.'

 'Geralt, of Rivia,' the witcher introduced himself. 'A witcher, not a knight.'

 'What's the matter with him?' Chireadan indicated Dandilion, whom the guards had laid on a pallet in the meantime. 'It looks like poisoning. If it is poisoning, then I can help. I've got some good medicine with me.'

 Geralt sat down, then quickly gave a guarded account of events at the river. The elves looked at each other, and the knight spat through his teeth and frowned.

 'Extraordinary,' Chireadan remarked. 'What could it have been?'

 'A djinn in a bottle,' muttered Vratimir. 'Like a fairy tale—'

 'Not quite.' Geralt indicated Dandilion, curled up on the pallet. 'I don't know of any fairy tale that ends like this.'

 'That poor fellow's injuries,' said Chireadan, 'are evidently of a magical nature. I fear that my medicine will not be of much use. But I can at least lessen his suffering. Have you already given him a remedy, Geralt?'

 'A painkilling elixir.'

 'Come and help me. You can hold his head up.'

 Dandilion greedily drank the medicine, diluted with wine, choked on his last sip, wheezed and covered the leather pillow with spittle.

 'I know him,' Errdil said. 'He's Dandilion, the troubadour and poet. I saw him singing at the court of King Ethain in Cidaris once.'

 'A troubadour,' repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. 'That's bad. Very bad. The muscles of his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The spell's action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise . . . This might be irreversible.'

 'That means . . . Does that mean he won't be able to talk?'

 'Talk, yes. Maybe. Not sing.'

Geralt sat down at the table without saying a word and rested his forehead on his clenched fists.

 'A wizard,' said Vratimir. 'A magical remedy or a curative spell is needed. You have to take him to some other town, witcher.'

 'What?' Geralt raised his head. 'And here, in Rinde? Isn't there a wizard here?'

 'Magicians are hard to come by in the whole of Redania,' said the knight. 'Isn't that true? Ever since King Heribert placed an exorbitant tax on spells, magicians have boycotted the capital and those towns which are rigorous in executing the king's edicts. And the councillors of Rinde are famous for their zeal in this respect. Chireadan, Errdil, am I right?'

 'You are,' confirmed Errdil. 'But . . . Chireadan, may I?'

 'You have to,' said Chireadan, looking at the witcher. 'There's no point in making a secret of it; everyone knows anyway. There's a sorceress staying in the town right now, Geralt.'

 'Incognito, no doubt?'

 'Not very,' smiled the elf. 'The sorceress in question is something of an individualist. She's ignoring both the boycott imposed on Rinde by the Council of Wizards, and the disposition of the local councillors, and is doing rather splendidly out of it: the boycott means there's tremendous demand for magical services here and, of course, the sorceress isn't paying any levies.'

 'And the town council puts up with it?'

 'The sorceress is staying with a merchant, a trade broker from Novigrad, who is also the honorary ambassador. Nobody can touch her there. She has asylum.'

 'It's more like house arrest than asylum,' corrected Errdil. 'She's just about imprisoned there.

 But she has no shortage of clients. Rich clients. She ostentatiously makes light of the councillors, holds balls and extravagant parties—'

 'While the councillors are furious, turn whoever they can against her and tarnish her reputation as best they can,' Chireadan cut in. 'They spread foul rumours about her and hope, no doubt, that the Novigrad hierarchy will forbid the merchant to grant her asylum.'

 'I don't like meddling in things like that,' muttered Geralt, 'but I've got no choice. What's the merchant-ambassador's name?'

 'Beau Berrant.'

 The witcher thought that Chireadan grimaced as he pronounced the name.

 'Oh well, it really is your only hope. Or rather, the only hope for that poor fellow moaning on the bed. But whether the sorceress will want to help you ... I don't know.'

 'Be careful when you go there,' said Errdil. 'The mayor's spies are watching the house. You know what to do if they stop you. Money opens all doors.'

 'I'll go as soon as they open the gates. What's the sorceress called?'

 Geralt thought he detected a slight flush on Chireadan's expressive face. But it could have been the glow from the fire in the hearth.

 'Yennefer of Vergerberg.'