The Last Wish Page 13

  “I visited towns and fortresses. I looked for proclamations nailed to posts at the crossroads. I looked for the words ‘Witcher urgently needed.’ And then there'd be a sacred site, a dungeon, necropolis or ruins, forest ravine or grotto hidden in the mountains, full of bones and stinking carcasses. Some creature which lived to kill, out of hunger, for pleasure, or invoked by some sick will. A manticore, wyvern, fogler, aeschna, ilyocoris, chimera, leshy, vampire, ghoul, graveir, werewolf, giant scorpion, striga, black annis, kikimora, vypper…so many I’ve killed. There'd be a dance in the dark and a slash of the sword, and fear and distaste in the eyes of my employer afterward.

  “Mistakes? Of course I’ve made them. But I keep to my principles. No, not the code. Although I have at times hidden behind a code. People like that. Those who follow a code are often respected and held in high esteem. But no one's ever compiled a witcher's code. I invented mine. Just like that. And keep to it. Always—

  “Not always.

  “There have been situations where it seemed there wasn't any room for doubt. When I should say to myself, ‘What do I care? It's nothing to do with me. I’m a witcher.’ When I should listen to the voice of reason. To listen to my instinct, even if it's fear, if not to what my experience dictates.

  “I should have listened to the voice of reason that time…

  “I didn't.

  “I thought I was choosing the lesser evil. I chose the lesser evil. Lesser evil! I’m Geralt! Witcher…I’m the Butcher of Blaviken—

  “Don't touch me! It might…You might see…and I don't want you to. I don't want to know. I know my fate whirls about me like water in a weir. It's hard on my heels, following my tracks, but I never look back.

  “A loop? Yes, that's what Nenneke sensed. What tempted me, I wonder, in Cintra? How could I have taken such a risk so foolishly—?

  “No, no, no. I never look back. I’ll never return to Cintra. I’ll avoid it like the plague. I’ll never go back there.

  “Heh, if my calculations are correct, that child would have been born in May, sometime around the feast of Belleteyn. If that's true, it's an interesting coincidence. Because Yennefer was also born on Belleteyn's…

  “Enough of this, we should go. It's already dusk.

  “Thank you for talking to me. Thank you, Iola.

  “No, nothing's wrong. I’m fine.

  “Quite fine.”

  A QUESTION OF PRICE

  I

  The witcher had a knife at his throat.

  He was wallowing in a wooden tub, brimful of soapsuds, his head thrown back against its slippery rim. The bitter taste of soap lingered in his mouth as the knife, blunt as a doorknob, scraped his Adam's apple painfully and moved toward his chin with a grating sound.

  The barber, with the expression of an artist who is conscious that he is creating a masterpiece, scraped once more for form's sake, then wiped the witcher's face with a piece of linen soaked in tincture of angelica.

  Geralt stood up, allowed a servant to pour a bucket of water over him, shook himself and climbed from the tub, leaving wet footmarks on the brick floor.

  “Your towel, sir.” The servant glanced curiously at his medallion.

  “Thanks.”

  “Clothes,” said Haxo. “Shirt, underpants, trousers and tunic. And boots.”

  “You've thought of everything. But can't I go in my own shoes?”

  “No. Beer?”

  “With pleasure.”

  He dressed slowly. The touch of someone else's coarse, unpleasant clothes against his swollen skin spoiled his relaxed mood.

  “Castellan?”

  “Yes, Geralt?”

  “You don't know what this is all about, do you? Why they need me here?”

  “It's not my business,” said Haxo, squinting at the servants. “My job is to get you dressed—”

  “Dressed up, you mean.”

  “—get you dressed and take you to the banquet, to the queen. Put the tunic on, sir. And hide the medallion beneath it.”

  “My dagger was here.”

  “It isn't anymore. It's in a safe place, like your swords and your possessions. Nobody carries arms where you're going.”

  The witcher shrugged, pulling on the tight purple tunic.

  “And what's this?” he asked, indicating the embroidery on the front of his outfit.

  “Oh yes,” said Haxo. “I almost forgot. During the banquet, you will be the Honorable Ravix of Fourhorn. As guest of honor, you will sit at the queen's right hand, such is her wish, and that, on the tunic, is your coat of arms. A bear passant sable, damsel vested azure riding him, her hair loose and arms raised. You should remember it—one of the guests might have a thing about heraldry. It often happens.”

  “Of course I’ll remember it,” said Geralt seriously. “And Fourhorn, where's that?”

  “Far enough. Ready? Can we go?”

  “We can. Just tell me, Haxo, what's this banquet in aid of?”

  “Princess Pavetta is turning fifteen and, as is the custom, contenders for her hand have turned up in their dozens. Queen Calanthe wants her to marry someone from Skellige; an alliance with the islanders would mean a lot to us.”

  “Why them?”

  “Those they're allied with aren't attacked as often as others.”

  “A good reason.”

  “And not the sole one. In Cintra women can't rule. King Roegner died some time ago and the queen doesn't want another husband: our Lady Calanthe is wise and just, but a king is a king. Whoever marries the princess will sit on the throne, and we want a tough, decent fellow. They have to be found on the islands. They're a hard nation. Let's go.”

  Geralt stopped halfway down the gallery surrounding the small inner courtyard and looked around.

  “Castellan,” he said under his breath, “we're alone. Quickly, tell me why the queen needs a witcher. You of all people must know something.”

  “For the same reasons as everyone else,” Haxo grunted. “Cintra is just like any other country. We've got werewolves and basilisks and a manticore could be found, too, if you looked hard enough. So a witcher might also come in useful.”

  “Don't twist my words, Castellan. I’m asking why the queen needs a witcher in disguise as a bear passant, with hair loose at that, at the banquet.”

  Haxo also looked around, and even leaned over the gallery balustrade.

  “Something bad's happening, Geralt,” he muttered. “In the castle. Something's frightening people.”

  “What?”

  “What usually frightens people? A monster. They say it's small, hunchbacked, bristling like a Urcheon. It creeps around the castle at night, rattles chains. Moans and groans in the chambers.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No,” Haxo spat, “and I don't want to.”

  “You're talking nonsense, Castellan,” grimaced the witcher. “It doesn't make sense. We're going to an engagement feast. What am I supposed to do there? Wait for a hunchback to jump out and groan? Without a weapon? Dressed up like a jester? Haxo?”

  “Think what you like,” grumbled the castellan. “They told me not to tell you anything, but you asked. So I told you. And you tell me I’m talking nonsense. How charming.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Castellan. I was simply surprised…”

  “Stop being surprised.” Haxo turned away, still sulking. “Your job isn't to be surprised. And I strongly advise you, witcher, that if the queen orders you to strip naked, paint your arse blue and hang yourself upside down in the entrance hall like a chandelier, you do it without surprise or hesitation. Otherwise you might meet with a fair, amount of unpleasantness. Have you got that?”

  “I’ve got it. Let's go, Haxo. Whatever happens, that bath's given me an appetite.”

  II

  Apart from the curt, ceremonious greetings with which she welcomed him as “Lord of Fourhorn,” Queen Calanthe didn't exchange a single word with the witcher. The banquet was about to begin and the guests, loudly
announed by the herald, were gathering.

  The table was huge, rectangular, and could seat more than forty men. Calanthe sat at the head of the table on a throne with a high backrest. Geralt sat on her right and, on her left, a gray-haired bard called Drogodar, with a lute. Two more chairs at the head of the table, on the queen's left, remained empty.

  To Geralt's right, along the table, sat Haxo and a voivode whose name he'd forgotten. Beyond them were guests from the Duchy of Attre—the sullen and silent knight Rainfarn and his charge, the chubby twelve-year-old Prince Windhalm, one of the pretenders to the princess's hand. Further down were the colorful and motley knights from Cintra, and local vassals.

  “Baron Eylembert of Tigg!” announced the herald.

  “Coodcoodak!” murmured Calanthe, nudging Drogodar. “This will be fun.”

  A thin and whiskered, richly attired knight bowed low, but his lively, happy eyes and cheerful smirk belied his subservience.

  “Greetings, Coodcoodak,” said the queen ceremoniously. Obviously the baron was better known by his nickname than by his family name. “We are happy to see you.”

  “And I am happy to be invited,” declared Coodcoodak, and sighed. “Oh well, I’ll cast an eye on the princess, if you permit, my queen. It's hard to live alone, ma'am.”

  “Aye, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe smiled faintly, wrapping a lock of hair around her finger. “But you're already married, as we well know.”

  “Aaahh.” The baron was miffed. “You know yourself, ma'am, how weak and delicate my wife is, and smallpox is rife in the neighborhood. I bet my belt and sword against a pair of old slippers that in a year I’ll already be out of mourning.”

  “Poor man, Coodcoodak. But lucky, too.” Calanthe's smile grew wider. “Lucky your wife isn't stronger. I hear that last harvest, when she caught you in the haystack with a strumpet, she chased you for almost a mile with a pitchfork but couldn't catch you. You have to feed her better, cuddle her more and take care that her back doesn't get cold during the night. Then, in a year, you'll see how much better she is.”

  Coodcoodak pretended to grow doleful. “I take your point. But can I stay for the feast?”

  “We'd be delighted, Baron.”

  “The legation from Skellige!” shouted the herald, becoming increasingly hoarse.

  The islanders—four of them, in shiny leather doublets trimmed with seal fur and belted with checkered woolen sashes—strode in with a sprightly, hollow step. They were led by a sinewy warrior with a dark face and aquiline nose and, at his side, a broad-shouldered youth with a mop of red hair. They all bowed before the queen.

  “It is a great honor,” said Calanthe, a little flushed, “to welcome such an excellent knight as Eist Tuirseach of Skellige to my castle again. If it weren't for your well-known disdain for marriage, I’d be delighted to think you're here to court my Pavetta. Has loneliness got the better of you after all, sir?”

  “Often enough, beautiful Calanthe,” replied the dark-faced islander, raising his glistening eyes to the queen. “But my life is too dangerous for me to contemplate a lasting union. If it weren't for that…Pavetta is still a young girl, an unopened bud, but I can see…”

  “See what?”

  “The apple does not fall far from the tree.” Eist Tuirseach smiled, flashing his white teeth. “Suffice it to look at you, my queen, to know how beautiful the princess will be when she reaches the age at which a woman can please a warrior. In the meantime, it is young men who ought to court her. Such as our King Bran's nephew here, Crach an Craite, who traveled here for exactly that purpose.”

  Crach, bowing his red head, knelt on one knee before the queen.

  “Who else have you brought, Eist?”

  A thickset, robust man with a bushy beard, and a strapping fellow with bagpipes on his back, knelt by Crach an Craite.

  “This is the gallant druid Mousesack, who, like me, is a good friend and advisor to King Bran. And this is Draig Bon-Dhu, our famous skald. And thirty seamen from Skellige are waiting in the courtyard, burning with hope to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Calanthe of Cintra.”

  “Sit down, noble guests. Tuirseach, sir, sit here.”

  Eist took the vacant seat at the narrower end of the table, only separated from the queen by Drogodar and an empty chair. The remaining islanders sat together on the left, between Marshal Vissegerd and the three sons of Lord Strept, Tinglant, Fodcat and Wieldhill.

  “That's more or less everyone.” The queen leaned over to the marshal. “Let's begin, Vissegerd.”

  The marshal clapped his hands. The servants, carrying platters and jugs, moved toward the table in a long line, greeted by a joyful murmur from the guests.

  Calanthe barely ate, reluctantly picking at the morsels served her with a silver fork. Drogodar, having bolted his food, kept strumming his lute. The rest of the guests, on the other hand, laid waste to the roast piglets, birds, fish and mollusks on offer—with the red-haired Crach an Craite in the lead. Rainfarn of Attre reprimanded the young Prince Windhalm severely, even slapping his hand when he reached for a jug of cider. Coodcoodak stopped picking bones for a moment and entertained his neighbors by imitating the whistle of a mud turtle. The atmosphere grew merrier by the minute. The first toasts were being raised, and already becoming less and less coherent.

  Calanthe adjusted the narrow golden circlet on her curled ash-gray hair and turned to Geralt, who was busy cracking open a huge red lobster.

  “It's loud enough that we can exchange a few words discreetly. Let us start with courtesies: I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “The pleasure's mutual, your Majesty.”

  “After the courtesies come hard facts. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “So I gathered. I’m rarely invited to feasts for the pleasure of my company.”

  “You're probably not very interesting company, then. What else have you gathered?”

  “I’ll tell you when you've outlined my task, your Majesty.”

  “Geralt,” said Calanthe, her fingers tapping an emerald necklace, the smallest stone of which was the size of a bumblebee, “what sort of task do you expect, as a witcher? What? Digging a well? Repairing a hole in the roof? Weaving a tapestry of all the positions King Vridank and the beautiful Cerro tried on their wedding night? Surely you know what your profession's about?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ll tell you what I’ve gathered, your Majesty.”

  “I’m curious.”

  “I gathered that. And that, like many others, you've mistaken my trade for an altogether different profession.”

  “Oh?” Calanthe, casually leaning toward the lute-strumming Drogodar, gave the impression of being pensive and absent. “Who, Geralt, makes up this ignorant horde with whom you equate me? And for what profession do those fools mistake your trade?”

  “Your Majesty,” said Geralt calmly, “while I was riding to Cintra, I met villagers, merchants, peddlers, dwarves, tinkers and woodcutters. They told me about a black annis who has its hideout somewhere in these woods, a little house on a chicken-claw tripod. They mentioned a chimera nestling in the mountains. Aeschnes and centipedeanomorphs. Apparently a manticore could also be found if you look hard enough. So many tasks a witcher could perform without having to dress up in someone else's feathers and coat of arms.”

  “You didn't answer my question.”

  “Your Majesty, I don't doubt that a marriage alliance with Skellige is necessary for Cintra. It's possible, too, that the schemers who want to prevent it deserve a lesson—using means which don't involve you. It's convenient if this lesson were to be given by an unknown lord from Fourhorn, who would then disappear from the scene. And now I’ll answer your question. You mistake my trade for that of a hired killer. Those others, of whom there are so many, are rulers. It's not the first time I’ve been called to a court where the problems demand the quick solutions of a sword. But I’ve never killed people for money, regardless of whether it's for a good or bad cause. And I never will.”

  The at
mosphere at the table was growing more and more lively as the beer diminished. The red-haired Crach an Craite found appreciative listeners to his tale of the battle at Thwyth. Having sketched a map on the table with the help of meat bones dipped in sauce, he marked out the strategic plan, shouting loudly. Coodcoodak, proving how apt his nickname was, suddenly cackled like a very real sitting hen, creating general mirth among the guests, and consternation among the servants who were convinced that a bird, mocking their vigilance, had somehow managed to make its way from the courtyard into the hall.

  “Thus fate has punished me with too shrewd a witcher.” Calanthe smiled, but her eyes were narrowed and angry. “A witcher who, without a shadow of respect or, at the very least, of common courtesy, exposes my intrigues and infamous plans. But hasn't fascination with my beauty and charming personality clouded your judgment? Don't ever do that again, Geralt. Don't speak to those in power like that. Few of them would forget your words, and you know kings—they have all sorts of things at their disposal: daggers, poisons, dungeons, red-hot pokers. There are hundreds, thousands, of ways kings can avenge their wounded pride. And you wouldn't believe how easy it is, Geralt, to wound some rulers’ pride. Rarely will any of them take words such as ‘No,’ ‘I won't,’ and ‘Never’ calmly. But that's nothing. Interrupt one of them or make inappropriate comments, and you'll condemn yourself to the wheel.”

  The queen clasped her narrow white hands together and lightly rested her chin on them. Geralt didn't interrupt, nor did he comment.

  “Kings,” continued Calanthe, “divide people into two categories—those they order around, and those they buy—because they adhere to the old and banal truth that everyone can be bought. Everyone. It's only a question of price. Don't you agree? Ah, I don't need to ask. You're a witcher, after all; you do your job and take the money. As far as you're concerned, the idea of being bought has lost its scornful undertone. The question of your price, too, is clear, related as it is to the difficulty of the task and how well you execute it. And your fame, Geralt. Old men at fairs and markets sing of the exploits of the white-haired witcher from Rivia. If even half of it is true, then I wager your services are not cheap. So it would be a waste of money to engage you in such simple, trite matters as palace intrigue or murder. Those can be dealt with by other, cheaper hands.”