‘Elves!’ snorted Yarpen. ‘They – to be accurate – happen to be strangers just as much as you humans, although they arrived in their white ships a good thousand years before you. Now they’re competing with each other to offer us friendship, suddenly we’re all brothers, now they’re grinning and saying: “we, kinsmen”, “we, the Elder Races”. But before, shi—Hm, hm . . . Before, their arrows used to whistle past our ears when we—’
‘So the first on earth were dwarves?’
‘Gnomes, to be honest. As far as this part of the world is concerned – because the world is unimaginably huge, Ciri.’
‘I know. I saw a map—’
‘You couldn’t have. No one’s drawn a map like that, and I doubt they will in the near future. No one knows what exists beyond the Mountains of Fire and the Great Sea. Even elves, although they claim they know everything. They know shit all, I tell you.’
‘Hmm . . . But now . . . There are far more people than . . . Than there are you.’
‘Because you multiply like rabbits.’ The dwarf ground his teeth. ‘You’d do nothing but screw day in day out, without discrimination, with just anyone and anywhere. And it’s enough for your women to just sit on a man’s trousers and it makes their bellies swell . . . Why have you gone so red, crimson as a poppy? You wanted to know, didn’t you? So you’ve got the honest truth and faithful history of a world where he who shatters the skulls of others most efficiently and swells women’s bellies fastest, reigns. And it’s just as hard to compete with you people in murdering as it is in screwing—’
‘Yarpen,’ said Geralt coldly, riding up on Roach. ‘Restrain yourself a little, if you please, with your choice of words. And Ciri, stop playing at being a coachwoman and have a care for Triss, check if she’s awake and needs anything.’
‘I’ve been awake for a long time,’ the magician said weakly from the depths of the wagon. ‘But I didn’t want to . . . interrupt this interesting conversation. Don’t disturb them, Geralt. I’d like . . . to learn more about the role of screwing in the evolution of society.’
‘Can I heat some water? Triss wants to wash.’
‘Go ahead,’ agreed Yarpen Zigrin. ‘Xavier, take the spit off the fire, our hare’s had enough. Hand me the cauldron, Ciri. Oh, look at you, it’s full to the brim! Did you lug this great weight from the stream by yourself?’
‘I’m strong.’
The elder of the Dahlberg brothers burst out laughing.
‘Don’t judge her by appearances, Paulie,’ said Yarpen seriously as he skilfully divided the roasted grey hare into portions. ‘There’s nothing to laugh at here. She’s skinny but I can see she’s a robust and resilient lass. She’s like a leather belt: thin, but it can’t be torn apart in your hands. And if you were to hang yourself on it, it would bear your weight, too.’
No one laughed. Ciri squatted next to the dwarves sprawled around the fire. This time Yarpen Zigrin and his four ‘boys’ had lit their own fire at the camp because they did not intend to share the hare which Xavier Moran had shot. For them alone there was just enough for one, at most two, mouthfuls each.
‘Add some wood to the fire,’ said Yarpen, licking his fingers. ‘The water will heat quicker.’
‘That water’s a stupid idea,’ stated Regan Dahlberg, spitting out a bone. ‘Washing can only harm you when you’re sick. When you’re healthy, too, come to that. You remember old Schrader ? His wife once told him to wash, and Schrader went and died soon afterwards.’
‘Because a rabid dog bit him.’
‘If he hadn’t washed, the dog wouldn’t have bitten him.’
‘I think,’ said Ciri, checking the temperature of the water in the cauldron with her finger, ‘it’s excessive to wash every day too. But Triss asked for it – she even started crying once . . . So Geralt and I—’
‘We know.’ The elder Dahlberg nodded. ‘But that a witcher should . . . I’m constantly amazed. Hey, Zigrin, if you had a woman would you wash her and comb her hair? Would you carry her into the bushes if she had to—’
‘Shut up, Paulie.’ Yarpen cut him short. ‘Don’t say anything against that witcher, because he’s a good fellow.’
‘Am I saying anything? I’m only surprised—’
‘Triss,’ Ciri butted in cheekily, ‘is not his woman.’
‘I’m all the more surprised.’
‘You’re all the more a blockhead, you mean,’ Yarpen summed up. ‘Ciri, pour a bit of water in to boil. We’ll infuse some more saffron and poppy seeds for the magician. She felt better today, eh?’
‘Probably did,’ murmured Yannick Brass. ‘We only had to stop the convoy six times for her. I know it wouldn’t do to deny aid on the trail, and he’s a prick who thinks otherwise. And he who denies it would be an arch-prick and base son-of-a-bitch. But we’ve been in these woods too long, far too long, I tell you. We’re tempting fate, damn it, we’re tempting fate too much, boys. It’s not safe here. The Scoia’tael—’
‘Spit that word out, Yannick.’
‘Ptoo, ptoo. Yarpen, fighting doesn’t frighten me, and a bit of blood’s nothing new but . . . If it comes to fighting our own . . . Damn it! Why did this happen to us? This friggin’ load ought to be transported by a hundred friggin’ cavalrymen, not us! The devil take those know-alls from Ard Carraigh, may they—’
‘Shut up, I said. And pass me the pot of kasha. The hare was a snack, damn it, now we have to eat something. Ciri, will you eat with us?’
‘Of course.’
For a long while all that could be heard was the smacking of lips, munching, and the crunch of wooden spoons hitting the pot.
‘Pox on it,’ said Paulie Dahlberg and gave a long burp. ‘I could still eat some more.’
‘Me, too,’ declared Ciri and burped too, delighted by the dwarves’ unpretentious manners.
‘As long as it’s not kasha,’ said Xavier Moran. ‘I can’t stomach those milled oats any more. I’ve gone off salted meat, too.’
‘So gorge yourself on grass, if you’ve got such delicate taste-buds. ’
‘Or rip the bark off the birch with your teeth. Beavers do it and survive.’
‘A beaver – now that’s something I could eat.’
‘As for me, a fish.’ Paulie lost himself in dreams as he crunched on a husk pulled from his beard. ‘I’ve a fancy for a fish, I can tell you.’
‘So let’s catch some fish.’
‘Where?’ growled Yannick Brass. ‘In the bushes?’
‘In the stream.’
‘Some stream. You can piss to the other side. What sort of fish could be in there?’
‘There are fish.’ Ciri licked her spoon clean and slipped it into the top of her boot. ‘I saw them when I went to get the water. But they’re sick or something, those fish. They’ve got a rash. Black and red spots—’
‘Trout!’ roared Paulie, spitting crumbs of husk. ‘Well, boys, to the stream double-quick! Regan! Get your breeches down! We’ll turn them into a fishing-trap.’
‘Why mine?’
‘Pull them off, at the double, or I’ll wallop you, snothead! Didn’t mother say you have to listen to me?’
‘Hurry up if you want to go fishing because dusk is just round the corner,’ said Yarpen. ‘Ciri, is the water hot yet? Leave it, leave it, you’ll burn yourself and get dirty from the cauldron. I know you’re strong but let me – I’ll carry it.’
Geralt was already waiting for them; they could see his white hair through the gap in the canvas covering the wagon from afar. The dwarf poured the water into the bucket.
‘Need any help, witcher?’
‘No, thank you, Yarpen. Ciri will help.’
Triss was no longer running a high temperature but she was extremely weak. Geralt and Ciri were, by now, efficient at undressing and washing her. They had also learned to temper her ambitious but, at present, unrealistic attempts to manage on her own. They coped exceptionally well – he supported the enchantress in his arms, Ciri washed and dried her. Only one thin
g had started to surprise and annoy Ciri – Triss, in her opinion, snuggled up to Geralt too tightly. This time she was even trying to kiss him.
Geralt indicated the magician’s saddle-bags with his head. Ciri understood immediately because this, too, was part of the ritual – Triss always demanded to have her hair combed. She found the comb and knelt down beside her. Triss, lowering her head towards her, put her arms around the witcher. In Ciri’s opinion, definitely a little too tightly.
‘Oh, Geralt,’ she sobbed. ‘I so regret . . . I so regret that what was between us—’
‘Triss, please.’
‘. . . it should have happened . . . now. When I’m better . . . It would be entirely different . . . I could . . . I could even—’
‘Triss.’
‘I envy Yennefer . . . I envy her you—’
‘Ciri, step out.’
‘But—’
‘Go, please.’
She jumped out of the wagon and straight onto Yarpen who was waiting, leaning against a wheel and pensively chewing a blade of grass. The dwarf put his arm around her. He did not need to lean over in order to do so, as Geralt did. He was no taller than her.
‘Never make the same mistake, little witcher-girl,’ he murmured, indicating the wagon with his eyes. ‘If someone shows you compassion, sympathy and dedication, if they surprise you with integrity of character, value it but don’t mistake it for . . . something else.’
‘It’s not nice to eavesdrop.’
‘I know. And it’s dangerous. I only just managed to jump aside when you threw out the suds from the bucket. Come on, let’s go and see how many trout have jumped into Regan’s breeches.’
‘Yarpen?’
‘Huh?’
‘I like you.’
‘And I like you, kid.’
‘But you’re a dwarf. And I’m not.’
‘And what diff—Ah, the Scoia’tael. You’re thinking about the Squirrels, aren’t you? It’s not giving you any peace, is it?’
Ciri freed herself from his heavy arm.
‘Nor you,’ she said. ‘Nor any of the others. I can plainly see that.’
The dwarf said nothing.
‘Yarpen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Who’s right? The Squirrels or you? Geralt wants to be . . . neutral. You serve King Henselt even though you’re a dwarf. And the knight in the fort shouted that everybody’s our enemy and that everyone’s got to be . . . Everyone. Even the children. Why, Yarpen? Who’s right?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the dwarf with some effort. ‘I’m not omniscient. I’m doing what I think right. The Squirrels have taken up their weapons and gone into the woods. “Humans to the sea,” they’re shouting, not realising that their catchy slogan was fed them by Nilfgaardian emissaries. Not understanding that the slogan is not aimed at them but plainly at humans, that it’s meant to ignite human hatred, not fire young elves to battle. I understood – that’s why I consider the Scoia’tael’s actions criminally stupid. What to do? Maybe in a few years time I’ll be called a traitor who sold out and they’ll be heroes . . . Our history, the history of our world, has seen events turn out like that.’
He fell silent, ruffled his beard. Ciri also remained silent.
‘Elirena . . .’ he muttered suddenly. ‘If Elirena was a hero, if what she did is heroism, then that’s just too bad. Let them call me a traitor and a coward. Because I, Yarpen Zigrin, coward, traitor and renegade, state that we should not kill each other. I state that we ought to live. Live in such a way that we don’t, later, have to ask anyone for forgiveness. The heroic Elirena . . . She had to ask. Forgive me, she begged, forgive me. To hell with that! It’s better to die than to live in the knowledge that you’ve done something that needs forgiveness.’
Again he fell quiet. Ciri did not ask the questions pressing to her lips. She instinctively felt she should not.
‘We have to live next to each other,’ Yarpen continued. ‘We and you, humans. Because we simply don’t have any other option. We’ve known this for two hundred years and we’ve been working towards it for over a hundred. You want to know why I entered King Henselt’s service, why I made such a decision? I can’t allow all that work to go to waste. For over a hundred years we’ve been trying to come to terms with the humans. The halflings, gnomes, us, even the elves – I’m not talking about rusalkas, nymphs and sylphs, they’ve always been savages, even when you weren’t here. Damn it all, it took a hundred years but, somehow or other, we managed to live a common life, next to each other, together. We managed to partially convince humans that we’re not so very different—’
‘We’re not different at all, Yarpen.’
The dwarf turned abruptly.
‘We’re not different at all,’ repeated Ciri. ‘After all, you think and feel like Geralt. And like . . . like I do. We eat the same things, from the same pot. You help Triss and so do I. You had a grandmother and I had a grandmother . . . My grandmother was killed by the Nilfgaardians. In Cintra.’
‘And mine by the humans,’ the dwarf said with some effort. ‘In Brugge. During the pogrom.’
* ‘Riders!’ shouted one of Wenck’s advance guards. ‘Riders ahead!’
The commissar trotted up to Yarpen’s wagon and Geralt approached from the other side.
‘Get in the back, Ciri,’ he said brusquely. ‘Get off the box and get in the back! Stay with Triss.’
‘I can’t see anything from there!’
‘Don’t argue!’ growled Yarpen. ‘Scuttle back there and be quick about it! And hand me the martel. It’s under the sheepskin.’
‘This?’ Ciri held up a heavy, nasty-looking object, like a hammer with a sharp, slightly curved hook at its head.
‘That’s it,’ confirmed the dwarf. He slipped the handle into the top of his boot and laid the axe on his knees. Wenck, seeming calm, watched the highway while sheltering his eyes with his hand.
‘Light cavalry from Ban Gleán,’ he surmised after a while. ‘The so-called Dun Banner – I recognise them by their cloaks and beaver hats. Remain calm. And stay sharp. Cloaks and beaver hats can be pretty quick to change owners.’
The riders approached swiftly. There were about ten of them. Ciri saw Paulie Dahlberg, in the wagon behind her, place two readied crossbows on his knee and Regan covered them with a cloak. Ciri crept stealthily out from under the canvas, hiding behind Yarpen’s broad back. Triss tried to raise herself, swore and collapsed against her bedding.
‘Halt!’ shouted the first of the riders, no doubt their leader. ‘Who are you? From whence and to where do you ride?’
‘Who asks?’ Wenck calmly pulled himself upright in the saddle. ‘And on whose authority?’
‘King Henselt’s army, inquisitive sir! Lance-corporal Zyvik asks, and he is unused to asking twice! So answer at the double! Who are you?’
‘Quartermaster’s service of the King’s army.’
‘Anyone could claim that! I see no one here bearing the King’s colours!’
‘Come closer, lance-corporal, and examine this ring.’
‘Why flash a ring at me?’ The soldier grimaced. ‘Am I supposed to know every ring, or something? Anyone could have a ring like that. Some significant sign!’
Yarpen Zigrin stood up in the box, raised his axe and with a swift move pushed it under the soldier’s nose.
‘And this sign,’ he snarled. ‘You know it? Smell it and remember how it smells.’
The lance-corporal yanked the reins and turned his horse. ‘Threaten me, do you?’ he roared. ‘Me? I’m in the king’s service!’
‘And so are we,’ said Wenck quietly. ‘And have been for longer than you at that, I’m sure. I warn you, trooper, don’t overdo it.’
‘I’m on guard here! How am I to know who you are?’
‘You saw the ring,’ drawled the commissar. ‘And if you didn’t recognise the sign on the jewel then I wonder who you are. The colours of your unit bear the same emblem so you ought to know it.’
Th
e soldier clearly restrained himself, influenced, no doubt, equally by Wenck’s calm words and the serious, determined faces peering from the escort’s carts.
‘Hmm . . .’ he said, shifting his fur-hat towards his left ear. ‘Fine. But if you truly are who you claim to be, you will not, I trust, have anything against my having a look to see what you carry in the wagons.’
‘We will indeed.’ Wenck frowned. ‘And very much, at that. Our load is not your business, lance-corporal. Besides, I do not understand what you think you may find there.’
‘You do not understand.’ The soldier nodded, lowering his hand towards the hilt of his sword. ‘So I shall tell you, sir. Human trafficking is forbidden and there is no lack of scoundrels selling slaves to the Nilfgaardians. If I find humans in stocks in your wagons, you will not convince me that you are in the king’s service. Even if you were to show me a dozen rings.’
‘Fine,’ said Wenck dryly. ‘If it is slaves you are looking for then look. You have my permission.’
The soldier cantered to the wagon in the middle, leaned over from the saddle and raised the canvas.
‘What’s in those barrels?’
‘What do you expect? Prisoners?’ sneered Yannick Brass, sprawled in the coachman’s box.
‘I am asking you what’s in them, so answer me!’
‘Salt fish.’
‘And in those trunks there?’ The warrior rode up to the next wagon and kicked the side.
‘Hooves,’ snapped Paulie Dahlberg. ‘And there, in the back, are buffalo skins.’
‘So I see.’ The lance-corporal waved his hand, smacked his lips at his horse, rode up to the vanguard and peered into Yarpen’s wagon.
‘And who is that woman lying there?’
Triss Merigold smiled weakly, raised herself to her elbow and traced a short, complicated sign with her hand.
‘Who am I?’ she asked in a quiet voice. ‘But you can’t see me at all.’
The soldier winked nervously, shuddered slightly.
Introducing the Witcher Page 82