Geralt closed his eyes to recall an image which, without using grand words, fascinated him inexplicably.
‘No, Chireadan,’ he said. ‘I’m not surprised.’
Heavy steps sounded in the corridor, and a clang of metal. The dungeon was filled with the shadows of four guards. A key grated. The innocent old man leapt away from the bars like a lynx and hid among the criminals.
‘So soon?’ The elf, surprised, half-whispered. ‘I thought it would take longer to build the scaffold . . .’
One of the guards, a tall, strapping fellow, bald as a knee, his mug covered with bristles like a boar, pointed at the witcher.
‘That one,’ he said briefly.
Two others grabbed Geralt, hauled him up and pressed him against the wall. The thieves squeezed into their corner; the long-nosed grandad buried himself in the straw. Chireadan wanted to jump up, but he fell to the dirt floor, retreating from the short sword pointed at his chest.
The bald guard stood in front of the witcher, pulled his sleeves up and rubbed his fist.
‘Councillor Laurelnose,’ he said, ‘told me to ask if you’re enjoying our little dungeon. Perhaps there’s something you need? Perhaps the chill is getting to you? Eh?’
Geralt did not answer. Nor could he kick the bald man, as the guards who restrained him were standing on his feet in their heavy boots.
The bald man took a short swing and punched the witcher in the stomach. It didn’t help to tense his muscles in defence. Geralt, catching his breath with an effort, looked at the buckle of his own belt for a while, then the guards hauled him up again.
‘Is there nothing you need?’ the guard continued, stinking of onions and rotting teeth. ‘The councillor will be pleased that you have no complaints.’
Another blow, in the same place. The witcher choked and would have puked, but he had nothing to throw up.
The bald guard turned sideways. He was changing hands.
Wham! Geralt looked at the buckle of his belt again. Although it seemed strange, there was no hole above it through which the wall could be seen.
‘Well ?’ The guard backed away a little, no doubt planning to take a wider swing. ‘Don’t you have any wishes? Mr Laurelnose asked whether you have any. But why aren’t you saying anything? Tongue-tied? I’ll get it straight for you!’
Wham!
Geralt didn’t faint this time either. And he had to faint because he cared for his internal organs. In order to faint, he had to force the guard to—
The guard spat, bared his teeth and rubbed his fist again.
‘Well? No wishes at all?’
‘Just one . . .’ moaned the witcher, raising his head with difficulty. ‘That you burst, you son-of-a-whore.’
The bald guard ground his teeth, stepped back and took a swing – this time, according to Geralt’s plan, aiming for his head. But the blow never came. The guard suddenly gobbled like a turkey, grew red, grabbed his stomach with both hands, howled, roared with pain . . .
And burst.
VII
‘And what am I to do with you?’
A blindingly bright ribbon of lightning cut the darkened sky outside the window, followed by a sharp, drawn-out crash of thunder. The downpour was getting harder as the storm cloud passed over Rinde.
Geralt and Chireadan, seated on a bench under a huge tapestry depicting the Prophet Lebiodus pasturing his sheep, remained silent, modestly hanging their heads. Mayor Neville was pacing the chamber, snorting and panting with anger.
‘You bloody, shitty sorcerers!’ he yelled suddenly, standing still. ‘Are you persecuting my town, or what? Aren’t there any other towns in the world?’
The elf and witcher remained silent.
‘To do something like—’ the mayor choked. ‘To turn the warder . . . Like a tomato! To pulp! To red pulp! It’s inhuman!’
‘Inhuman and godless,’ repeated the priest, also present. ‘So inhuman that even a fool could guess who’s behind it. Yes, mayor. We both know Chireadan and the man here, who calls himself a witcher, wouldn’t have enough Force to do this. It is all the work of Yennefer, that witch cursed by the gods!’ There was a clap of thunder outside, as if confirming the priest’s words. ‘It’s her and no one else,’ continued Krepp. ‘There’s no question about it. Who, if not Yennefer, would want revenge upon Laurelnose?’
‘Hehehe,’ chuckled the mayor suddenly. ‘That’s the thing I’m least angry about. Laurelnose has been scheming against me; he’s been after my office. And now the people aren’t going to respect him. When they remember how he got it in the arse—’
‘That’s all it needs, Mr Neville, you to applaud the crime,’ Krepp frowned. ‘Let me remind you that had I not thrown an exorcism at the witcher, he would have raised his hand to strike me and the temple’s majesty—’
‘And that’s because you spoke vilely about her in your sermons, Krepp. Even Berrant complained about you. But what’s true is true. Do you hear that, you scoundrels?’ The mayor turned to Geralt and Chireadan again. ‘Nothing justifies what you’ve done! I don’t intend to tolerate such things here! That’s enough, now get on with it, tell me everything, tell me what you have for your defence, because if you don’t, I swear by all the relics that I’ll lead you such a dance as you won’t forget to your dying day! Tell me everything, right now, as you would in a confessional!’
Chireadan sighed deeply and looked meaningfully and pleadingly at the witcher.
Geralt also sighed, then cleared his throat. And he recounted everything. Well, almost everything.
‘So that’s it,’ said the priest after a moment’s silence. ‘A fine kettle of fish. A genie released from captivity. And an enchantress who has her sights on the genie. Not a bad arrangement. This could end badly, very badly.’
‘What’s a genie?’ asked Neville. ‘And what does this Yennefer want?’
‘Enchanters,’ explained Krepp, ‘draw their power from the forces of nature, or to put it more accurately, from the so-called Four Elements or Principles, commonly called the natural forces. Air, Water, Fire and Earth. Each of these elements has its own Dimension which is called a Plane in the jargon used by enchanters. There’s a Water Plane, Fire Plane and so on. These Dimensions, which are beyond our reach, are inhabited by what are called genies—’
‘That’s what they’re called in legends,’ interrupted the witcher. ‘Because as far as I know—’
‘Don’t interrupt,’ Krepp cut him short. ‘The fact that you don’t know much was evident in your tale, witcher. So be quiet and listen to what those wiser than you have to say. Going back to the genies, there are four sorts, just as there are four Planes. Djinns are air creatures; marides are associated with the principle of water; afreet are Fire genies and d’ao, the genies of Earth—’
‘You’ve run away with yourself, Krepp,’ Neville butted in. ‘This isn’t a temple school, don’t lecture us. Briefly, what does Yennefer want with this genie?’
‘A genie like this, mayor, is a living reservoir of magical energy. A sorcerer who has a genie at their beck and call can direct that energy in the form of spells. They don’t have to draw the Force from Nature, the genie does it for them. The power of such an enchanter is enormous, close to omnipotence—’
‘Somehow I’ve never heard of a wizard who can do everything,’ contradicted Neville. ‘On the contrary, the power of most of them is clearly exaggerated. They can’t do this, they can’t—’
‘The enchanter Stammelford,’ interrupted the priest, once more taking on the tone and poise of an academic lecturer, ‘once moved a mountain because it obstructed the view from his tower. Nobody has managed to do the like, before or since. Because Stammelford, so they say, had the services of a d’ao, an Earth genie. There are records of deeds accomplished by other magicians on a similar scale. Enormous waves and catastrophic rains are certainly the work of marides. Fiery columns, fires and explosions the work of afreets—’
‘Whirlwinds, hurricanes, flights above the eart
h,’ muttered Geralt, ‘Geoffrey Monck.’
‘Exactly. I see you do know something after all.’ Krepp glanced at him more kindly. ‘Word has it old Monck had a way of forcing a djinn to serve him. There were rumours that he had more than one. He was said to keep them in bottles and make use of them when need arose. Three wishes from each genie, then it’s free and escapes into its own dimension.’
‘The one at the river didn’t fulfil anything,’ said Geralt emphatically. ‘He immediately threw himself at Dandilion’s throat.’
‘Genies,’ Krepp turned up his nose, ‘are spiteful and deceitful beings. They don’t like being packed into bottles and ordered to move mountains. They do everything they possibly can to make it impossible for you to express your wishes and then they fulfil them in a way which is hard to control and foresee, sometimes literally, so you have to be careful what you say. To subjugate a genie you need a will of iron, nerves of steel, a strong Force and considerable abilities. From what you say, it looks like your abilities, witcher, were too modest.’
‘Too modest to subjugate the cad,’ agreed Geralt. ‘But I did chase him away; he bolted so fast the air howled. And that’s also something. Yennefer, it’s true, ridiculed my exorcism—’
‘What was the exorcism? Repeat it.’
Geralt repeated it, word for word.
‘What?!’ The priest first turned pale, then red and finally blue. ‘How dare you! Are you making fun of me?’
‘Forgive me,’ stuttered Geralt. ‘To be honest, I don’t know . . . what the words mean.’
‘So don’t repeat what you don’t know! I’ve no idea where you could have heard such filth!’
‘Enough of that.’ The mayor waved it all aside. ‘We’re wasting time. Right. We now know what the sorceress wants the genie for. But you said, Krepp, that it’s bad. What’s bad? Let her catch him and go to hell, what do I care? I think—’
No one ever found out what Neville was thinking, even if it wasn’t a boast. A luminous rectangle appeared on the wall next to the tapestry of Prophet Lebiodus, something flashed and Dandilion landed in the middle of the town hall.
‘Innocent!’ yelled the poet in a clear, melodious tenor, sitting on the floor and looking around, his eyes vague. ‘Innocent! The witcher is innocent! I wish you to believe it!’
‘Dandilion!’ Geralt shouted, holding Krepp back, who was clearly getting ready to perform an exorcism or a curse. ‘Where have you . . . here . . . Dandilion!’
‘Geralt!’ The bard jumped up.
‘Dandilion!’
‘Who’s this?’ Neville growled. ‘Dammit, if you don’t put an end to your spells, there’s no guarantee what I’ll do. I’ve said that spells are forbidden in Rinde! First you have to put in a written application, then pay a tax and stamp duty . . . Eh? Isn’t it that singer, the witch’s hostage?’
‘Dandilion,’ repeated Geralt, holding the poet by the shoulders. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted the bard with a foolish, worried expression. ‘To be honest, I’m rather unaware of what happened to me. I don’t remember much and may the plague take me if I know what of that is real and what’s a nightmare. But I do remember quite a pretty, black-haired female with fiery eyes—’
‘What are you telling me about black-haired women for?’ Neville interrupted angrily. ‘Get to the point, squire, to the point. You yelled that the witcher is innocent. How am I to understand that? That Laurelnose thrashed his own arse with his hands? Because if the witcher’s innocent, it couldn’t have been otherwise. Unless it was a mass hallucination.’
‘I don’t know anything about any arses or hallucinations,’ said Dandilion proudly. ‘Or anything about laurel noses. I repeat, that the last thing I remember was an elegant woman dressed in tastefully co-ordinated black and white. She threw me into a shiny hole, a magic portal for sure. But first she gave me a clear and precise errand. As soon as I’d arrived I was immediately to say, I quote: “My wish is for you to believe the witcher is not guilty for what occurred. That, and no other, is my wish.” Word for word. Indeed, I tried to ask what all this was, what it was all about, and why. The black-haired woman didn’t let me get a word in edge-ways. She scolded me most inelegantly, grasped me by the neck and threw me into the portal. That’s all. And now . . .’ Dandilion pulled himself up, brushed his doublet, adjusted his collar and fancy – if dirty – ruffles. ‘. . . perhaps, gentlemen, you’d like to tell me the name of the best tavern in town and where it can be found.’
‘There are no bad taverns in my town,’ said Neville slowly. ‘But before you see them for yourself, you’ll inspect the best dungeon in this town very thoroughly. You and your companions. Let me remind you that you’re still not free, you scoundrels! Look at them! One tells incredible stories while the other leaps out of the wall and shouts about innocence, I wish, he yells, you to believe me. He has the audacity to wish—’
‘My gods!’ the priest suddenly grasped his bald crown. ‘Now I understand! The wish! The last wish!’
‘What’s happened to you, Krepp?’ the mayor frowned. ‘Are you ill ?’
‘The last wish!’ repeated the priest. ‘She made the bard express the last, the third wish. And Yennefer set a magical trap and, no doubt, captured the genie before he managed to escape into his own dimension! Mr Neville, we must—’
It thundered outside. So strongly that the walls shook.
‘Dammit,’ muttered the mayor, going up to the window. ‘That was close. As long as it doesn’t hit a house. All I need now is a fire—Oh gods! Just look! Just look at this! Krepp! What is it?’
All of them, to a man, rushed to the window.
‘Mother of mine!’ yelled Dandilion, grabbing his throat. ‘It’s him! It’s that son-of-a-bitch who strangled me!’
‘The djinn!’ shouted Krepp. ‘The Air genie!’
‘Above Errdil’s tavern!’ shouted Chireadan, ‘above his roof!’
‘She’s caught him!’ The priest leant out so far he almost fell. ‘Can you see the magical light? The sorceress has caught the genie!’
Geralt watched in silence.
Once, years ago, when a little snot-faced brat following his studies in Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Settlement, he and a friend, Eskel, had captured a huge forest bumble-bee and tied it to a jug with a thread. They were in fits of laughter watching the antics of the tied bumble-bee, until Vesemir, their tutor, caught them at it and tanned their hides with a leather strap.
The djinn, circling above the roof of Errdil’s tavern, behaved exactly like that bumble-bee. He flew up and fell, he sprang up and dived, he buzzed furiously in a circle. Because the djinn, exactly like the bumble-bee in Kaer Morhen, was tied down. Twisted threads of blindingly bright light of various colours were tightly wrapped around him and ended at the roof. But the djinn had more options than the bumble-bee, which couldn’t knock down surrounding roofs, rip thatches to shreds, destroy chimneys, and shatter towers and garrets. The djinn could. And did.
‘It’s destroying the town,’ wailed Neville. ‘That monster’s destroying my town!’
‘Hehehe,’ laughed the priest. ‘She’s found her match, it seems! It’s an exceptionally strong djinn! I really don’t know who’s caught whom, the witch him or he the witch! Ha, it’ll end with the djinn grinding her to dust. Very good! Justice will be done!’
‘I shit on justice!’ yelled the mayor, not caring if there were any voters under the window. ‘Look what’s happening there, Krepp! Panic, ruin! You didn’t tell me that, you bald idiot! You played the wise guy, gabbled on, but not a word about what’s most important! Why didn’t you tell me that that demon . . . Witcher! Do something! Do you hear, innocent sorcerer ? Do something about that demon! I forgive you all your offences, but—’
‘There’s nothing can be done here, Mr Neville,’ snorted Krepp. ‘You didn’t listen to what I was saying, that’s all. You never listen to me. This, I repeat, is an exceptionally strong djinn. If it wasn’t for that, the s
orceress would have hold of him already. Her spell is soon going to weaken, and then the djinn is going to crush her and escape. And we’ll have some peace.’
‘And in the meantime, the town will go to ruins?’
‘We’ve got to wait,’ repeated the priest, ‘but not idly. Give out the orders, mayor. Tell the people to evacuate the surrounding houses and get ready to extinguish fires. What’s happening there now is nothing compared to the hell that’s going to break loose when the genie has finished with the witch.’
Geralt raised his head, caught Chireadan’s eye and looked away.
‘Mr Krepp,’ he suddenly decided, ‘I need your help. It’s about the portal through which Dandilion appeared here. The portal still links the town hall to—’
‘There’s not even a trace of the portal anymore,’ the priest said coldly, pointing to the wall. ‘Can’t you see?’
‘A portal leaves a trace, even when invisible. A spell can stabilise such a trace. I’ll follow it.’
‘You must be mad. Even if a passage like that doesn’t tear you to pieces, what do you expect to gain by it? Do you want to find yourself in the middle of a cyclone?’
‘I asked if you can cast a spell which could stabilise the trace.’
‘Spell ?’ the priest proudly raised his head. ‘I’m not a godless sorcerer! I don’t cast spells! My power comes from faith and prayer !’
‘Can you or can’t you?’
‘I can.’
‘Then get on with it, because time’s pressing on.’
‘Geralt,’ said Dandilion, ‘you’ve gone stark raving mad! Keep away from that bloody strangler!’
‘Silence, please,’ said Krepp, ‘and gravity. I’m praying.’
‘To hell with your prayers!’ Neville hollered. ‘I’m off to gather the people. We’ve got to do something and not stand here gabbling! Gods, what a day! What a bloody day!’
The witcher felt Chireadan touch his shoulder. He turned. The elf looked him in the eyes, then lowered his own.
‘You’re going there because you have to, aren’t you?’
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