“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 leaned 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.”
IV
There was someone in his little attic room. Geralt knew it before he even reached the door, sensing it through the barely perceptible vibration of his medallion. He blew out the oil lamp which had lit his path up the stairs, pulled the dagger from his boot, slipped it into the back of his belt and pressed the door handle. The room was dark. But not for a witcher.
He was deliberately slow in crossing the threshold; he closed the door behind him carefully. The next second he dived at the person sitting on his bed, crushed them into the linen, forced his forearm under their chin and reached for his dagger. He didn't pull it out. Something wasn't right.
“Not a bad start,” she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless beneath him. “I expected something like this, but I didn't think we'd both be in bed so quickly. Take your hand from my throat please.”
“It's you.”
“It's me. Now there are two possibilities. The first: you get off me and we talk. The second: we stay in this position, in which case I’d like to take my boots off at least.”
The witcher released the girl, who sighed, sat up and adjusted her hair and skirt.
“Light the candle,” she said. “I can't see in the dark, unlike you, and I like to see who I’m talking to.”
She approached the table—tall, slim, agile—and sat down, stretching out her long legs in their high boots. She wasn't carrying any visible weapons.
“Have you got anything to drink here?”
“No.”
“Then it's a good thing I brought something,” she laughed, placing a traveling wineskin and two leather tumblers on the table.
“It's nearly midnight,” said Geralt coldly. “Shall we come to the point?”
“In a minute. Here, have a drink. Here's to you, Geralt.”
“Likewise, Shrike.”
“My name's Renfri, dammit.” She raised her head. “I will permit you to omit my royal title, but stop calling me Shrike!”
“Be quiet or you'll wake the whole house. Am I finally going to learn why you crept in here through the window?”
“You're slow-witted, witcher. I want to save Blaviken from slaughter. I crawled over the rooftops like a she-cat in March in order to talk to you about it. Appreciate it.”
“I do,” said Geralt. “Except that I don't know what talk can achieve. The situation's clear. Stregobor is in his tower, and you'd have to lay siege to it in order to get to him. If you do that, your letter of safe conduct won't help you. Audoen won't defend you if you openly break the law. The alderman, guards, the whole of Blaviken will stand against you.”
“The whole of Blaviken would regret standing up to me.” Renfri smiled, revealing a predator's white teeth. “Did you take a look at my boys? They know their trade, I assure you. Can you imagine what would happen in a fight between them and those dimwit guards who keep tripping over their own halberds?”
“Do you imagine I would stand by and watch a fight like that? I’m staying at the alderman's, as you can see. If the need arises, I should stand at his side.”
“I have no doubt”—Renfri grew serious—“that you will. But you'll probably be alone, as the rest will cower in the cellars. No warrior in the world could match seven swordsmen. So, white-hair, let's stop threatening each other. As I said: slaughter and bloodshed can be avoided. There are two people who can prevent it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“One,” said Renfri, “is Stregobor himself. He leaves his tower voluntarily, I take him to a deserted spot, and Blaviken sinks back into blissful apathy and forgets the whole affair.”
“Stregobor may seem crazy, but he's not that crazy.”
“Who knows, witcher, who knows. Some arguments can't be denied, like the Tridam ultimatum. I plan to present it to the sorcerer.”
“What is it, this ultimatum?”
“That's my sweet secret.”
“As you wish. But I doubt it'll be effective. Stregobor's teeth chatter when he speaks of you. An ultimatum which would persuade him to voluntarily surrender himself into your beautiful hands would have to be pretty good. So who's the other person? Let me guess.”
“I wonder how sharp you are, white-hair.”
“It's you, Renfri. You'll reveal a truly princely—what am I saying, royal magnanimity and renounce your revenge. Have I guessed?”
Renfri threw back her head and laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she grew silent and fixed her shining eyes on the witcher.
“Geralt,” she said, “I used to be a princess. I had everything I could dream of. Servants at my beck and call, dresses, shoes. Cambric knickers. Jewels and trinkets, ponies, goldfish in a pond. Dolls, and a doll's house bigger than this room. That was my life until Stregobor and that whore Aridea ordered a huntsman to butcher me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. Lovely, don't you think?”
“No. I’m pleased you evaded the huntsman, Renfri.”
“Like shit I did. He took pity on me and let me go. After the son of a bitch raped me and robbed me.”
Geralt, fiddling with his medallion, looked her straight in the eyes. She didn't lower hers.
“That was the end of the princess,” she continued. “The dress grew torn, the cambric grew grubby. And then there was dirt, hunger, stench, stink and abuse. Selling myself to any old bum for a bowl of soup or a roof over my head. Do you know what my hair was like? Silk. And it reached a good foot below my hips. I had it cut right to the scalp with sheep-shears when I caught lice. It's never grown back properly.”
She was silent for a moment, idly brushing the uneven strands of hair from her forehead.
“I stole rather than starve to death. I killed to avoid being killed myself. I was locked in prisons which stank of urine, never knowing if they would hang me in the morning, or just flog me and release me. And through it all, my stepmother and your sorcerer were hard on my heels, with their poisons and assassins and spells. And you want me to reveal my magnanimity? To forgive him royally? I’ll tear his head off, royally, first.”
“Aridea and Stregobor tried to poison you?”
“With an apple seasoned with nightshade. I was saved by a gnome, and an emetic I thought would turn my insides out. But I survived.”
“Was that one of the seven gnomes?” Renfri, pouring wine, froze holding the wineskin over the tumbler.
“Ah,” she said. “You do know a lot about me. Yes? Do you have something against gnomes? Or humanoids? They were better to me than most people, not that it's your business.
“Stregobor and Aridea hunted me like a wild animal as long as they could. Until I became the hunter. A
ridea died in her own bed. She was lucky I didn't get to her earlier—I had a special plan for her, and now I’ve got one for the sorcerer. Do you think he deserves to die?”
“I’m no judge. I’m a witcher.”
“You are. I said that there were two people who could prevent bloodshed in Blaviken. The second is you. The sorcerer will let you into the tower. You could kill him.”
“Renfri,” said Geralt calmly, “did you fall from the roof onto your head on the way to my room?”
“Are you a witcher or aren't you, dammit? They say you killed a kikimora and brought it here on a donkey to get a price for it. Stregobor is worse than the kikimora. It's just a mindless beast which kills because that's how the gods made it. Stregobor is a brute, a true monster. Bring him to me on a donkey and I won't begrudge you any sum you care to mention.”
“I’m not a hired thug, Shrike.”
“You're not,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned back on the stool and crossed her legs on the table without the slightest effort to cover her thighs with her skirt. “You're a witcher, a defender of people from evil. And evil is the steel and fire which will cause devastation here if we fight each other. Don't you think I’m proposing a lesser evil, a better solution? Even for that son of a bitch Stregobor. You can kill him mercifully, with one thrust. He'll die without knowing it. And I guarantee him quite the reverse.”
Geralt remained silent.
Renfri stretched, raising her arms.
“I understand your hesitation,” she said. “But I need an answer now.”
“Do you know why Stregobor and the king's wife wanted to kill you?”
Renfri straightened abruptly and took her legs off the table.
“It's obvious,” she snarled. “I am heir to the throne. Aridea's children were born out of wedlock and don't have any right to—”
“No.”
Renfri lowered her head, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed. “Fine. I’m supposed to be cursed. Contaminated in my mother's womb. I’m supposed to be…”
“Yes?”
“A monster.”
“And are you?”
For a fleeting moment she looked helpless, shattered. And very sad.
“I don't know, Geralt,” she whispered, and then her features hardened again. “Because how am I to know, dammit? When I cut my finger, I bleed. I bleed every month, too. I get bellyache when I overeat, and a hangover when I get drunk. When I’m happy I sing and I swear when I’m sad. When I hate someone I kill them and when—But enough of this! Your answer, witcher.”
“My answer is no.”
“You remember what I said?” she asked after a moment's silence. “There are offers you can't refuse, the consequences are so terrible, and this is one of them. Think it over.”
“I have thought carefully. And my suggestion was as serious.”
Renfri was silent for some time, fiddling with a string of pearls wound three times around her shapely neck before falling teasingly between her breasts, their curves just visible through the slit of her jacket.
“Geralt,” she said, “did Stregobor ask you to kill me?”
“Yes. He believed it was the lesser evil.”
“Can I believe you refused him, as you have me?”
“You can.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't believe in a lesser evil.”
Renfri smiled faintly, an ugly grimace in the yellow candlelight.
“You don't believe in it, you say. Well you're right, in a way. Only Evil and Greater Evil exist and beyond them, in the shadows, lurks True Evil. True Evil, Geralt, is something you can barely imagine, even if you believe nothing can still surprise you. And sometimes True Evil seizes you by the throat and demands that you choose between it and another, slightly lesser, Evil.”
“What's your goal here, Renfri?”
“Nothing. I’ve had a bit to drink and I’m philosophising. I’m looking for general truths. And I’ve found one: lesser evils exist, but we can't choose them. Only True Evil can force us to such a choice. Whether we like it or not.”
“Maybe I’ve not had enough to drink.” The witcher smiled sourly. “And in the meantime midnight's passed, the way it does. Let's speak plainly. You're not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken because I’m not going to let you. I’m not going to let it come to a slaughter here. So, for the second time, renounce your revenge. Prove to him, to everyone, that you're not an inhuman and bloodthirsty monster. Prove he has done you great harm through his mistake.”
For a moment Renfri watched the witcher's medallion spinning as he twisted the chain.
“And if I tell you, witcher, that I can neither forgive Stregobor nor renounce my revenge then I admit that he is right, is that it? I’d be proving that I am a monster cursed by the gods? You know, when I was still new to this life, a freeman took me in. He took a fancy to me, even though I found him repellent. So every time he wanted to fuck me, he had to beat me so hard I could barely move, even the following day. One morning I rose while it was still dark and slashed his throat with a scythe. I wasn't yet as skilled as I am now, and a knife seemed too small. And as I listened to him gurgle and choke, watched him kicking and flailing, I felt the marks left by his feet and fists fade, and I felt, oh, so great, so great that…I left him, whistling, sprightly, feeling so joyful, so happy. And it's the same each time. If it wasn't, who'd waste time on revenge?”
“Renfri,” said Geralt. “Whatever your motives, you're not going to leave here joyful and happy. But you'll leave here alive, early tomorrow morning, as the alderman ordered. You're not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken.”
Renfri's eyes glistened in the candlelight, reflecting the flame; the pearls glowed in the slit of her jacket; the wolf medallion spinning round on its chain sparkled.
“I pity you,” she said slowly, gazing at the medallion. “You claim a lesser evil doesn't exist. You're standing on a flagstone running with blood, alone and so very lonely because you can't choose, but you had to. And you'll never know, you'll never be sure, if you were right…And your reward will be a stoning, and a bad word. I pity you…”
“And you?” asked the witcher quietly, almost in a whisper.
“I can't choose, either.”
“What are you?”
“I am what I am.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m…cold…”
“Renfri!” Geralt squeezed the medallion tightly in his hand.
She tossed her head as if waking up, and blinked several times, surprised. For a very brief moment she looked frightened.
“You've won,” she said sharply. “You win, witcher. Tomorrow morning I’ll leave Blaviken and never return to this rotten town. Never. Now pass me the wineskin.”
Her usual derisive smile returned as she put her empty tumbler back on the table. “Geralt?”
“I’m here.”
“That bloody roof is steep. I’d prefer to leave at dawn than fall and hurt myself in the dark. I’m a princess and my body's delicate. I can feel a pea under a mattress—as long as it's not well-stuffed with straw, obviously. How about it?”
“Renfri”—Geralt smiled despite himself—“is that really befitting of a princess?”
“What do you know about princesses, dammit? I’ve lived as one and the joy of it is being able to do what you like. Do I have to tell you straight out what I want?”
Geralt, still smiling, didn't reply.
“I can't believe you don't find me attractive.” Renfri grimaced. “Are you afraid you'll meet the freeman's sticky fate? Eh, white-hair, I haven't got anything sharp on me. Have a look for yourself.”
She put her legs on his knees. “Pull my boots off. A high boot is the best place to hide a knife.”
Barefoot, she got up, tore at the buckle of her belt. “I’m not hiding anything here, either. Or here, as you can see. Put that bloody candle out.”
Outside, in the darkness, a cat yawled.
“Renfri?”
> “What?”
“Is this cambric?”
“Of course it is, dammit. Am I a princess or not?”
V
“Daddy,” Marilka nagged monotonously, “when are we going to the market? To the market, Daddy!”
“Quiet, Marilka,” grunted Caldemeyn, wiping his plate with his bread. “So what were you saying, Geralt? They're leaving?”
“Yes.”
“I never thought it would end so peacefully. They had me by the throat with that letter from Audoen. I put on a brave face but, to tell you the truth, I couldn't do a thing to them.”
“Even if they openly broke the law? Started a fight?”
“Even if they did. Audoen's a very touchy king. He sends people to the scaffold on a whim. I’ve got a wife, a daughter, and I’m happy with my office. I don't have to worry where the bacon will come from tomorrow. It's good news that they're leaving. But how, and why, did it happen?”
“Daddy, I want to go to the market!”
“Libushe! Take Marilka away! Geralt, I asked Centurion, the Golden Court's innkeeper, about that Novigradian company. They're quite a gang. Some of them were recognized.”
“Yes?”
“The one with the gash across his face is Nohorn, Abergard's old adjutant from the so-called Free Angren Company—you'll have heard of them. That hulk they call Fifteen was one of theirs too and I don't think his nickname comes from fifteen good deeds. The half-elf is Civril, a brigand and professional murderer. Apparently, he had something to do with the massacre at Tridam.”
“Where?”
“Tridam. Didn't you hear of it? Everyone was talking about it three…Yes, three years ago. The Baron of Tridam was holding some brigands in the dungeons. Their comrades—one of whom was that half-blood Civril—seized a river ferry full of pilgrims during the Feast of Nis. They demanded the baron set those others free. The baron refused, so they began murdering pilgrims, one after another. By the time the baron released his prisoners they'd thrown a dozen pilgrims overboard to drift with the current—and following the deaths the baron was in danger of exile, or even of execution. Some blamed him for waiting so long to give in, and others claimed he'd committed a great evil in releasing the men, in setting a pre—precedent or something. The gang should have been shot from the banks, together with the hostages, or attacked on the boats; he shouldn't have given an inch. At the tribunal the baron argued he'd had no choice, he'd chosen the lesser evil to save more than twenty-five people—women and children—on the ferry.”
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