He walked up to her, surprising her at the tomatoes, which she were putting into her basket with a handle on her elbow.
‘Greetings.’
She paled slightly on seeing him, despite her pale completion. And had there been no stall she would have stepped back. She made a movement like she wanted to hide the basket behind her. No – not a basket. Her arm. She was hiding her arm and hand, fully covered with a silken scarf. He didn't overlook the signal, and some inexplicable impulse caused him to act. He caught girl’s hand.
‘Leave it,’ she whispered trying to get free.
‘Show me, I insist.’
‘Not here...’
She let him lead her to a place farther from the market, where they were a slight bit more alone. He unwrapped the scarf. And was unable to contain himself. He cursed. Foully and lengthily.
The left hand of the girl was reversed. Twisted around at wrist. Thumb was protruding left, and the back of the hand was facing down. The palm was pointing up. The line of long life and regular, he asserted instinctively. The line of heart clear but dashed and discontinuous.
‘Who did this to you? Her?’
‘You.’
‘What?’
‘You!’ she yanked her hand out. ‘You used me to mock at her. She does not let such things go unpunished.’
‘I couldn't...’
‘Know?’ she looked him in the eye. He had misjudged her. She wasn't shy, nor afraid. ‘You could and you should. But you preferred to play with fire. Was it worth it? You’ve had your satisfaction, your humor has gotten better? You had something to brag about in the tavern?’
He didn't answer. He couldn't find words. And Mozaïk to his astonishment smiled.
‘I don't mind,’ she said freely. ‘I enjoyed your play, and if I wasn't afraid so much I would laugh. Give me back my basket I'm in a hurry. I have shopping to do. And I have an appointment at the alchemist.’
‘Wait. We can't leave it at that.’
‘Please,’ Mozaïk's voice changed. ‘Don't get involved. You will only make it worse...’
‘And I,’ she added after a moment, ‘I had luck. She treated me gently.’
‘Gently?’
‘She could have twisted both hands. Or my foot, heel in the front. She could exchange feet right to left and vice versa. I saw her doing it to someone.’
‘Did it...’
‘Hurt? Only for a moment. Because almost immediately I passed out. Why do you look like that? It was so. I hope it will be the same when she will reverse it. In a few days when she will had had enough of vengeance.’
‘I'll go see her. Now.’
‘Bad idea. You can't...’
He interrupted her with quick gesture. He heard the crowd making noise. And saw it parting. The vagabond were no longer playing. He saw Dandelion giving him from afar an urgent and desperate sign.
‘You! Witcher scum! I challenge you to a duel. We will fight.’
‘I'll be damned. Mozaïk, get away.’
From the crowd stepped a short and stocky man in a leather mask and chest plate of cuir bouilli, hardened cowhide. The man shook a trident that he held in his right hand, and with a sudden move unrolled fisher net and waved and shook it.
‘I'm Tonton Zroga, also called Retiarius. I challenge you to a duel witcher...’
Geralt lifted his hand and hit him with Ard Sign, putting into it as much energy as he could. The crowd shouted. Tonton Zroga also called Retiarius flew into air waving his legs, entangled in his own net, wiped a stall selling pretzels with himself, heavily bumped into the earth and with a loud clatter hit his head on a statue of gnome made of cast iron, that stood no one knows why in front of a store offering a tailor’s service. The vagabonds rewarded the flight with loud clapping, Retiarius laid alive, but rather weakly showing it. Geralt without a hurry walked to him, and with a swing kicked him in the liver. Someone caught him by the sleeve. Mozaïk.
‘No, please. Please, no. You can't do such things.’
Geralt would gladly kick guy with the net some more, because he knew very well what you couldn’t do, what you could, and what you need to do. And he didn't listen to anyone. Particularly to people that had never been kicked.
‘Please,’ Mozaïk repeated, ‘don't take revenge on him. Because of me, Because of her. Because you’ll lose yourself.’
He listened. He took her in his arms. And looked into her eyes.
‘I'm going to visit your mistress.’ he said dryly.
‘Not good.’ she said. ‘There will be consequences.’
‘For you?’
‘No. Not for me.’
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
our luxury!
Emily Dickinson
So daily I renew my idle duty
I touch her here and there - I know my place
I kiss her open mouth and I praise her beauty
And people call me traitor to my face
Leonard Cohen
Chapter Seven
The sorceress' hip was decorated by a sophisticated and extremely colourful tattoo, representing a stripe-coloured fish. Nil admirari, thought the witcher. Nil admirari.
***
‘I don't believe my eyes.’ Lytta Neyd said.
For what happened, that it happened in a way that it happened he was the only guilty party, no one else. Walking to the sorceress' house he went by a garden and could stop himself - he picked one freesia from the flowerbed. He remember the smell dominating in her perfume.
‘I don't believe my eyes,’ repeated Lytta, standing in the doorway. She greeted him in person, her stocky porter was absent. Perhaps it was his day off.
‘You came, I guess, to insult me for Mozaïk’s hand. And you brought me a flower. White freesia. Come in, before it all becomes local sensation, and the town will be buzzing with gossip. A man on my doorstep with a flower! Even the oldest folk can't remember such thing.’
She wore a loose-fitting black dress, a combination of silk and chiffon, thin, waving with every breath of air. The witcher stood, gazing, with freesia in his extended hand, wishing to smile and for nothing in world couldn't do it. Nil admirari, he repeated in his mind a maxim that he remembered from Oxenfurt, from the university, from a cartouche above the entrance to department of philosophy, He was repeating this maxim the whole way to Lytta's villa.
‘Don't shout at me,’ she took the freesia out of his hand. ‘I will fix the girl's hand as soon as she returns. Without any pain. And I will even apologize. I will also apologize to you. Just don't shout.’
He shook his head, tried to smile, again without success.
‘I'm curious,’ she said as she drew the freesia nearer to her face, and sank her jade eyes into him, ‘do you now the symbolism of flowers? Do you know what this flower tells, and you quite consciously brought me this message? Or is the flower completely random, and the message is... subconscious?’
Nil admirari.
‘But this does not matter.’ She approached him, moving very close. ‘Because it's either you signaling me clearly, consciously and calculating what you want... Or you hide your desire, that's being betrayed by your sub consciousness. In both cases I owe you thanks. For a flower. And for what it means. I thank you. And I will return it, I will gift you something. Here - this ribbon. Pull it. Don't be shy.’
What I'm doing, he thought pulling. The ribbon smoothly slid out of the eyelets. To the very end. And then the silk-chiffon dress floated off Lytta like water, arranging itself around her ankles. He closed his eyes for a moment, her nakedness shocked him like a sudden flash of light. What I'm doing, he thought, hugging her neck. What I'm doing, he thought felling the taste of coral lipstick on his lips. What I'm doing is completely senseless, he thought, delicately driving her to a chest of drawers at the patio and putting her on malachite table.
She smelled of apricot and freesia. And so
mething else. Maybe tangerine. Or vetiver.
It took a while, and at the end the chest of drawers was waving quite strongly. Coral, although she held him strongly did not let go of the freesia. The smell of the flower was not attenuating her smell.
‘Your enthusiasm flatters me,’ she said, tearing away her mouth from his, and only then opening her eyes. ‘And compliments strongly. But I have bed - don't you know?’
***
True, she had bed. Huge. Spacy like a deck on a frigate. She led him there, and he followed unable to take his eyes off here. She did not look back. She had no doubt that he’d follow. That he will follow without hesitation wherever she would lead. Not taking his eyes off her.
The bed was huge, and had a canopy. The bedding was of silk, and the sheets of satin.
They used the bed - without a shadow of exaggeration - completely, over every inch. On every span of bedding. And every fold of sheet.
***
‘Lytta...’
‘You can call me Coral. But for now don't talk.’
Nil admirari. Smell of freesia and apricot. Red hair spilled on the pillow.
***
‘Lytta...’
‘You can call me Coral. And you can do this to me once again.’
***
Lytta's hip was decorated by a sophisticated and extremely colourful tattoo presenting a stripe-coloured fish, which owing to big fins seemed triangular in shape. Fish like that - called scalars- rich-men and snobbish upstarts used to keep in aquariums and pools. To Geralt -and not only him - they were associated with snobism and affectations. He was surprised that Coral chose this and not any other tattoo. The surprise didn't last too long. It turned out that Lytta looked quite young. But the tattoo came from the years of her true youth. From times in which scalars brought from beyond seas were very rare, there when little rich men, and upstarts were only beginning to gather their wealth, and barely anyone could afford an aquarium. Her tattoo is like a birth certificate, thought Geralt, caressing the scalar with his fingertips. Well, he thought moving his caress into regions farther from fish, it's nice to remember your younger years. It's hard to abandon such a memento, even if it's played out and pompously banal.
He lifted on his elbow and looked closely, searching her body for other nostalgic souvenirs. There weren't any. He didn't count on there being any, he just wanted to take a look. Coral sighed. Bored it seems with the abstract, and not very to the point wandering of his hand she caught it decisively and directed to a place that was concrete, and only right in her judgment. And that's very good, thought Geralt, drawing the sorceress to him, and drowning his face in her hair. Striped fish - whoa! Like there were not better things to give attention to. Things worth thinking about.
***
Maybe even sailing ship models, thought Coral chaotically, barely controlling her labored breath. Maybe military figurines, maybe fishing with an artificial fly. But what counts... What really counts is how he hugs me.
Geralt hugged her. Just like she was his whole world.
***
They did not sleep a lot the first night. And even when Lytta was asleep the witcher couldn't fall asleep. Lytta held him by the waist so tightly that he had trouble breathing. Her leg was thrown over his thighs.
On the second night she wasn't so possessive. She didn't hold him so tight, like previously. She was no longer afraid, it seems that he would escape before the dawn.
***
‘You're musing. Your expression is manly and grim. What's the reason?’
‘I've been thinking about... the naturalism of our relationship.’
‘What?’
‘I said, Naturalism.’
‘You used it seems the term "relationship". Indeed, the capacity of this term is astonishing. Moreover, it seems that you suffer from post coital sadness. A state that is natural, and it happens to all higher creatures. And I too have strange tears coming to my eyes. Brighten up, brighten up. I was just kidding.’
‘You lured me... Like a male.’
‘What?’
‘You lured me. Like an insect. With freesia-apricot magic pheromones.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Don't be mad. I’ll ask nicely, Coral.’
‘I'm not mad, just the opposite. I must agree with you. Yes, that is naturalism in its pure form. But it was the other way around. You lured and seduced me. From the first sight. Naturalistically and animalistically you danced before me your male nuptial dance. You jumped, you stamped, and you ruffled your tail.’
‘I did not.’
‘ ...you ruffled your tail, and waved your wings like a black grouse. You crowed, and you cackled...’
‘I didn't cackle.’
‘You did.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Hug me.’
***
‘Coral?’
‘What?’
‘Lytta Neyd... It is not your true name either, am I right?’
‘My true name would be troublesome in use.’
‘How could it be?’
‘Then speak fast: Astrid Lyttneyd Ásgeirrfinnbjornsdottir.’
‘I understand.’
‘I doubt it.’
***
‘Coral?’
‘Yes?’
‘And Mozaïk? How did she get her name?’
‘You know witcher what I don't like? Questions about other women. And particularly when the one asking is in bed with me. And asks instead of focusing on what he has in his hand right now. You wouldn't dare to do something like that being in bed with Yennefer.’
‘And I don't like bringing up certain names, particularly when...’
‘Am I to stop?’
‘I did not say that.’
Coral kissed his arm.
‘When she got to the school she got named Aïk, I can't remember her family name. Besides having a weird name, she had problems with lack of pigment in her skin. Her cheek was speckled with brighter patches, actually looking like a mosaic. She was healed of course, already after the first term. Sorceress can't have any defects. But the malicious nickname stuck. And it ceased to be malicious. She begun to like it herself. But enough about her. Talk to me and about me. Go on.’
‘Go on with what?’
‘Talk about me. Tell me what I am like. Beautiful, am I not? Oh, just say it.’
‘You are beautiful, redheaded and freckled.’
‘I'm not freckled. I erased my freckles with magic.’
‘Not all of them. You forgot about some. And I found them.’
‘Where? Ahh. Yes. That's true, so I'm freckled. And what am I like besides that?’
‘Sweet.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sweet. Like a wafer with honey.’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Look at me. Into my eyes. Do you see any insincerity?’
‘No. And this worries me.’
***
‘Sit on the edge of bed.’
‘Because?’
‘I want to return the favor.’
‘What favor?’
‘For finding freckles where you found them. For doing your best and careful... exploration. I want to return the favor. May I?’
‘But of course.’
***
The sorceress' villa, like almost every other in this part of town had a terrace with a view of the sea. Lytta like to sit there and look for hours on end at crafts on the ocean, using quite an impressive telescope on a tripod. This fascination with the sea and everything that floated on it was rather alien to Geralt but he like to be with her together on terrace. He sat close, just behind her with his face just next to her red hair, enjoying the scent of apricot and freesia.
‘This galleon which just cast anchor, look,’ Coral indicated. ‘The blue cross on the flag - it's the "Glory of Cintra", most likely on voyage from Kovir. And this cog is "Alke", from Cidaris, it is surely taking a load
of skins. And there - it's "Thetis" a transport hulk, local, two hundred lasts of load, a coaster, it goes between Kerack and Nastrog. There, look, on the ocean, sails of the Novigradian schooner "Pandora Parvi", a beautiful, beautiful ship. Look into the telescope, you'll see...’
‘I can see without the telescope. I'm a mutant.’
‘Ah, true. I forgot. And there the galley "Fuchsia", thirty-two oars, and can take a load of four hundred lasts. And this graceful three-masts galley is "Vertigo", it came from Lan Exeter. And there farther away, under the amaranth flag is the Redanian galley "Albatross". Three masts, one hundred and twenty feet between bow and stern. And there, look, look, hoisting sails and heading to open sea is a postal clipper "Echo", I know its captain, he eats at Ravenga's when he moors here. And there again, look, a galley from Poviss, under full sails.’
The witcher slowly brushed away hair from Lytta's back. Slowly, one after another he was undoing hooks and laces, lowering her dress. And then he totally dedicated his hands and attention to the two galleys under full sail. Galleys that had no equal among all the seas routes, roads, docks and admiral's registers.
Lytta did not protest. And kept her eye at the ocular of telescope.
‘You behave,’ she said at some point, ‘like a fifteen years old. Like you saw them for the first time.’
‘It's always first time for me,’ he confessed with reluctance. ‘And I was never truly fifteen years old.’
***
‘I come from Skellige,’ she said later, already in bed. ‘I have sea in my blood. And I love it.’
‘I sometimes dream,’ she continued when he was silent, ‘of sailing away. Just me. Set sail, and go to the open sea. Surrounded by only waters and heaven. Salty froth of waves sprinkles me, wind yanking at my hair with a truly manly caress. And I'd be alone, totally alone, infinitely alone, among an alien and hostile element. Loneliness among a sea of estrangement. You don't dream of it?’
No I don't, he thought. I have it everyday.
***
The day of the summer solstice came, and after it came the magic night, the shortest in the year, when the fern flower was blooming in the woods, and naked girls rubbed with adder's-tongue ferns danced in forest clearings wet with dew.
Stephen Hulin Page 6