Truly, the witcher owed me much. And every day it was more.
The visit to Pyral Pratt in Ravelin ended, as you know, stormy and bloody, but it also brought some profits. Geralt found a trace of the thief who stole his swords. It was my merit, so to say, because it was me that, due to my cunning, directed Geralt to Ravelin. And the next day, it was me, and no other that armed him with new a weapon. I couldn't look at him walking around so defenseless. You say that a witcher is never defenseless? That he is a mutant exercised in every form of fighting, with twice the strength of a normal man and ten times his speed? One that puts down three armed ruffians with a cooper's stave? And in addition has magic, his Signs that are quite a weapon? True. But a sword is a sword. He told me over and over that without sword he feels naked. So I gave him a sword.
Pratt, as you already know, rewarded us both financially, not overly generously, but cash is cash. The next day, in the morning, as witcher told me, I hurried with the cheque to Giancardi's. I collected on the cheque. I stood there, and look around. And I could see that someone as watching me carefully. A Woman, not old, but not a young one either, in tasteful and elegant clothes. I'm not surprised by the delighted sight from women, many women find my manly and predatory beauty irresistible.
This woman approached me suddenly, presenting herself as Etna Asiderr, and says that she knows me. What a sensation! Everyone knows me, my fame precedes me, wherever I go.
‘I was told,’ she says, ‘about an unfortunate adventure that happened to your friend, master poet, the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. I know that he lost his swords, and that he urgently needs a new one. I know how hard it is to come upon good swords. So it happens that I have such a sword. It belonged to my late husband, gods have mercy upon his soul. I just went to the bank to sell it, because what use does a widow have for a sword? The bank priced the sword and wants to take it into consignment. But I need cash urgently, because if I don't pay my husband’s debt his creditors will devour me. Then...’
Having said that she took off a cover of damask, and unwrapped the sword. A wonder I tell you. Light as a feather. The scabbard tasteful and elegant, with a handle of lizard skin, the crossguard gold-plated, and in the pommel a jasper the size of a pigeon’s egg. I take it out of the scabbard and I can't believe my eyes. On the blade just above the crossguard the craftsman’s sign in shape of a sun. And just above that an inscription "Don't draw without a reason, don't sheath without honor". That means the blade was forged in Nilfgaard, in Viroled, a city known for its sword-maker’s forges. I touched the edge with tip of my finger - sharp as a razor, I tell you.
Because I'm nobody`s fool, I did not show a thing, I look indifferently at clerks hurrying, and some old lady polishes doorknobs.
‘Giancardi's bank,’ says the widow, ‘put the price at two hundred crowns. In consignment. But if in cash I will let it go for one hundred and fifty.’
‘Whoa,’ I said back, ‘that's quite a lot. One hundred and fifty is a bag of money. For that much you could buy a house. A little one. And in the suburbs.’
‘Oh, Master Dandelion,’ she wrings her hands. ‘You mock me. You’re a cruel man, sir. But I'm in a trap, so let it be - a hundred.’
And in such a way, my dear friends, I resolved the witcher’s problem.
I hurried to the "Under Crab and Garfish", Geralt was already sitting there, over scrambled eggs with bacon, heh, surely at a redheaded witch's for breakfast there was cheese and leek again. I approach and - BOOM! - sword on the table. He went mute. He drops his spoon, takes the sword out of the scabbard and looks at it. Face like a stone mask. But I’ve gotten used to his mutation, I know that emotions have no hold over him. He could be inconceivably happy and delighted and he would not show it.
‘How much you paid for it?’
I wanted to say that it wasn't his business, but just in time I remembered that it was his money that I paid with. So I told him. He shook my hand, didn't say a word, and did not change his expression. He was like that. Simple but sincere.
And tells me that he must leave. Alone.
‘I would like you,’ he preceded my protest, ‘to stay in Kerack. And keep your eyes and ears open.’
He told what happened to him the previous day, about his nightly talk with prince Egmund. And during this time was playing with his viroledan sword, like a child plays with new toy.
‘I don't plan,’ he summed up, ‘to serve the prince. Or take part in the royal wedding in August as a bodyguard. Egmund and your cousin are sure that they will soon catch the thief of my swords. I don't share their optimism. And this is frankly a good thing. Having my swords, Egmund would have leverage. I prefer to catch the thief myself, In Novigrad, in July before the auction at Borsody's. I will get my swords back and will never return to Kerack. And you Dandelion keep your mouth shut. About what Pratt said to us no one should know. No one. Not even your cousin the instigator.’
I swore that I would be silent as a grave, he was looking at me strangely. As if he did not believe me.
‘And because it may play out in many ways,’ he continued, ‘I have to have a backup plan. I'd like then to know as much about Egmund and his brothers and sisters, all potential heirs to the throne, about the king himself, and the whole royal family. I'd like to know what they plan to do. Who is in agreement with who, what factions are acting here, and so one? Is that clear?’
‘Lytta Neyd,’ I responded, ‘as a source of such information is out of question, I take it? I believe you are right. The red headed beauty has a perfect reckoning of problems in question, but she's too entangled with the local monarchy to try double loyalty, that's the first point. Second - don't tell her you plan on leaving and never coming back. Because her reaction could be violent. Sorceresses as you already know don't like disappearing acts.’
‘As to the rest,’ I promised, ‘you can count on me. I will have eyes and ears at the ready, and will aim them where needed. And I’ve already gotten to know about the local royal family, and I’ve listened to enough gossip. Gracefully ruling here is Belohun who has worked up a lot of offspring. He changed wives often and easily, when he looks up a new one the previous one conveniently left this pile of dirt, weird coincidence - an illness that left the medics completely helpless. So as of now this way Belohun has four legal sons, every one of them born by a different mother. A lot of daughters I do not count, as they can't claim the throne. I do not count bastards either. It's worth mentioning that all the more meaningful positions are taken up by the daughters' husbands, cousin Ferrant is the exception. And sons born on wrong side of sheet are in charge of industry and trade.’
The witcher, I saw, was listening carefully.
‘The four rightful sons,’ I told him further, ‘are in order of age the first-born, whose name I do not know, in court it's forbidden to mention him, after argument with his father he went away, there's no trace of him and no one saw him again. Second, Elmer is a mentally ill drunkard kept under lock. This is meant to be a state secret, but everyone in Kerack knows it. The real pretendents are Egmund and Xander. They hate each other, and Belohun cunningly uses it, keeping both in constant uncertainty, as it comes to succession he is able even to favor one of his bastards and lure him with promise of throne. Now it's whispered in the corners that that he promised throne to a son born of his new wife that he is going to wed on Lammas.’
‘I and cousin Ferrant believe,’ I said further, ‘we think that those are vain promises to force the young lady to bed sports. That Egmund and Xander are the only true claimants. And if a coup d'etat will be needed to get to the throne - it'll be one of them that will do it. I came to know both of them through my cousin. Both are ... at least it was my impression... slippery as a shit in mayonnaise, if you know what I mean.’
Geralt confirmed that he knew. That he himself had similar a feeling while talking with Egmund, he just could not find proper words to describe it. And then he was lost in thought.
‘I'll be back
soon,’ he said finally. ‘And you can act and watch things.’
‘Before we take leave of each other,’ I responded, ‘be a friend and tell me something about the pupil of your magician. The slicked one. She’s a true rose bud, a little work and she will bloom wonderfully. I thought that I will be the one sacrificing himself...’
His face changed. And he abruptly hit the table with his fist, making even the tankards jump.
‘Hands off Mozaïk, fiddler,’ he told me, without a bit of respect. ‘Get her out of your mind. Don't you know that even the most innocent flirt is forbidden to sorceress' pupils? For even the slightest such offense Coral will think her unworthy of tutoring and will send her back to school, and this is an awful faux pas and a fall from grace, I heard about suicides due to this. And there is no joking with Coral. She has no humor.’
I wanted to advise him to tickle her ass with a feather - this amuses even the most grim ones. But I kept silent, because I know him. He hates speaking of women in such a way. Even those for single night. I vowed for my honor that I would not make attempts on slicked adept's innocence, and that I wouldn’t even flirt with her.
‘If you have such a pressure,’ he said brightening up, and leaving, ‘then know that I’ve come to know in the local court, a certain lawyer. She seemed eager. Court her.’
Well. What, was I supposed to fuck with justice?
On the other hand...
Interlude
Highly Respected Lady
Lytta Neyd
Kerack, Upper City
Villa "Cyclamen"
Rissberg Castle, 1st July 1245
Dear Coral,
I hope that my letter will find you in good health, and good mood. And that everything goes as you planned.
I hurry to inform you that the witcher called Geralt of Rivia deigned to finally visit our castle. Immediately after arrival, in time shorter than an hour, he managed to alienate absolutely everyone including honorable Ortolan, a person that can be thought of as embodiment of kindness and benevolent to everyone. Opinions about this individual are not, it turns out, in any degree overstatements, and antipathy and hostility that he meets everywhere are well deserved. Where there is need to respect him I will however do it first, sine ira et studio. This individual is a professional in every inch, and in his profession absolutely dependable. He will do what he takes on, or will die trying, there can be no doubt about it.
The goal of our enterprise will be achieved, mainly thanks to you, dear Coral. We thank you for your efforts, we will be forever grateful for that. Particularly my gratefulness is yours. I understand how much you must have suffered due to proximity of this individual, being conglomerate of shortcomings that you hate. Cynicism arising from deep complexes, a bristled nature and introvert, insincere character, a primitive mind, a mediocre intelligence, and a monstrous arrogance. I’m not talking about tatty hands, and dirty fingernails so you would be not irritated dear Coral, I know how you hate it. But how it was said your suffering, troubles and unrest came to an end. There is nothing more preventing you from interrupting any relations with said individual. Thus definitively ending and repelling the slander spread by ill-disposed tongues, trying to make a cheap romance from your alleged and obviously fake kindness toward the witcher. But enough about it, it's a matter unworthy of deliberation.
I would be a most happy man if you wanted to visit me here at Rissberg. I don't need to add that a single gesture, a single smile is enough for me to hurry to you.
Yours in deep respect
Pinety
PS the ill-disposed tongues that I referenced, suppose that your kindness for witcher was a way to spite Yennefer, supposedly still interested in witcher. It’s a pathetic lack of knowledge and naivety. It's generally known that Yennefer is in a relationship with a certain young businessman working in the jewelry industry, and cares about the witcher and his passing romances as much as about last year's snow.
Interlude
Highly Respected Sir
Alernon Guincamp
Rissber Castle
Sent from Kerack, 5th July 1245.
Dear Pinety,
I thank for your letter, you had not written for quite a while, well, there probably was nothing to write about, and there was no sense in writing.
Your care for my health and mood and for my plans going as I want is touching. With satisfaction I announce that everything goes as planned for me, and everyone is, as it's known, a helmsman of his own ship. Know that I lead my ship with a firm hand through squalls and reefs, raising my head every time the storm rumbles around me.
As for health, then it is indeed good for me. Physically as usual, psychic as well, since while I have what I lacked after so long. How much I lacked I got to know when I no longer lacked it.
I'm happy then, that your enterprise calling for the witcher's participation is going to succeed, I'm filled with pride thinking of my contribution to the enterprise. You are getting sad in vain, though, dear Pinety thinking that it needed sacrifice, suffering, trouble and unrest. It was not so bad. Geralt is indeed a conglomerate of shortcomings. I discovered in him - sine ira et studio - some merits. And not just little ones. Many would be worried, had they known about them. And many would envy.
To gossip, intrigues, whispering and tales that you, Pinety write about, we are all used to, and we all know how to treat it - and the advice is quite simple - you just ignore it. You remember surely gossip about you and Sabrina Glevissig, in times, when something was allegedly happening between us. I ignored it. I advise you do the same.
Bene vale,
Coral
PS I'm very busy. Our meeting doesn't seem to be possible in foreseeable future.
They wander different countries, and their liking and humor makes them avoid any dependence. It means that they do not recognize any powers, neither human nor godly, that they do not respect any rights nor rules, they think themselves free of any duty to anyone and anything and unpunished. Being natural swindlers they make a living with fortune telling with which they beguile folks, they serve as spies, they deal in false amulets, fraudulent medicines, they take to pimping, that is they bring indecent girls for wicked fun of those that pay. When they are struck with poverty they are not ashamed to beg, or simply steal, but they prefer swindles and cheating. They deceive the naive, saying that they kill monsters for their safety, which is lie, it's long proved that they kill for their own pleasure, as murder is their prime diversion. Preparing for their actions they make some witchcraft, but this is only to deceive those watching. Reverent priests instantly discovered this lie to the confusion of those devil's servants called witchers.
Anonymous, Monstrum, or Description of the Witcher
Chapter Nine
Rissberg was not menacing. It was not even impressive. Just a castle, like many others, gracefully fitted onto a mountain slope, embracing the crevice, contrasting it's bright walls with the eternal green of a spruce forest, towering with roof tiles of two towers, one higher the other lower, over the tree tops. The wall encircling the castle, as it turned up when approached, wasn't very high and had no battlements, the towers located in the corners and over the gate were more of a decoration than defenses.
The road meandering around the hill showed traces of heavy usage. And it was in use, and quite intense at that. The witcher had to overtake the carts, carriages, single riders and people on foot. Quite a number of wanderers went the opposite way, away from the castle. Geralt suspected the goal of such a pilgrimage. That he was right it turned out as soon as he left forest.
The flat hilltop under the curtain of wall was occupied by a town made of wood, reed and straw - a whole complex of smaller and bigger buildings and roofs, encircled with a fence and corrals for horses and cattle. The buzz of voices could be heard from there, and the traffic was quite lively, just like it was at a fair or festival. In fact it was a fair, a bazaar, a large market, just no fowl, fish nor vegetables were trade
d here. The products offered by Rissberg castle was magic - amulets, talismans, elixirs, opiates, philters, decoctions, extracts, distillations, concoctions, incense, perfume, syrups, powders and unguents, and additionally various enchanted items, tools, housewares, decorations and even toys for children. These products attracted masses of customers here. There was demand - so there was supply - and business was running, as could be seen, very well.
The road forked. The witcher headed into the one that went towards the castle gate, which had been much less used than the one directing customers to the market square. He rode through a cobbled road in front of the gate, the whole time among rows of menhirs placed here on purpose, of which most were much higher than he was on horseback. He was shortly met by a gate, more palace than castle in type, with decorated pillars and a fronton. His witcher's medallion shook violently. Roach neighed, beating a hoof on the cobbles and froze.
‘Identity and the goal of your visit.’
He lifted his head. The raspy and booming with an echo, but undoubtedly female voice, as it seemed, originated from the wide open mouth belonging to a harpy represented on a tympanum. His medallion was shaking, the mare was snorting. Geralt felt a strange pressure in his temples.
‘Identity and the goal of your visit,’ came again from a hole in the relief. Slightly louder than the previous time.
‘Geralt of Rivia, witcher. I'm expected.’
The harpy's head emitted a sound akin to a trumpet. The magic blocking the portal vanished, the pressure in his temples stopped immediately, and his mare started moving without hurrying. Her hooves beating on the cobbles.
He went from the portal to a cul-de-sac surrounded by galleries. He was instantly approached by two servants, boys in utilitarian tan clothes. One took care of his horse, the other served as a guide.
‘This way, sir.’
‘Is it always like that? Such movement? There in foulburg?’
Stephen Hulin Page 10