The Saga of the Witcher Read online

  ‘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.

  ‘Forgive 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.’

  ‘I 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 either 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-wit
nesses 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 shit 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 crack 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 cock. 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 d
rivel 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 ?’

  ‘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 massacre, 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 massacre 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!’