“I have indeed. They were brought to me and I was invited to buy them. The broker representing the interests of the current owner, a person of impeccable reputation and known to me personally, pledged that the swords were acquired legally, that they came from a find in Fen Carn, an ancient necropolis in Sodden. Endless treasures and artefacts have been unearthed in Fen Carn, hence in principle there were no grounds to question the source’s veracity. I had my doubts, though. And didn’t buy the swords. Are you listening to me, Witcher?”
“I’m hanging on your every word. Waiting for the conclusion. And the details.”
“The conclusion is as follows: you scratch my back … Details cost money. Information has a price tag.”
“Come on,” Dandelion said irritably. “Our old friendship brought me here, along with a friend in need—”
“Business is business,” Pyral Pratt interrupted him. “I said, the information I possess has its price. If you want to find something out about the fate of your swords, Witcher from Rivia, you have to pay.”
“What’s the price on the tag?”
Pratt took out a large gold coin from under his robe and handed it to the ogre-dwarf, who without visible effort snapped it in his fingers, as though it were a biscuit. Geralt shook his head.
“A pantomime cliché,” he drawled. “You hand me half a coin and someone, someday, perhaps even in a few years, shows up with the other half. And demands that I fulfil his wish. Which I will have to fulfil unconditionally. Nothing doing. If that’s supposed to be the price, no deal. Causa finita. Let’s go, Dandelion.”
“Don’t you care about regaining your swords?”
“Not that much.”
“I suspected so. But it doesn’t harm to try. I’ll make another offer. This time one you won’t refuse.”
“Let’s go, Dandelion.”
“You can leave, but through another door.” Pratt indicated with his head. “That one. After first getting undressed. You leave in naught but your long johns.”
Geralt thought he was controlling his facial expression. He must have been mistaken, because the ogre-dwarf suddenly yelled in warning and moved towards him, raising a hand and stinking twice as much as before.
“This is some kind of joke,” Dandelion pronounced loudly, as usual bold and mouthy at the Witcher’s side. “You’re mocking us, Pyral. Which is why we will now say farewell and leave. And by the same door we came in through. Don’t forget who I am! I’m leaving!”
“I don’t think so.” Pyral Pratt shook his head. “You once proved you aren’t that clever. But you’re too clever to try to leave now.”
In order to emphasise the weight of his boss’s words, the ogre-dwarf brandished a clenched fist the size of a watermelon. Geralt said nothing. He’d been observing the giant for a long time, searching for a place sensitive to a kick. Because it looked like a kicking was inevitable.
“Very well.” Pratt appeased his bodyguard with a gesture. “I’ll yield a little, I’ll demonstrate goodwill and a desire for compromise. The entire local industrial and commercial elite, financiers, politicians, nobility, clergy, and even an incognito prince, are gathered here. I promised them a show the like of which they’ve never seen before, and they’ve certainly never seen a witcher in his smalls. But let it be, I’ll yield a tad: you’ll go out naked to the waist. In exchange, you’ll receive the promised information, right away. Furthermore, as a bonus …”
Pyral Pratt picked up a small sheet of paper from the table.
“… as a bonus, two hundred Novigradian crowns. For the witcher’s pension fund. Here you are, a bearer cheque, on the Giancardis’ bank, to be cashed at any branch. What do you say to that?”
“Why do you ask?” Geralt squinted his eyes. “You made it clear, I understood, that I can’t refuse.”
“You understood right. I said it was an offer you can’t refuse. But mutually beneficial, methinks.”
“Take the cheque, Dandelion.” Geralt unbuttoned his jacket and took it off. “Speak, Pratt.”
“Don’t do it.” Dandelion blanched even more. “Unless you know what’s on the other side of the door?”
“Speak, Pratt.”
“As I mentioned.” His Excellency lounged on his throne. “I declined to purchase the swords from the broker. But because it was, as I’ve already said, a person who is well known to me and trusted, I suggested another, more profitable way of selling them. I advised that their present owner put them up for auction. At the Borsody brothers’ auction house in Novigrad. It’s the biggest and most renowned collectors’ fair. Lovers of rarities, antiques, recherché works of art, unique objects and all kinds of curiosities descend on it from all over the world. In order to come into possession of some kind of marvel for their collections, those cranks bid like madmen. Various exotic peculiarities often go for titanic sums at the Borsody brothers’. Nowhere else are things sold so dearly.”
“Speak, Pratt.” The Witcher took off his shirt. “I’m listening.”
“The auction at the Borsodys’ occurs once a quarter. The next one will be held in July, on the fifteenth. The thief will undoubtedly appear there with your swords. With a bit of luck, you’ll manage to get them off him before he puts them up for auction.”
“And is that all?”
“That’s plenty.”
“The identity of the thief? Or the broker—?”
“I don’t know the thief’s identity,” Pratt interjected. “And I won’t reveal the broker’s. This is business; laws, rules and—no less important than that—customs apply. I’d lose face. I revealed something to you, big enough for what I demand from you. Lead him out into the arena, Mikita. And you come with me, Dandelion, we can watch. What are you waiting for, Witcher?”
“I’m to go out without a weapon, I understand? Not just bare to the waist, but barehanded too?”
“I promised my guests something they’d never seen before,” explained Pratt, slowly, as though to a child. “They’ve seen a witcher with a weapon.”
“Of course.”
He found himself in an arena, on sand, in a circle marked out by posts sunk into the ground, flooded by the flickering light of numerous lanterns hung on iron bars. He could hear shouts, cheers, applause and whistles. He saw faces, open mouths and excited eyes above the arena.
Something moved opposite him, at the very edge of the arena. And jumped.
Geralt barely managed to arrange his forearms into the Heliotrope Sign. The spell thrust back the attacking beast. The crowd yelled as one.
The two-legged lizard resembled a wyvern, but was smaller, the size of a large Great Dane. Its head, though, was considerably larger than a wyvern’s. And it had a much toothier maw. And a much longer tail, tapering to a thin point. The lizard brandished it vigorously, sweeping the sand and lashing the posts. Lowering its head, it leaped at the Witcher again.
Geralt was ready, struck with the Aard Sign and repelled it. But the lizard managed to lash him with the end of its tail. The crowd yelled again. Women squealed. The Witcher felt a ridge as thick as a sausage growing and swelling on his naked shoulder. He knew now why he had been ordered to strip. He also recognised his opponent. It was a vigilosaur, a specially bred, magically mutated lizard, used for guarding and protection. Things looked pretty bad. The vigilosaur treated the arena as though it were its lair. Geralt was thus an intruder to be overpowered. And, if necessary, eliminated.
The vigilosaur circled the arena, rubbing itself against the posts, hissing furiously. And attacked again, swiftly, leaving no time for a Sign. The Witcher dodged nimbly out of range of the toothy jaws, but couldn’t avoid being lashed by the tail. He felt another ridge swelling beside the first.
The Heliotrope Sign again blocked the charging vigilosaur. The lizard’s tail whistled as it whirled around. Geralt’s ear caught a change in the note, hearing it a second before the end of the tail struck him across the back. The pain was blinding and blood ran down his skin. The crowd went crazy.
&
nbsp; The Signs weakened. The vigilosaur circled him so fast that the Witcher could barely keep up. He managed to elude two lashes of the tail, but not the third, and was struck again with the sharp edge on the shoulder blade. The blood was now pouring down his back.
The crowd roared; the spectators were bellowing and leaping up and down. One of them leaned far over the balustrade to get a better view, resting on an iron bar holding a lantern. The bar broke and tumbled down with the lantern onto the arena. It stuck into the sand and the lantern struck the vigilosaur’s head, bursting into flames. The lizard threw it off, spraying a cascade of sparks around, and hissed, rubbing its head against the piles of the arena. Geralt saw his chance at once. He tore the bar out of the sand, took a short run-up and jumped, thrusting the spike hard into the lizard’s skull. It passed straight through. The vigilosaur struggled and, clumsily flapping its forepaws, fought to rid itself of the iron rod penetrating its brain. Hopping uncoordinatedly, it finally lurched into the posts and sank its teeth into the wood. It thrashed around convulsively for some time, churning the sand with its claws and lashing with its tail. Eventually it stopped moving.
The walls shook with cheers and applause.
Geralt climbed out of the arena up a rope ladder somebody had lowered. The excited spectators crowded around him. A man slapped him on his swollen shoulder, and Geralt barely refrained himself from punching him in the face. A young woman kissed him on the cheek. Another, even younger, wiped the blood from his back with a cambric handkerchief which she immediately unfolded and displayed triumphantly to her friends. Another, much older woman, took a necklace from her wrinkled neck and tried to give it to him. His expression sent her scuttling back into the crowd.
There was a reek of musk and the ogre-dwarf Mikita forced his way through the crowd, like a ship through seaweed. He shielded the Witcher and led him out.
A physician was summoned, who dressed Geralt and stitched up his wounds. Dandelion was very pale. Pyral Pratt was calm. As though nothing had happened. But the Witcher’s face must have spoken volumes, as he hurried to explain.
“Incidentally, that bar, previously filed through and sharpened, ended up in the arena on my orders.”
“Thanks for hurrying it up.”
“My guests were in seventh heaven. Even Mayor Coppenrath was so pleased he was beaming, and it’s hard to satisfy that whoreson. He sniffs at everything, gloomy as a brothel on a Monday morning. I have the position of councillor in my pocket, ha. And maybe I’ll rise higher, if … Would you perform in a week, Geralt? With a similar show?”
“Only if you’re in the arena instead of a vigilosaur, Pratt.” The Witcher wriggled his sore shoulder furiously.
“That’s good, ha, ha. Hear what a jester he is, Dandelion?”
“I heard,” confirmed the poet, looking at Geralt’s back and clenching his teeth. “But it wasn’t a joke, it was quite serious. I also, equally solemnly, declare that I shan’t be gracing your granddaughter’s nuptial ceremony with a performance. You can forget it after the way you’ve treated Geralt. And that applies to any other occasions, including christenings and funerals. Yours included.”
Pyral Pratt shot him a glance, and something lit up in his reptilian eyes.
“You aren’t showing me respect, singer,” he drawled. “You aren’t showing me respect again. You’re asking to be taught a lesson in this regard. One you won’t forget …”
Geralt went closer and stood in front of him. Mikita panted, raised a fist and there was a reek of musk. Pyral Pratt gestured him to calm down.
“You’re losing face, Pratt,” said the Witcher slowly. “You’ve done a deal, classically, according to rules and, no less important than them, customs. Your guests are satisfied with the spectacle; you’ve gained prestige and the prospect of a position on the town council. I’ve gained the necessary information. You scratch my back. Both parties are content, so now we should part without remorse or anger. Instead of that you’re resorting to threats. You’re losing face. Let’s go, Dandelion.”
Pyral Pratt blanched slightly. Then turned his back on them.
“I was planning to treat you to supper,” he tossed over his shoulder. “But it looks like you’re in a hurry. Farewell then. But think yourself lucky I’m letting you both leave Ravelin scot-free. I usually punish a lack of respect. But I’m not stopping you.”
“Quite right.”
Pratt turned around.
“What did you say?”
Geralt looked him in the eyes. “You aren’t especially clever, though you like to think otherwise. But you’re too clever to try to stop me.”
Scarcely had they passed the hillock and arrived at the first roadside poplars than Geralt reined in his horse and listened.
“They’re following us.”
“Dammit!” Dandelion’s teeth chattered. “Who? Pratt’s thugs?”
“It doesn’t matter who. Go on, ride as fast as you can to Kerack. Hide at your cousin’s. First thing tomorrow take that cheque to the bank. Then we’ll meet at The Crab and Garfish.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Geralt—”
“Be quiet and spur on your horse. Ride. Fly!”
Dandelion obeyed, leaned forward in the saddle and spurred his horse to a gallop. Geralt turned back, waiting calmly.
Riders emerged from the gloom. Six riders.
“The Witcher Geralt?”
“It is I.”
“You’re coming with us,” the nearest one croaked, reaching for Geralt’s horse. “But no foolishness, d’you hear?”
“Let go of my reins, or I’ll hurt you.”
“No foolishness!” The rider withdrew his hand. “And don’t be hasty. We be legal and lawful. We ain’t no cutpurses. We’re on the orders of the prince.”
“What prince?”
“You’ll find out. Follow us.”
They set off. Geralt recalled Pratt had claimed some sort of prince was staying in Ravelin, incognito. Things were not looking good. Contacts with princes were rarely pleasant. And almost never ended well.
They didn’t go far. Only to a tavern at a crossroads smelling of smoke, with lights twinkling. They entered the main chamber, which was almost empty, not counting a few merchants eating a late supper. The entrance to the private chambers was guarded by two armed men wearing blue cloaks, identical in colour and cut to the ones Geralt’s escort were wearing. They went in.
“Your Princely Grace—”
“Get out. And you sit down, Witcher.”
The man sitting at the table wore a cloak similar to that of his men, but more richly embroidered. His face was obscured by a hood. There was no need. The cresset on the table only illuminated Geralt; the mysterious prince was hidden in the shadows.
“I saw you in Pratt’s arena,” he said. “An impressive display indeed. That leap and blow from above, augmented by your entire body weight … The weapon, although just a bar, passed through the dragon’s skull like a knife through butter. I think that had it been, let’s say, a bear spear or a pike it would have passed through a mail shirt, or even plate armour … What do you think?”
“It’s getting late. It’s hard to think when you’re feeling drowsy.”
The man in the shadows snorted.
“We shan’t dally then. And let’s get to the matter in hand. I need you. You, Witcher. To do a witcher’s job. And it somehow appears that you also need me. Perhaps even more.
“I’m Prince Xander of Kerack. I desire, desire overwhelmingly, to be King Xander the First of Kerack. At the moment, to my regret and the detriment of the country, the King of Kerack is my father, Belohun. The old buffer is still sound in mind and body, and may reign for twenty more bloody years. I don’t have either the time or the desire to wait that long. Why, even if I waited, I couldn’t be certain of the succession, since the old fossil may name another successor at any moment; he has an abundant collection of offspring. And is presently applying h
imself to begetting another; he has planned his royal nuptials with pomp and splendour for the feast of Lughnasadh, which the country can ill afford. He—a miser who goes to the park to relieve himself to spare the enamel on his chamber pot—is spending a mountain of gold on the wedding feast. Ruining the treasury. I’ll be a better king. The crux is that I want to be king at once. As soon as possible. And I need you to achieve that.”
“The services I offer don’t include carrying out palace revolutions. Or regicide. And that is probably what Your Grace has in mind.”
“I want to be king. And in order to ascend the throne my father has to stop being king. And my brothers must be eliminated from the succession.”
“Regicide plus fratricide. No, Your Highness. I have to decline. I regret.”
“Not true,” the prince snapped from the shadows. “You haven’t regretted it yet. Not yet. But you will, I promise you.”
“Your Royal Highness will deign to take note that threatening me with death defeats the purpose.”
“Who’s talking about death? I’m a prince, not a murderer. I’m talking about a choice. Either my favour or my disfavour. You’ll do what I demand and you’ll enjoy my favour. And you absolutely do need it, believe me. Now, with a trial and sentence for a financial swindle awaiting you, it looks as though you’ll be spending the next few years at an oar aboard a galley. You thought you’d wriggled out of it, it appears. That your case has already been dismissed, that the witch Neyd, who lets you bed her on a whim, will withdraw her accusation and it’ll be over in a trice. You’re mistaken. Albert Smulka, the reeve of Ansegis, has testified. That testimony incriminates you.”
“The testimony is false.”
“It will be difficult to prove that.”
“Guilt has to be proved. Not innocence.”
“Good joke. Amusing indeed. But I wouldn’t be laughing, in your shoes. Take a look at these. They’re documents.” The prince tossed a sheaf of papers on the table. “Certified testimonies, witness statements. The town of Cizmar, a hired witcher, a leucrote dispatched. Seventy crowns on the invoice, in actuality fifty-five paid, the difference split with a local pen-pusher. The settlement of Sotonin, a giant spider. Killed, according to the bill, for ninety, actually, according to the alderman’s testimony, for sixty-five. A harpy killed in Tiberghien, invoiced for a hundred crowns, seventy paid in actuality. And your earlier exploits and rackets; a vampire in Petrelsteyn Castle which didn’t exist at all and cost the burgrave a cool thousand orens. A werewolf from Guaamez had the spell taken from it and was magically de-werewolfed for an alleged hundred crowns. A very dubious affair, because it’s a bit too cheap for that kind of spell removal. An echinops, or rather something you brought to the alderman in Martindelcampo and called an echinops. Some ghouls from a cemetery near the town of Zgraggen, which cost the community eighty crowns, although no one saw any bodies, because they were devoured by, ha-ha, other ghouls. What do you say to that, Witcher? This is proof.”
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