‘Every new viceroy,’ Herbolth continued in a huff, ‘begins by removing the castellans and mayors of the old regime, in order to give his friends and relations jobs. But after what Cicada once did to the emissaries of a certain viceroy, no one tries to unseat me from my position any more and I’m the oldest mayor of the oldest regime. Which one, I can’t even remember. Well, but we’re sitting here chin-wagging, and we need to get on, as my late first wife was wont to say. Let’s get to the point. What kind of creature had infested our muck heap?’
‘A zeugl.’
‘First time I’ve ever heard of anything like that. I trust it’s dead?’
‘It is.’
‘How much will it cost the town treasury? Seventy?’
‘A hundred.’
‘Oh, really, Witcher, sir! You must have been drinking hemlock! A hundred marks for killing a lousy worm that burrowed into a pile of shit?’
‘Worm or no worm, mayor, it devoured eight people, as you said yourself.’
‘People? I like that! The brute, so I am informed, ate old Zakorek, who was famous for never being sober, one old bag from up near the castle and several children of the ferryman Sulirad, which wasn’t discovered very quickly, because Sulirad himself doesn’t know how many children he has. He produces them too quickly to count them. People, my hat! Eighty.’
‘Had I not killed the zeugl, it would soon have devoured somebody more important. The apothecary, let us say. And then where would you get your chancre ointment from? One hundred.’
‘A hundred marks is a good deal of money. I don’t know if I’d give that much for a nine-headed hydra. Eighty-five.’
‘A hundred, Mayor Herbolth. Mark that although it wasn’t a nine-headed hydra, no local man, including the celebrated Cicada, was capable of dealing with the zeugl.’
‘Because no local man is accustomed to slopping around in dung and refuse. This is my last word: ninety.’
‘A hundred.’
‘Ninety-five, by all the demons and devils!’
‘Agreed.’
‘Well, now,’ Herbolth said, smiling broadly, ‘that’s settled. Do you always bargain so famously, Witcher?’
‘No,’ Geralt did not smile. ‘Seldom, actually. But I wanted to give you the pleasure, mayor.’
‘And you did, a pox on you,’ Herbolth cackled. ‘Hey, Peregrib! Over here! Give me the ledger and a purse and count me out ninety marks at once.’
‘It was supposed to be ninety-five.’
‘What about the tax?’
The Witcher swore softly. The mayor applied his sprawling mark to the receipt and then poked around in his ear with the clean end of the quill.
‘I trust things’ll be quiet on the muck heap now? Hey, Witcher?’
‘Ought to be. There was only one zeugl. Though there is a chance it managed to reproduce. Zeugls are hermaphroditic, like snails.’
‘What poppycock is that?’ Herbolth asked, looking askance at him. ‘You need two to reproduce, I mean a male and a female. What, do those zeugls hatch like fleas or mice, from the rotten straw in a palliasse? Every dimwit knows there aren’t he-mice and she-mice, that they’re all identical and hatch out of themselves from rotten straw.’
‘And snails hatch from wet leaves,’ secretary Peregrib interjected, still busy piling up coins.
‘Everyone knows,’ Geralt concurred, smiling cheerfully. ‘There aren’t he-snails and she-snails. There are only leaves. And anyone who thinks differently is mistaken.’
‘Enough,’ the mayor interrupted, looking at him suspiciously. ‘I’ve heard enough about vermin. I asked whether anything might hatch from the muck heap, so be so gracious as to answer, clearly and concisely.’
‘In a month or so the midden ought to be inspected, ideally using dogs. Young zeugls aren’t dangerous.’
‘Couldn’t you do it, Witcher? We can come to agreement about payment.’
‘No,’ Geralt said, taking the money from Peregrib’s hands. ‘I have no intention of being stuck in your charming town for even a week, quite less a month.’
‘Fascinating, what you’re telling me.’ Herbolth smiled wryly, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Fascinating, indeed. Because I think you’ll be staying here longer.’
‘You think wrong, mayor.’
‘Really? You came here with that black-haired witch, what was it again, I forget . . . Guinevere, wasn’t it? You’ve taken lodgings with her at The Sturgeon. In a single chamber, they say.’
‘And what of it?’
‘Well, whenever she comes to Aedd Gynvael, she does not leave so quickly. It’s not the first time she’s been here.’
Peregrib smiled broadly, gap-toothed and meaningfully. Herbolth continued to look Geralt in the eye, without smiling. Geralt also smiled, as hideously as he could.
‘Actually, I don’t know anything,’ the mayor looked away and bored his heel into the ground. ‘And it interests me as much as dog’s filth. But the wizard Istredd is an important figure here, mark you. Indispensable to this municipality. Invaluable, I’d say. People hold him in high regard, locals and outsiders, too. We don’t stick our noses in his sorcery and especially not in his other matters.’
‘Wisely, perhaps,’ the Witcher agreed. ‘And where does he live, if I may ask?’
‘You don’t know? Oh, it’s right there, do you see that house? That tall, white one stuck between the storehouse and the armoury like, if you’ll pardon the expression, a candle between two arsecheeks. But you won’t find him there now. Not long ago, Istredd dug something up by the southern embankment and is now burrowing around there like a mole. And he’s put some men to work on the excavation. I went over there and asked politely, why, master, are you digging holes like a child, folk are beginning to laugh. What is in that ground there? And he looks at me like I’m some sort of pillock and says: “History”. What do you mean, history? I asks. And he goes: “The history of humanity. Answers to questions. To the question of what there was, and the question of what there will be”. There was fuck-all here, I says to that, except green fields, bushes and werewolves, before they built the town. And what there will be depends on who they appoint viceroy in Rakverelin; some lousy half-elf again. And there’s no history in the ground, there’s nothing there, except possibly worms, if someone’s fond of angling. Do you think he listened? Fat chance. He’s still digging. So if you want to see him, go to the southern embankment.’
‘Oh, come on, mayor,’ Peregrib snorted. ‘’E’s at ’ome now. Why would ’e want to be at the diggings, when he’s . . .’
Herbolth glanced at him menacingly. Peregrib bent over and cleared his throat, shuffling his feet. The Witcher, still smiling unpleasantly, crossed his arms on his chest.
‘Yes, hem, hem,’ the mayor coughed. ‘Who knows, perhaps Istredd really is at home. After all, what does it . . .’
‘Farewell, mayor,’ Geralt said, not even bothering with an imitation of a bow. ‘I wish you a good day.’
He went over to Cicada, who was coming out to meet him, his weapons clinking. Without a word he held out his hand for his sword, which Cicada was holding in the crook of his elbow. Cicada stepped back.
‘In a hurry, Witcher?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve examined your sword.’
Geralt shot a look at him which, with the best will in the world, could not have been described as warm.
‘That’s quite something,’ he nodded. ‘Not many have. And even fewer could boast about it.’
‘Ho, ho.’ Cicada flashed his teeth. ‘That sounded so menacing it’s given me the shivers. It’s always interested me, Witcher, why people are so afraid of you. And now I think I know.’
‘I’m in a hurry, Cicada. Hand over the sword, if you don’t mind.’
‘Smoke in the eyes, Witcher, nothing but smoke. You witchers frighten people like a beekeeper frightens his bees with smoke and stench, with your stony faces, with all your talk and those rumours, which you probably spread about yoursel
ves. And the bees run from the smoke, foolish things, instead of shoving their stings in the witcher’s arse, which will swell up like any other. They say you can’t feel like people can. That’s lies. If one of you was properly stabbed, you’d feel it.’
‘Have you finished?’
‘Yes,’ Cicada said, handing him back his sword. ‘Know what interests me, Witcher?’
‘Yes. Bees.’
‘No. I was wondering if you was to enter an alley with a sword from one side and me from the other, who would come out the other side? I reckon it’s worth a wager.’
‘Why are you goading me, Cicada? Looking for a fight? What’s it about?’
‘Nothing. It just intrigues me how much truth there is in what folk say. That you’re so good in a fight, you witchers, because there’s no heart, soul, mercy or conscience in you. And that suffices? Because they say the same about me, for example. And not without reason. So I’m terribly interested which of us, after going into that alley, would come out of it alive. What? Worth a wager? What do you think?’
‘I said I’m in a hurry. I’m not going to waste time on your nonsense. And I’m not accustomed to betting. But if you ever decide to hinder me walking down an alley, take my advice, Cicada, think about it first.’
‘Smoke,’ Cicada smiled. ‘Smoke in the eyes, Witcher. Nothing more. To the next time. Who knows, maybe in some alley?’
‘Who knows.’
IV
‘We’ll be able to talk freely here. Sit down, Geralt.’
What was most conspicuous about the workshop was the impressive number of books; they took up most of the space in the large chamber. Bulky tomes filled the bookcases on the walls, weighed down shelves, and were piled high on chests and cabinets. The Witcher judged that they must have cost a fortune. Of course, neither was there any shortage of other typical elements of décor: a stuffed crocodile, dried porcupine fish hanging from the ceiling, a dusty skeleton, and a huge collection of jars full of alcohol containing, it seemed, every conceivable abomination: centipedes, spiders, serpents, toads, and also countless human and non-human parts, mainly entrails. There was even a homunculus, or something that resembled a homunculus, but might just as likely have been a smoked new-born baby.
The collection made no impression on Geralt, who had lived with Yennefer in Vengerberg for six months, and Yennefer had a yet more fascinating collection, even including a phallus of exceptional proportions, allegedly that of a mountain troll. She also possessed a very expertly stuffed unicorn, on whose back she liked to make love. Geralt was of the opinion that if there existed a place less suitable for having sex it was probably only the back of a live unicorn. Unlike him, who considered his bed a luxury and valued all the possible uses of that marvellous piece of furniture, Yennefer was capable of being extremely extravagant. Geralt recalled some pleasant moments spent with the sorceress on a sloping roof, in a tree hollow full of rotten wood, on a balcony (someone else’s, to boot), on the railing of a bridge, in a wobbly boat on a rushing river and levitating thirty fathoms above the earth. But the unicorn was the worst. One happy day, however, the dummy broke beneath him, split and fell apart, supplying much amusement.
‘What amuses you so much, Witcher?’ Istredd asked, sitting down behind a long table overlaid with a considerable quantity of mouldy skulls, bones and rusty ironware.
‘Whenever I see things like that,’ the Witcher said, sitting down opposite the sorceror, pointing at the array of jars, ‘I wonder whether you really can’t make magic without all that stomach-turning ghastliness.’
‘It’s a matter of taste,’ the sorcerer said, ‘and also of habit. What disgusts one person, somehow doesn’t bother another. And what, Geralt, repels you? I wonder what might disgust someone, who, as I’ve heard, is capable of standing up to his neck in dung and filth? Please do not treat that question as insulting or provocative. I am genuinely fascinated to learn what might trigger a feeling of repugnance in a witcher.’
‘Does this jar, by any chance, contain the menstrual blood of an undefiled virgin, Istredd? Well it disgusts me when I picture you, a serious sorcerer, with a phial in your hand, trying to obtain that precious liquid, drop by drop, kneeling, so to speak, at the very source.’
‘Touché,’ Istredd said, smiling. ‘I refer, naturally, to your cutting wit, because as regards the jar’s contents, you were wide of the mark.’
‘But you do use blood occasionally, don’t you? You can’t even contemplate some spells, I’ve heard, without the blood of a virgin, ideally one killed by a lightning bolt from a clear sky during a full moon. In what way, one wonders, is that blood better than that of an old strumpet, who fell, drunk, from a palisade?’
‘In no way,’ the sorcerer agreed, a pleasant smile playing on his lips. ‘But if it became common knowledge that that role could actually be played just as easily by hog’s blood, which is much easier to obtain, then the rabble would begin experimenting with spells. But if it means the rabble having to gather and use virgin’s blood, dragon’s tears, white tarantula’s venom, decoction of severed babies’ hands or a corpse exhumed at midnight, many would think again.’
They were silent. Istredd, apparently deep in thought, tapped his fingernails on a cracked, browned skull, which lacked its lower jaw, and ran his index finger over the serrated edge of a hole gaping in the temporal bone. Geralt observed him unobtrusively. He wondered how old the sorcerer might be. He knew that the more talented among them were capable of curbing the ageing process permanently and at any age they chose. Men preferred a mature age, suggesting knowledge and experience, for reasons of reputation and prestige. Women, like Yennefer, were concerned less with prestige and more with attractiveness. Istredd looked no older than a well-earned, robust forty. He had straight, slightly grizzled, shoulder-length hair and numerous wrinkles on his forehead, around his mouth and at the corners of his eyelids. Geralt did not know whether the profundity and wisdom in his benign, grey eyes were natural or brought on by charms. A moment later he concluded that it made no difference.
‘Istredd,’ he interrupted the awkward silence, ‘I came here because I wanted to see Yennefer. Even though she isn’t here, you invited me inside. To talk. About what? About the rabble trying to break your monopoly on the use of magic? I know you include me among that rabble. That’s nothing new to me. For a while I had the impression you would turn out to be different to your confreres, who have often entered into serious conversations with me, in order just to inform me that they don’t like me.’
‘I have no intention of apologising to you for my – as you call them – confreres,’ the sorcerer answered calmly. ‘I understand them for, just like them, in order to gain any level of proficiency at sorcery, I had to apply myself seriously. While still a mere stripling, when my peers were running around fields with bows, fishing or playing odds and evens, I was poring over manuscripts. My bones and joints ached from the stone floor in the tower – in the summer, of course, because in the winter the enamel on my teeth cracked. I would cough from the dust on old scrolls and books until my eyes bulged from their sockets, and my master, old Roedskilde, never passed up an opportunity to flog me with a knout, clearly believing that without it I would not achieve satisfactory progress in my studies. I didn’t enjoy soldiering or wenching or drinking during the years when all those pleasures taste the best.’
‘Poor thing,’ the Witcher grimaced. ‘Indeed, it brings a tear to my eye.’
‘Why the sarcasm? I’m trying to explain why sorcerers aren’t fond of village quacks, charmers, healers, wise women and witchers. Call it what you will, even simple envy, but here lies the cause of the animosity. It annoys us when we see magic – a craft we were taught to treat as an elite art, a privilege of the few and a sacred mystery – in the hands of laymen and dilettantes. Even if it is shoddy, pitiable, derisory magic. That is why my confreres don’t like you. Incidentally, I don’t like you either.’
Geralt had had enough of the discussion, of pussyfooting a
round, of the feeling of anxiety which was crawling over the nape of his neck and his back like a snail. He looked straight into Istredd’s eyes and gripped the edge of the table.
‘It’s about Yennefer, isn’t it?’
The sorcerer lifted his head, but continued to tap the skull on the table with his fingernails.
‘I commend your perspicacity,’ he said, steadily returning the Witcher’s gaze. ‘My congratulations. Yes, it’s about Yennefer.’
Geralt was silent. Once, years ago, many, many years ago, as a young witcher, he had been waiting to ambush a manticore. And he sensed the manticore approaching. He did not see or hear it. He sensed it. He had never forgotten that feeling. And now he felt exactly the same.
‘Your perspicacity,’ the sorcerer went on, ‘will save us a great deal of the time we would have wasted on further fudging. And this way the issue is out in the open.’
Geralt did not comment.
‘My close acquaintance with Yennefer,’ Istredd continued, ‘goes back a long way, Witcher. For a long time it was an acquaintance without commitment, based on longer or shorter, more or less regular periods of time together. This kind of noncommittal partnership is widely practised among members of our profession. It’s just that it suddenly stopped suiting me. I determined to propose to her that she remain with me permanently.’
‘How did she respond?’
‘That she would think it over. I gave her time to do so. I know it is not an easy decision for her.’
‘Why are you telling me this, Istredd? What drives you, apart from this admirable – but astonishing – candour, so rarely seen among members of your profession? What lies behind it?’
‘Prosaicness,’ the sorcerer sighed. ‘For, you see, your presence hinders Yennefer in making a decision. I thus request you to remove yourself. To vanish from her life, to stop interfering. In short: that you get the hell out of here. Ideally quietly and without saying goodbye, which, as she confided in me, you are wont to do.’
‘Indeed,’ Geralt smiled affectedly, ‘your blunt sincerity astonishes me more and more. I might have expected anything, but not such a request. Don’t you think that instead of asking me, you ought rather to leap out and blast me with ball lightning? You’d be rid of the obstacle and there’d just be a little soot to scrape off the wall. An easier – and more reliable – method. Because, you see, a request can be declined, but ball lightning can’t be.’
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