‘You’re making a mistake, Ropp.’
‘Now,’ said the captain, coming very close. ‘Now you will confirm that you understand the task and you will follow it. If you don’t as I count to three, then Master Samsa will pierce the eardrum of the musician. If there is no expected impact, then Master Samsa will poke the other ear. And then an eye. And so on, until completion when he will drive the knife into the brain. Are you starting to consider, witcher?’
‘Don’t listen to him, Geralt!’ Dandelion’s voice miraculously issues from his compressed throat. ‘They wouldn’t dare touch me! I’m a celebrity!’
‘He,’ Ropp grimly assessed, ‘apparently does not take us seriously. Master Samsa, right ear.’
‘Stop! No!’
‘Much better,’ nodded Ropp. ‘Much better, witcher. Confirm that you have understood the task. And execute it.’
‘Take the stiletto away from the ear of the poet.’
‘Ha,’ chuckled Master Samsa, raising the stiletto high above his head. ‘Is this better?’
‘It’s better.’
Geralt grabbed Ropp’s left arm by the wrist, with his other hand he grabbed the hilt of his sword. With a strong jerk he pulled the captain towards him and head-butted him in the forehead. There was a crunch. While falling, the witcher drew his sword from its scabbard in one smooth motion and with a short jump was next to Master Samsa cutting at his raised hand. Samsa cried and fell to his knees. Richter and Tverdoruk rushed the witcher with daggers drawn, he slipped between them. Along the way he slashed Richter’s neck, blood splattered up to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Tverdoruk attacked with his knife, but stumbled on Ropp laying underfoot, and lost his balance for a moment. With a quick lunge, he struck him a blow to the groin and then another to the carotid artery. Tverdoruk fell down and curled into a ball.
Master Samsa surprised him. Even with his right hand a bleeding stump, he raised his left hand, which contained the stiletto that had fallen to the floor. He threw himself at Dandelion. The poet cried out, but had enough presence of mind to fall out of his chair. Geralt did not give him another chance. Blood again sprayed up to the chandelier and dripped from the candles.
Dandelion got to his knees, leaned his head against the wall, after which he vomited profusely and with quite a splash.
Into the room burst Ferrant de Lettenhove with several guards.
‘What is happening? What is happening here? Julian! Are you intact? Julian!’
Dandelion raised his hand, motioning that he would answer in a moment, because there was no time right now. Then he vomited again.
The Royal Instigator ordered the guards out of the room, shutting the door behind them. He examined the bodies, careful not to stop on the spilled blood, and making sure the blood dripping from the chandelier did not stain his doublet.
‘Samsa, Tverdoruk, Richter,’ he recited, ‘and Captain Ropp. Prince Egmund’s trusted arms men.’
‘They were following orders,’ the witcher shrugged, looking at his sword. ‘Just like you, dutifully following orders. And you had no idea about this. Right, Ferrant.’
‘I did not know anything about it,’ the Royal Instigator quickly assured, stepping back against the wall. ‘I swear! You don’t suspect… You don’t think…’
‘If I thought that you’d be dead. I believe you. They would not have made the attempt on Dandelion’s life.’
‘I must inform the king. I’m afraid that Prince Egmund indictment requires amendments and additions. Ropp is alive, I think. He will testify…’
‘I doubt that he will be able to.’
The Royal Instigator looked at the captain, who was lying, arched, in a puddle of urine, drooling profusely and shaking.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘The wreckage of his nasal bone is in his brain. And, perhaps, a few fragments in his eyeballs.’
‘He was hit excessive hard.’
‘I wanted to,’ Geralt wiped the blade of his sword on a table cloth. ‘Dandelion, how are you? Okay? Can you get up?’
‘I’m alright, I’m okay,’ muttered Dandelion. ‘I’m better. Much better…’
‘You don’t look like someone who is better.’
‘Hell, I just barely escaped death!’ the poet stood, holding onto a dresser. ‘Damn, I was afraid for my life… I had the impression that that was it for me. But when I saw you, I knew you’d save me. We’ll I didn’t know, but I counted on it… Damn, that is a lot of blood… And what a stink! I’m afraid I’m going to turn around right now…’
‘We’ll go to the king,’ Ferrant de Lettenhove said. ‘Give me your sword, witcher… You, Julian, stay here…’
‘Never. Not even for a moment, I will not stay here alone. I’ll stay with Geralt.’
***
The entrance to the royal reception room was guarded, but they were let through with a few words from the Royal Instigator. At the entrance to the private apartments the matter did not go so easily. The insurmountable obstacles was the herald, the Seneschal and their retinue of four goons.
‘The King is trying on his wedding clothes. He has forbidden his being troubled.’
‘We have a great deal of urgency.’
‘The King has forbidden anyone to interfere. And Master Witcher, it seems, that you had been ordered to leave the palace. When then are you still here?’
‘I’ll explain to the king. Please let us pass.’
Ferrant pushed past Geralt, and shoved the Seneschal. Geralt went after him. They did not make it far as there were a crowd of couriers in front. A group of guards further down where pushing the courtiers against the wall. Geralt and Ferrant did not resist.
The King was standing on a high stood. A tailor with pins in his mouth was making alterations to his trousers. Nearby stood the Marshal of the Court and someone dressed in black, like a notary.
‘Immediately after the wedding ceremony,’ said Belohun, ‘declare that the heir to the throne will be my son, who will be borne by my new little wife. This step should provide me her favour and obedience, hehe. That should give me some time to rest. It will take twenty years until this asshole has reached as age at which he will start something.’
‘But,’ the King winked at the Marshal, ‘if I want to, I can then cancel everything and appoint a successor of someone else. In the end, this is a morganatic marriage, the children of such marriages do not inherit titles, isn’t that so? And who can predict how I will stand? Is there no other girl in this world, more beautiful and younger? So you will need to write the relevant documents, a marriage contract or something like that. Hope for the best – be prepared for the worst, hehehe.’
The valet presented the king a tray on which were piled jewels.
‘Take it away,’ Belohun winced. ‘I will not be decked out in trinkets, like a dandy, or upstart. I will just wear this. It is a gift from my darling. Small, but tasteful. A medallion with the symbol of my country. I must be of such a character. This is her words: the symbol of the country around the neck – the benefit of the country in the heart.’
It took a moment to see – while being pressed against the wall. The medallion was gold and so was the chain. It featured a blue enamel dolphin and the words: D’or, dauphin nageant d’azur, lorré, peautré, oreille, barbé et crêté de gueules.
It was too late to react. He did not even have time to cry out, to warn. He saw the gold chain suddenly tighten, tightening around the neck of the king like a noose. Belohun flushed, opened his mouth, but could neither breath nor scream. With both hands, he grabbed his neck, trying to rip the medallion off, or stick his fingers underneath the chain. He failed and the chain cut deep into his neck. The king fell off the stool, danced and knocked over the tailor. The tailor stumbled and gasped, almost swallowing the pins. He knocked into the notary and the two fell. Belohun, meanwhile, turned blue, his eyes rolled up into his head, he fell to the floor and his feet beat a pattern on the carpet.
Then he froze.
‘Help! The King had collapsed.’
‘Doctor!’ shouted the Marshal of the Court. ‘Call a doctor!’
‘Gods! What happened? What has happened to the king?’
‘A Doctor! Hurry!’
Ferrant de Lettenhove put his hand to his head. He had a strange expression on his face. The expression of a person who is slowly starting to understand.
The king was put on a couch. A doctor arrived and examined him for a long time. Even though Geralt was close he could not see. Despite this, he knew that the chain had managed to be pried off before the doctor came running.
‘Apoplexy,’ the doctor said, straightening up, ‘caused the choking. Vile air has penetrated the body and poisoned humours. The reason for this is the constant storms, which increase the heat of the blood. Science is powerless, the is nothing to be done. Our kind and gracious king is dead. He had left this world.’
The Marshal cried and covered his face with his hands. The herald clutched his beret in both hands. Some of the courtiers were crying. Some knelt. The entrance to the corridor was suddenly filled with the sound of heavy echoing steps. At the door, there appeared a giant man, at least seven feet tall. The guardsman’s uniform showed signs of a higher rank. The giant was accompanied by people with kerchiefs on their heads and earrings.
‘My lord,’ the giant broke the silence, ‘we must go to the throne room. Immediately.’
‘What is in the throne room?’ said the outraged Marshal. ‘And what for? Do you have any idea, Colonel de Santis, what has just happened here? What misfortune? You do not understand…’
‘To the throne room. This is the command of the King.’
‘The King is dead!’
‘Long live the King. To the throne room, please. Everybody. Immediately.’
In the throne room, beneath the ceiling depicting the sea and mermaids stood more than a dozen men. Some had coloured kerchiefs around there heads. They were all tanned and all had earrings.
Mercenaries. It was not difficult to guess from where. The “Acheron” command.
On the throne, sat a dark-haired, dark-eyed man, with a prominent nose. He was tanned too. However, he worn no earrings.
Beside him, on a smaller chair, sat Ildiko Brackely, still in a white dress and still ung with diamonds. The recent royal bride and lover looked at the dark-haired man with eyes for of adoration. Geralt had long tried to understand the course of events and how the dots connected to together. But now, at this moment, even a person with very limited wit could see and understand that Ildiko Brackley and the dark-haired man were familiar, very familiar. And for a long time.
‘Prince Viraxas, Prince of Kerack, until a moment ago, the former heir to the throne and crown,’ announced the giant de Santis in a rumbling baratone. ‘From this moment on, is the King of Kerack, the rightful ruler of the Kingdom.’
The first to bw, then drop to one knee was the Marshal of the Court. Behind him was the herald. Then the Seneschal follow their example, head bowed. The last to bow was Ferrant de Lettenhove.
‘Your Majesty.’
‘Currently it is not “Your Majesty”,’ corrected Viraxas. ‘The full title will belong to me after the coronation. One that we should not hesitate. The earlier the better. Correct, Marshal?’
It was very quiet. Someone in the court was rumbling in their abdomen.
‘My father died unforgettably,’ Viraxas said. ‘He is gone to our glorious ancestors. Both of my younger brothers, it doesn’t surprise me, are accused of high treason. The process will take place according to the late King, the two brothers are to leave Kerack forever upon conviction. On board the frigate “Acheron” those employed by me… and my influential friends and patrons. The late king, as far as I know, did not leave an official will or formal orders in relation to inheritance. I would submit to the will of the king, if there were such orders. But there are not. The right to inherit the crown belongs to me now. Is there anyone gathered here who would like to challenge this?’
There were no such among those gathered. All present were sufficiently endowed with reason and the instinct of self-preservation.
‘Then please begin the preparations for the coronation. The coronation will be combined with a wedding. I have decided to revive the old custom of the Kerack kings, a law pasted many centuries ago. Stating that if the groom dies before the wedding, the bride shall marry the nearest unmarried relative.’
Ildiko Brackley, as was evident by her shining face, was ready to revive the age-old custom that very minute. The other gathered in silence, tried in vain to remember who, when and under what circumstances the custom was set. And how this custom could have been established many centuries ago, when the kingdom of Kerack had not even existed for one hundred years. There were a lot of wrinkled foreheads from the mental effort of the court, but they quickly smoothed. One and all had come to the right conclusion. Because although the coronation had not yet taken place, Viraxas was practically a king and the king is always right.
‘Get out of here, witcher,’ Ferrant de Lettenhove whispered, shoving Geralt’s sword into his hand. ‘Take Julian with you. Fade away. You have seen nothing and heard nothing. Nobody will be able to connect any of this to you.’
‘I understand,’ Viraxas surveyed the crowd of courtiers, ‘and I’m aware that to some of you the present situation is surprising. Some changes occur very suddenly and unexpectedly, as events unfold too quickly. I also cannot rule out the possibility that some of those present here are not happy with the way events have turned out. Colonel de Santis immediately made the right decision and took an oath of allegiance to me. I expect the same from the rest of this crowd.’
‘Let’s start,’ he nodded, ‘with a faithful servant of my unforgettable father. He also took orders from my brother, who made an attempt on the life of his father. Let’s start with the Royal Instigator, Ferrant de Lettenhove.’
The Royal Instigator bowed.
‘An investigation will follow you,’ announced Viraxas. ‘I’ll find out what role you played in the conspiracy of the princes. The whole plot was a fiasco, and it talks to the mediocrity of the conspirators. A mistake can be forgiven, mediocrity - cannot. Espically from the Royal Instigator, the custodian of the law. But then, let’s start with the basic questions. Approach, Ferrant. Prove to me who you serve. Give me proper tribute. Kneel at the foot of the throne and kiss our royal hand.’
The Royal Instigator obediently headed towards the throne.
‘Get out of here,’ he again whispered. ‘Disappear as soon as possible, witcher.’
***
The celebrations in the park continued their course.
Lytta Neyd immediately noticed the blood on the cuff of Geralt’s shirt. Mozaïk also noticed, but, in contrast to Lytta, she paled.
Dandelion grabbed two glasses from a passing tray, gulped on down and then the other. He grabbed two more, and offered them to the ladies. They refused. Dandelion drank one and the unwillingly handed the second to Geralt. Coral, narrowing her eyes, stared at the witcher, tensing noticeably.
‘What happened?’
‘You’ll find out now.’
Bells rang out. With a beat so sinister, so bleak and sad that the feasting guests fell silent.
On the dais, like a scaffold stood the Marshal of the Court and the herald.
‘It fills me with grief and sorrow,’ the Marshal said into the silence, ‘that I must tell you, ladies and gentlemen, sad news. King Belohun the First, our favourite, good and gracious lord, in a harsh fate has died suddenly, leaving our world. But Kerack kings do not die! The king is dead, long live the king! Long live His Majesty King Viraxas! Firstborn son of the late King, and rightful heir to the throne and crown! King Viraxas the First! Thrice hail! Long live! Long live! Long live!’
The choir of sycophants echoed the Marshal. The Marshal comforted them with a gestured.
‘King Viraxas is immersed in m
ourning, like the rest of the court. The celebrations are cancelled, the guests are asked to leave the palace. The King plans to soon have his own wedding, and then the celebrations can resume. The dishes will not be lost, the king has ordered to take them to the city and place them in the market. Meats will be gifted to the inhabitants of Palmyra. For Kerack there comes a time of happiness and well-being.’
‘Well,’ said Coral, straightening her hair. ‘There is a lot of truth in the assertion that the death of the groom can seriously disrupt a wedding ceremony. Belohun was not without flaws, but he was also not the worst, let him rest in peace and the earth rest lightly on him. Let’s leave. I’m already bored. It’s such a good day for a walk along the pier and to take a look at the sea. Poet, be polite and give your hand to my student. I’ll go with Geralt. Because he has something to tell me, I suppose.’
It was a little past noon. Just. It was hard to believe that so much had happened in such a short amount of time.
A warrior dies the hard way. His death must struggle against him. A warrior does not give into death so easily.
Carols Castaneda, The Wheel of Time (translated by Semenov the Old)
Chapter Nineteen
‘Hey! look!’ exclaimed Dandelion. ‘A rat!’
Geralt did not respond. He knew the poet, knew that he used to be afraid of everything, admire anything and look for sensation when there was absolutely nothing deserving to be called sensational.
‘A rat!’ Dandelion did not give up. ‘And a second! Third! Fourth! Oh shit! Geralt, look!’
Geralt sighed and looked.
At the foot of the cliff under the terrace it was swarming with rats. The space between Palmyra and the cliff was filled with an excited, squeaking mass. Hundreds, perhaps, thousands of rodents were fleeing from the area of the port and the river mouth, rushing up along the palisade, up the mountain and into the woods. Other passer-by’s also noticed this phenomenon and everywhere there were cries of fear and surprise.
Stephen Hulin Page 29