‘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 atmosphere 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 judgement? 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.’
‘BRAAAK! Ghaaa-braaak!’ roared Coodcoodak suddenly, to loud applause. Geralt didn’t know which animal he was imitating, but he didn’t want to meet anything like it. He turned his head and caught the queen’s venomously green glance. Drogodar, his lowered head and face concealed by his curtain of grey hair, quietly strummed his lute.
‘Ah, Geralt,’ said Calanthe, with a gesture forbidding a servant from refilling her goblet. ‘I speak and you remain silent. We’re at a feast. We all want to enjoy ourselves. Amuse me. I’m starting to miss your pertinent remarks and perceptive comments. I’d also be pleased to hear a compliment or two, homage or assurance of your obedience. In whichever order you choose.’
‘Oh well, your Majesty,’ said the witcher, ‘I’m not a very interesting dinner companion. I‘m amazed to be singled out for the honour of occupying this place. Indeed, someone far more appropriate should have been seated here. Anyone you wished. It would have sufficed for you to give them the order, or to buy them. It’s only a question of price.’
‘Go on, go on,’ Calanthe tilted her head back and closed her eyes, the semblance of a pleasant smile on her lips.
‘So I’m honoured and proud to be sitting by Queen Calanthe of Cintra, whose beauty is surpassed only by her wisdom. I also regard it as a great honour that the queen has heard of me and that, on the basis of what she has heard, does not wish to use me for trivial matters. Last winter Prince Hrobarik, not being so gracious, tried to hire me to find a beauty who, sick of his vulgar advances, had fled the ball, losing a slipper. It was difficult to convince him that he needed a huntsman, and not a witcher.’
The queen was listening with an enigmatic smile.
‘Other rulers, too, unequal to you in wisdom, didn’t refrain from proposing trivial tasks. It was usually a question of the murder of a stepson, stepfather, stepmother, uncle, aunt – it’s hard to mention them all. They were all of the opinion that it was simply a question of price.’
The queen’s smile could have meant anything.
‘And so I repeat,’ Geralt bowed his head a little, ‘that I can’t contain my pride to be sitting next to you, ma’am. And pride means a very great deal to us witchers. You wouldn’t believe how much. A lord once offended a witcher’s pride by proposing a job that wasn’t in keeping with either honour or the witcher’s code. What’s more, he didn’t accept a polite refusal and wished to prevent the witcher from leaving his castle. Afterwards everyone agreed this wasn’t one of his best ideas.’
‘Geralt,’ said Calanthe, after a moment’s silence, ‘you were wrong. You’re a very interesting dinner companion.’
Coodcoodak, shaking beer froth from his whiskers and the front of his jacket, craned his neck and gave the penetrating howl of a she-wolf in heat. The dogs in the courtyard, and the entire neighbourhood, echoed the howl.
One of the brothers from Strept dipped his finger in his beer and touched up the thick line around the formation drawn by Crach an Craite.
‘Error and incompetence!’ he shouted. ‘They shouldn’t have done that! Here, towards the wing, that’s where they should have directed the cavalry, struck the flanks!’
‘Ha!’ roared Crach an Craite, whacking the table with a bone and splattering his neighbours’ faces and tunics with sauce. ‘And so weaken the centre? A key position? Ludicrous!’
‘Only someone who’s blind or sick in the head would miss the opportunity to manoeuvre in a situation like that!’
‘That’s it! Quite right!’ shouted Windhalm of Attre.
‘Who’s asking you, you little snot?’
‘Snot yourself!’
‘Shut your gob or I’ll wallop you—’
‘Sit on your arse and keep quiet, Crach,’ called Eist Tuirseach, interrupting his conversation with Vissegerd. ‘Enough of these arguments. Drogodar, sir ! Don’t waste your talent! Indeed, your beautiful though quiet tunes should be listened to with greater concentration and gravity. Draig Bon-Dhu, stop scoffing and guzzling! You’re not going to impress anyone here like that. Pump up your bagpipes and delight our ears with decent martial music. With your permission, noble Calanthe!’
‘Oh mother of mine,’ whispered the queen to Geralt, raising her eyes to the vault for a moment in silent resignation. But she nodded her permission, smiling openly and kindly.
‘Draig Bon-Dhu,’ said Eist, ‘play us the song of the battle of Hochebuz. It won’t leave us in any doubt as to the tactical manoeuvres of commanders – or as to who acquired immortal fame there! To the health of the heroic Calanthe of Cintra!’
‘The health! And glory!’ The guests roared, emptying their goblets and clay cups.
Draig Bon-Dhu’s bagpipes gave out an ominous drone and burst into a terrible, drawn-out, modulated wail. The guests took up the song, beating out a rhythm on the table with whatever came to hand. Coodcoodak was staring avidly at the goat-leather sack, captivated by the idea of adopting its dreadful t
ones in his own repertoire.
‘Hochebuz,’ said Calanthe, looking at Geralt, ‘my first battle. Although I fear rousing the indignation and contempt of such a proud witcher, I confess that we were fighting for money. Our enemy was burning villages which paid us levies and we, greedy for our tributes, challenged them on the field. A trivial reason, a trivial battle, a trivial three thousand corpses pecked to pieces by the crows. And look – instead of being ashamed I’m proud as a peacock that songs are sung about me. Even when sung to such awful music.’
Again she summoned her parody of a smile full of happiness and kindness, and answered the toast raised to her by lifting her own, empty, goblet. Geralt remained silent.
‘Let’s go on.’ Calanthe accepted a pheasant leg offered to her by Drogodar and picked at it gracefully. ‘As I said, you’ve aroused my interest. I’ve been told that witchers are an interesting caste, but I didn’t really believe it. Now I do. When hit you give a note which shows you’re fashioned of pure steel, unlike these men moulded from bird shit. Which doesn’t, in any way, change the fact that you’re here to execute a task. And you’ll do it without being so clever.’
Geralt didn’t smile disrespectfully or nastily, although he very much wanted to. He held his silence.
‘I thought,’ murmured the queen, appearing to give her full attention to the pheasant’s thigh, ‘that you’d say something. Or smile. No? All the better. Can I consider our negotiations concluded?’
‘Unclear tasks,’ said the witcher dryly, ‘can’t be clearly executed.’
‘What’s unclear? You did, after all, guess correctly. I have plans regarding a marriage alliance with Skellige. These plans are threatened, and I need you to eliminate the threat. But here your shrewdness ends. The supposition that I mistake your trade for that of a hired thug has piqued me greatly. Accept, Geralt, that I belong to that select group of rulers who know exactly what witchers do, and how they ought to be employed. On the other hand, if someone kills as efficiently as you do, even though not for money, he shouldn’t be surprised if people credit him with being a professional in that field. Your fame runs ahead of you, Geralt, it’s louder than Draig Bon-Dhu’s accursed bagpipes, and there are equally few pleasant notes in it.’
The bagpipe player, although he couldn’t hear the queen’s words, finished his concert. The guests rewarded him with an uproarious ovation and dedicated themselves with renewed zeal to the remains of the banquet, recalling battles and making rude jokes about womenfolk. Coodcoodak was making a series of loud noises, but there was no way to tell if these were yet another animal imitation, or an attempt to relieve his overloaded stomach.
Eist Tuirseach leant far across the table. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘there are good reasons, I am sure, for your dedication to the lord from Fourhorn, but it’s high time we saw Princess Pavetta. What are we waiting for? Surely not for Crach an Craite to get drunk? And even that moment is almost here.’
‘You’re right as usual, Eist,’ Calanthe smiled warmly. Geralt was amazed by her arsenal of smiles. ‘Indeed, I do have important matters to discuss with the Honourable Ravix. I’ll dedicate some time to you too, but you know my principle: duty then pleasure. Haxo!’
She raised her hand and beckoned the castellan. Haxo rose without a word, bowed, and quickly ran upstairs, disappearing into the dark gallery. The queen turned to the witcher.
‘You heard? We’ve been debating for too long. If Pavetta has stopped preening in front of the looking-glass she’ll be here presently. So prick up your ears because I won’t repeat this. I want to achieve the ends which, to a certain degree, you have guessed. There can be no other solution. As for you, you have a choice. You can be forced to act by my command – I don’t wish to dwell on the consequences of disobedience, although obedience will be generously rewarded – or you can render me a paid service. Note that I didn’t say “I can buy you”, because I’ve decided not to offend your witcher’s pride. There’s a huge difference, isn’t there?’
‘The magnitude of this difference has somehow escaped my notice.’
‘Then pay greater attention. The difference, my dear witcher, is that one who is bought is paid according to the buyer’s whim, whereas one who renders a service sets his own price. Is that clear ?’
‘To a certain extent. Let’s say, then, that I choose to serve. Surely I should know what that entails?’
‘No. Only a command has to be specific and explicit. A paid service is different. I’m interested in the results, nothing more. How you achieve it is your business.’
Geralt, raising his head, met Mousesack’s penetrating black gaze. The druid of Skellige, without taking his eyes from the witcher, was crumbling bread in his hands and dropping it as if lost in thought. Geralt looked down. There on the oak table, crumbs, grains of buckwheat and fragments of lobster shell were moving like ants. They were forming runes which joined up – for a moment – into a word. A question.
Mousesack waited without taking his eyes off him. Geralt, almost imperceptibly, nodded. The druid lowered his eyelids and, with a stony face, swiped the crumbs off the table.
‘Honourable gentlemen!’ called the herald. ‘Pavetta of Cintra!’
The guests grew silent, turning to the stairs.
Preceded by the castellan and a fair-haired page in a scarlet doublet, the princess descended slowly, her head lowered. The colour of her hair was identical to her mother’s – ash-grey – but she wore it braided into two thick plaits which reached below her waist. Pavetta was adorned only with a tiara ornamented with a delicately worked jewel and a belt of tiny golden links which girded her long silvery-blue dress at the hips.
Escorted by the page, herald, castellan and Vissegerd, the princess occupied the empty chair between Drogodar and Eist Tuirseach. The knightly islander immediately filled her goblet and entertained her with conversation. Geralt didn’t notice her answer with more than a word. Her eyes were permanently lowered, hidden behind her long lashes even during the noisy toasts raised to her around the table. There was no doubt her beauty had impressed the guests – Crach an Craite stopped shouting and stared at Pavetta in silence, even forgetting his tankard of beer. Windhalm of Attre was also devouring the princess with his eyes, flushing shades of red as though only a few grains in the hourglass separated them from their wedding night. Coodcoodak and the brothers from Strept were studying the girl’s petite face, too, with suspicious concentration.
‘Aha,’ said Calanthe quietly, clearly pleased. ‘And what do you say, Geralt? The girl has taken after her mother. It’s even a shame to waste her on that red-haired lout, Crach. The only hope is that the pup might grow into someone with Eist Tuirseach’s class. It’s the same blood, after all. Are you listening, Geralt? Cintra has to form an alliance with Skellige because the interest of the state demands it. My daughter has to marry the right person. Those are the results you must ensure me.’
‘I have to ensure that? Isn’t your will alone sufficient for it to happen?’
‘Events might take such a turn that it won’t be sufficient.’
‘What can be stronger than your will?’
‘Destiny.’
‘Aha. So I, a poor witcher, am to face down a destiny which is stronger than the royal will. A witcher fighting destiny! What irony!’
‘Yes, Geralt? What irony?’
‘Never mind. Your Majesty, it seems the service you demand borders on the impossible.’
‘If it bordered on the possible,’ Calanthe drawled, ‘I would manage it myself. I wouldn’t need the famous Geralt of Rivia. Stop being so clever. Everything can be dealt with – it’s only a question of price. Bloody hell, there must be a figure on your witchers’ pricelist for work that borders on the impossible. I can guess one, and it isn’t low. You ensure me my outcome and I will give you what you ask.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I’ll give you whatever you ask for. And I don’t like being told to repeat myself. I wonder, witcher, do you always tr
y to dissuade your employers as strongly as you are me? Time is slipping away. Answer, yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s better. That’s better, Geralt. Your answers are much closer to the ideal. They’re becoming more like those I expect when I ask a question. So. Discreetly stretch your left hand out and feel behind my throne.’
Geralt slipped his hand under the yellow-blue drapery. Almost immediately he felt a sword secured to the leather-upholstered backrest. A sword well-known to him.
‘Your Majesty,’ he said quietly, ‘not to repeat what I said earlier about killing people, you do realise that a sword alone will not defeat destiny?’
‘I do,’ Calanthe turned her head away. ‘A witcher is also necessary. As you see, I took care of that.’
‘Your Maje—’
‘Not another word, Geralt. We’ve been conspiring for too long. They’re looking at us, and Eist is getting angry. Talk to the castellan. Have something to eat. Drink, but not too much. I want you to have a steady hand.’
He obeyed. The queen joined a conversation between Eist, Vissegerd and Mousesack, with Pavetta’s silent and dreamy participation. Drogodar had put away his lute and was making up for his lost eating time. Haxo wasn’t talkative. The voivode with the hard-to-remember name, who must have heard something about the affairs and problems of Fourhorn, politely asked whether the mares were foaling well. Geralt answered yes, much better than the stallions. He wasn’t sure if the joke had been well taken, but the voivode didn’t ask any more questions.
Mousesack’s eyes constantly sought the witcher’s, but the crumbs on the table didn’t move again.
Crach an Craite was becoming more and more friendly with the two brothers from Strept. The third, the youngest brother, was paralytic, having tried to match the drinking speed imposed by Draig Bon-Dhu. The skald had emerged from it unscathed.
The younger and less important lords gathered at the end of the table, tipsy, started singing a well-known song – out of tune – about a little goat with horns and a vengeful old woman with no sense of humour.
Introducing the Witcher Page 14