The Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The spy snickered. Two passing sorceresses gave them looks of confusion. And curiosity.

  ‘King Visimir,’ explained Dijkstra, ‘pays me extra for every uncovered secret. Eagerness secures my future. You may find it funny, but I have a wife and children.’

  ‘I see nothing funny about that. Work for securing your family's future, but not at my expense, if I may ask. This hall, it seems, doesn't lack in secrets.’

  ‘Not exactly. The whole Aretuza is a one big riddle. Surely, you've noticed? Something's up, Geralt. And I'm not talking about the candelabra.’

  ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘I do believe it. I don't understand either. But I truly wish to. Wouldn't you? Ah, sorry. You probably know everything already, don't you? From your charming Yennefer of Vengerberg, that is. And to think that there used to be time when I, too, learned things from the charming Yennefer. But, oh, how long has it been?’

  ‘I honestly don't know what you're going on about, Dijkstra. Could you speak your mind more clearly? Try. But not if it's a part of your duty. Forgive me, but I'm not going to work on your extra pay.’

  ‘You think I want to deceive you?’ the spy pulled a face. ‘Trick you into providing me with information? You're hurting me, Geralt. I'm merely curious if you notice, in this hall, the same patterns I do.’

  ‘What patterns do you see?’

  ‘Aren't you surprised by the complete absence of the crowned heads at this convent?’

  ‘Not one bit,’ Geralt managed to pierce a marinated olive onto a stick. ‘The kings likely prefer the traditional kind of feasts, at the table, which they can gracefully pass out under in the morning. Moreover…’

  ‘What?’ Dijkstra devoured four olives he unashamedly picked from the plate with the use of fingers.

  ‘Moreover,’ the witcher pointed at the crowd, ‘the kings need not bother. They sent an army of spies in their stead. Those in the fraternity, and those excluded from it. Probably so that they would find out what is up.’

  Dijkstra spit out the olive pips, picked up a long fork and started poking around a crystal salad-bowl.

  ‘And Vilgefortz,’ he noticed, ‘took a great care not to omit a single spy. He has all royal spies on one plate. Why would Vilgefortz need to gather all spies on one plate, I wonder?’

  ‘I have no idea. And I don't care. I told you I'm off duty. I'm, so to speak, beyond the plate.’

  Visimir's spy fished a small octopus out of the bowl and studied it with revulsion.

  ‘They eat it,’ he shook his head with false compassion, then turned back to Geralt.

  ‘Listen carefully, witcher,’ he uttered quietly. ‘Your conviction to your impartiality, your conviction that you don't care about anything and don't need to care… It frustrates me and forces me to gamble. You like to gamble?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I'm proposing a wager,’ Dijkstra raised the fork with the octopus. ‘I'm betting that in the course of the following hour, Vilgefortz will ask for a talk with you. I'm betting that during this talk he will prove to you that you are not impartial and that you are, in fact, on his plate. If I'm wrong, then I'll eat this shit in your full view, with the tentacles and all. Do you accept the wager?’

  ‘What will I have to eat, if I lose?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Dijkstra looked around quickly. ‘If you lose, you will recount Vilgefortz‘s speech to me.’

  The witcher was silent for a while, looking calmly at the spy.

  ‘Excuse me, count,’ he said finally. ‘Thank you for the chat. It was very informative.’ Dijkstra was disturbed.

  ‘So much…’

  ‘So much.’ Geralt cut him off. ‘Goodbye.’

  The spy shrugged, dropped the octopus back in the bowl, turned and walked away. Geralt didn't watch him leave. He moved to another table, led by a desire to try some of the huge, pinkish-white shrimps, mounting to the silver plate among lettuce and limes. They seemed tasty, but feeling the curious stares cast at him, he wanted to eat the crustaceans in a dignified manner, in accordance with etiquette. He approached the shrimps ostensibly slowly, plucking appetizers from other plates.

  At the second table stood Sabrina Glevissig engaged in a conversation with a red-haired sorceress. The red-haired one had a white skirt and a white georgette bodice. The bodice, like Sabrina's, was also completely transparent, but it had some strategically placed embroideries. The embroideries, Geralt noticed, had an interesting quality: they covered and revealed alternatively.

  The sorceresses talked while stuffing themselves with slices of lobster in mayonnaise. They spoke quietly and in Elder Speech. Although they weren't looking at him, they were clearly discussing him. He strained his sensitive witcher hearing discreetly, while pretending to be busy with the shrimp.

  ‘…with Yennefer?’ repeated the red-head, playing with a pearl necklace bound around her neck so tightly that it resembled a collar. ‘Are you kidding me, Sabrina?’

  ‘Not at all,’ denied Sabrina Glevissig. ‘You won't believe it, but it's been going on for several years. I'm surprised -- how can he stand that harpy.’

  ‘What's so surprising? She cast a spell on him - keeps him charmed. How many times have I done that myself?’

  ‘He's a witcher. They cannot be charmed. Not for so long, at least.’

  ‘In that case, it must be love,’ wistfully sighed the red-head. ‘And love is blind.’

  ‘He is the blind one,’ grimaced Sabrina. ‘Would you believe, Marti, that she had the audacity to introduce me as her schoolmate? Bloede pest, she's years older than me… Nevermind. I'm serious, she's hellishly possessive of this witcher. The little Merigold just smiled at him and this hag cussed her and chased her off. And even now… just look at her. She's standing there with Francesca but she doesn't take her eyes off him.’

  ‘She's scared,’ giggled the red-head, ‘that we'll steal him from her, if only for one night. How about it, Sabrina? Shall we give it a try? The man's attractive, so unlike those uppity snobs of ours, with their complexes and complaints…’

  ‘Speak lower, Marti,’ hissed Sabrina. ‘Stop gaping and flashing your teeth at him. Yennefer is watching us. Keep class. You want to seduce him? It would be tactless.’

  ‘Hmm, you're right,’ agreed Marti. ‘But what if he suddenly came up to us with the proposition?’

  ‘If so,’ Sabrina threw a predatory look at the witcher, ‘then I would offer myself in the blink of an eye, even if we were to do it on a rock.’

  ‘And I would do the same,’ giggled Marti, ‘even on a hedgehog.’

  Staring at the tablecloth, the witcher hid his face behind the shrimps and cabbage leaves, glad that the mutation of his blood vessels disabled blushing.

  ‘Witcher Geralt?’

  He swallowed the shrimp and turned around. A wizard with familiar features smiled slightly, touching the embroidered lapels of his violet doublet.

  ‘Dorregaray of Vole. We know each other. We've met…’

  ‘I remember. Forgive me, I didn't recognize you at first. I'm glad to see you…’

  The wizard smiled a bit wider, taking two goblets from the page's plate.

  ‘I've been watching you for some time,’ he admitted, offering Geralt one of the goblets. ‘You said that to everyone Yennefer introduced you to. Is it a deceit or just a non-critical approach?’

  ‘Politeness.’

  ‘For them?’ Dorregaray pointed at the crowd ‘Trust me, they're not worth it. They're a conceited, envious, mendacious bunch; they won't appreciate your politeness and may even take it for a sarcasm. With them, witcher, one needs to converse in their own way, basely, arrogantly, rudely; you may even impress them then. Will you have a drink with me?’

  ‘The swill served here?’ smiled Geralt pleasantly, ‘With all distaste. But if it suits you… I shall force myself.’

  Sabrina and Marti, eavesdropping from behind their table, burst into laughter. Dorregaray glared daggers at them, turned and clinked their cups, w
ith a sincere smile this time.

  ‘Point for you,’ he acknowledged with ease. ‘You learn fast. Curses, where have you gained such wit, witcher? On the roads you stride in search for dying species? To your health. You might not believe it, but you're one of the few here for whose health I honestly want to drink.’

  ‘Is this so?’ Geralt took a sip, savouring the taste. ‘Even despite the fact that I butcher dying species for a living?’

  ‘Don't gripe at my words,’ the wizard patted his arm. ‘The banquet has just started. You'll probably speak to more people, so you ought to save some of your glib remarks. As for your occupation… You, Geralt, have at least enough dignity not to keep trophies. But take a look around. Go ahead, forget the etiquette, they like to be stared at.’

  The witcher obediently fixed his gaze on Sabrina Glevissig's breasts.

  ‘Look closely.’ Dorregaray grasped his sleeve, pointing at the passing sorceress. ‘Shoes made of horned agama's leather. Have you noticed?’

  He nodded - insincerely, as he only took notice of what remained uncovered by the transparent tulle bodice.

  ‘Oh, and there we have a rock cobra,’ the wizard correctly identified another pair of shoes parading through the hall. The fashion, which had recently shortened the dresses, helped him with the task. ‘And over there… white iguana. Salamander. Wyvern. Spectacled caiman. Basilisk… All of them, without exception, endangered species. Curses, why not stick to veal and pork leather?’

  ‘You're going on about leatherworking, Dorregaray, as always?’ asked Philippa, approaching them. ‘About tanning and shoemaking? What a trivial and repulsive subject.’

  ‘Different strokes for different folks,’ scowled the wizard. ‘That's some delightful embroideries you have there, Philippa! Diamond ermine, if I'm not mistaken? Very dainty, indeed. You are, of course, aware that this species had been brought to extinction twenty years ago for its beautiful fur?’

  ‘Thirty years ago,’ Philippa corrected him, stuffing herself with the leftover shrimps. ‘I know, I know, the species would undoubtedly be brought back from extinction, had I ordered the milliner to embroid my dress with mops of tow. I have considered it. Unfortunately, the colours wouldn't match.’

  ‘Let's move to the other table,’ proposed the witcher. ‘I saw a decent bowl of caviar. And since lake sturgeons are also close to extinction, we ought to make haste.’

  ‘Caviar in your company? I've been dreaming of this,’ Philippa winked, slid her arm under his, smelling of cinnamon and nard. ‘Let's make haste, then. Will you keep us company, Dorregaray? No? See you later, then; have fun.’

  The wizard snorted and turned around. Sabrina Glevissing and her red-haired friend watched them leave with looks more poisonous than the venom of endangered cobras.

  ‘Dorregaray,’ whispered Philippa, unashamedly pressing herself to Geralt's side, ‘is a spy for king Ethain of Cidaris. Stay vigilant. The talk about reptiles and fur is a prelude to interrogation. And Sabrina Glevissig was pricking up her ears…’

  ‘…because she's spying for Henselt of Kaedven,’ he finished for her. ‘I know, you've mentioned it before. And that ginger one, her friend…’

  ‘She's dyeing her hair. Don't you have eyes? It's Marti Sodergren.’

  ‘Whom is she spying for?’

  ‘Marti?’ Philippa laughed, her teeth flashing from behind spicy red lips. ‘For nobody. Marti's not interested in politics.’

  ‘Outrageous. I had the impression that everyone here is a spy.’

  ‘Many are,’ the sorceress winked. ‘But not all. Not Marti Sodergren. Marti is a healer. And a nymphomaniac. Ah, damn it, look! The caviar's been eaten! Every last grain! Someone's licked the bowl! What shall we do now?’

  ‘Now,’ Geralt smiled innocently, ‘you will announce that something's up. You'll tell me that I need to shed neutrality and make a choice. You will propose a wager. I cannot even imagine what my prize could be if I win. But I know what I will have to do if I lose.’

  Philippa Eilhart was silent for a long while, not taking her eyes off him.

  ‘I should have known,’ she said quietly. ‘Dijkstra lost it. He gave you an offer. Even though I told him about your contempt for spies.’

  ‘I have no contempt for spies. I have contempt for spying. And for the contempt in itself. Don't propose any wagers, Philippa. I also feel that something's up. And let it be. I'm not involved and I don't care.’

  ‘You've already said it once. In Oxenfurt.’

  ‘I'm glad you remember. I hope you remember the circumstances as well?’

  ‘Perfectly. I didn't disclose to you the identity of Rience's master back then. I let him escape. Oh, how mad at me you were…’

  ‘That's an understatement.’

  ‘Now it's time to make amends. I'll give you Rience tomorrow. Don't interrupt, don't make faces. This is no wager. It's a promise, and I keep my promises. No questions, please. Wait till tomorrow. Now we shall concentrate on caviar and trivial talk.’

  ‘There's no caviar.’

  ‘Give me a moment.’

  She looked around, moved her hand and whispered a spell. The silver vessel, shaped like a fish in motion, immediately filled with roe of the endangered lake sturgeon. The witcher smiled.

  ‘Can you satisfy hunger with an illusion?’

  ‘No. But it's enough for a craving. Try some.’

  ‘Hmm… Indeed… Seems more tasty than the real thing…’

  ‘And you won't gain weight,’ the sorceress proudly exclaimed, squeezing lemon juice onto the next spoonful of caviar. ‘Would you mind getting me a glass of white wine?’

  ‘Not at all. Philippa?’

  ‘I'm listening.’

  ‘Etiquette supposedly forbids the use of magic here. Wouldn't it be more appropriate to conjure up an illusion of taste alone? Just a sensory illusion? I'm sure you could…’

  ‘Of course I could,’ Philippa Eilhart looked at him through the glass. ‘The construction of such a spell would be easier than the construction of a flail. But sticking to a sensory illusion would rid us of the pleasure provided by the act of eating. The process, the movement, the gestures… The talk accompanying it, the eye contact… Allow me to entertain you with a humorous comparison, will you?’

  ‘I'm laughing already.’

  ‘I could conjure up an orgasm too.’

  Before the witcher regained speech, they were approached by a short, slim sorceress with long, straight, fair hair. He recognized her right away – it was the lady in shoes made of horned agama's leather and green, tulle bodice which didn't even hide a detail as tiny as the small spot above her left breast.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I must interrupt your flirting. Philippa, Radcliffe and Dethmold are asking for few minutes of your time. It's urgent.’

  ‘Well, if so, then I will go. Bye, Geralt. We shall flirt another time!’

  ‘Aha!’ the blonde confronted him with her eyes. ‘Geralt. The witcher Yennefer is crazy about? I've been watching you and wondering who the hell might you be. I was truly bothered by it!’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ he remarked, smiling politely. ‘I'm experiencing it right now.’

  ‘Excuse my blunder. I'm Keira Metz. Oh, it's caviar!’

  ‘Careful, it's an illusion.’

  ‘Devil take it, you're right!’ the sorceress dropped the spoon as if it were a tail of some dangerous scorpion. ‘Who could be so tactless… You? You can cast illusions of the fourth degree? You?’

  ‘Me,’ he lied, never ceasing to smile. ‘I'm a master magician, pretending to be a witcher in order to remain incognito. Did you really believe that Yennefer would fall for a simple witcher?’

  Keira Metz stared him in the eyes, scowling.

  On her neck was a medallion in the shape of an ankh cross, silver and lined with rhinestones.

  ‘Would you like some wine?’ he offered to cut the uncomfortable silence. He feared that his joke wasn't received well.

  ‘No, thank
you… colleague magician,’ said Keira coldly. ‘I don't drink. I cannot. I'm about to get pregnant tonight.’

  ‘With whom?’ asked the passing dyed friend of Sabrina Glevissig, dressed in transparent georgette bodice with strategically placed embroideries. ‘With whom?’ she repeated, fluttering her eyelashes innocently.

  Keira turned around and looked her up from the white iguana shoes to the pearl tiara.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘None at all. Occupational curiosity. Won't you introduce me to your companion, the famous Geralt of Rivia?’

  ‘With displeasure. But I know we won't be able to get rid of you otherwise. Geralt, this is Marti Sodergren, a healer. She specializes in aphrodisiacs.’

  ‘Must we speak of business? Oh, you left some caviar for me? How kind of you.’

  ‘Careful,’ the witcher and Keira said in unison. ‘It's an illusion.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Marti Sodergren bent, wrinkling her nose, then reached for a cup and studied the traces of red lipstick. ‘Philippa Eilhart, no surprises there. Who else would have the audacity? What a shrew. Did you know that she's spying for Visimir of Redania?’

  ‘And she's a nymphomaniac?’ risked the witcher. Marti and Keira snorted at the same time.

  ‘Were you counting on it when you were coming onto her?’ asked the healer. ‘If so, then you should know that someone must have fed you false information. Men don't figure in Philippa's preferences anymore.’

  ‘Or maybe you're a woman?’ Keira Metz puffed out her lips. ‘Maybe you're only pretending to be a man, colleague master magician? To stay incognito? You know, Marti, he confessed to me a moment ago that he likes to pretend.’

  ‘He likes and he does,’ Marti smiled maliciously. ‘Right, Geralt? Not so long ago I saw you pretending to have bad hearing and not to know the Elder Speech.’

  ‘He has many flaws,’ said Yennefer coldly, coming up to them and possessively clutching witcher's arm. ‘He has nothing but flaws. You're wasting your time, girls.’

  ‘It seems so,’ agreed Marti Sodergren, still grinning. ‘We wish you fun. Come, Keira, let's go get a drink of something… lacking alcohol. Perhaps I will, too, decide on something tonight?’