The Witcher, I heed, is listening attentively.
“The four legitimate sons,” I go on, “are, in order of seniority, the firstborn, whose name I don’t know; it’s forbidden to mention his name at court. After a quarrel with his father he went away and disappeared without trace, no one has seen him since. The second, Elmer, is a deranged drunk kept under lock and key. It’s supposedly a state secret, but in Kerack it’s common knowledge. Egmund and Xander are the real pretenders. They detest each other, and Belohun exploits it cunningly, keeping both of them in a state of permanent uncertainty. In matters of the succession he is also often capable of ostentatiously favouring one of the bastards, and tantalising him with promises. Whereas now it’s whispered in dark corners that he has promised the crown to the son to be borne by his new wife, the one he’s officially marrying at Lughnasadh.
“Cousin Ferrant and I think, however, that they are but fine words,” I continue, “used by the old prick with the intention of stirring the young thing to sexual fervour, since Egmund and Xander are the only true heirs to the throne. And if it comes to a coup d’état it’ll be carried out by one of the two. I’ve met them both, through my cousin. They are both—I had the impression—as slippery as turds in mayonnaise. If you know what I mean.”
Geralt confirmed he knew and that he had the same impression when he spoke to Egmund, only he was unable to express it in such beautiful words. Then he pondered deeply.
“I’ll return soon,” he finally said. “And you, don’t sit around, and keep an eye on things.”
“Before we say farewell,” I responded, “be a good chap and tell me something about your witch’s pupil. The one with the slicked-down hair. She’s a true rosebud, all she needs is a little work and she’ll bloom wonderfully. So I’ve decided that I’ll devote myself—”
Geralt’s face, however, changed. Without warning he slammed his fist down on the table, making the mugs jump.
“Keep your paws well away from Mozaïk, busker,” he started on me without a trace of respect. “Knock that idea out of your head. Don’t you know that sorceresses’ pupils are strictly prohibited from even the most innocent flirting? For the smallest offence of that kind Coral will decide she’s not worth teaching and send her back to the school, which is an awful embarrassment and loss of face for a pupil. I’ve heard of suicides caused by that. And there’s no fooling around with Coral. She doesn’t have a sense of humour.”
I felt like advising him to try tickling her with a hen’s feather in her intergluteal cleft. For such a measure can cheer up even the greatest of sourpusses. But I said nothing, for I know him. He can’t bear anyone to talk tactlessly about his women. Even brief dalliances. Thus, I swore on my honour that I would strike the slicked-down novice’s chastity from the agenda and not even woo her.
“If that stings you so much,” he said brightly as he was leaving, “then know that I met a lady lawyer in the local court. She looked willing. Pursue her instead.”
Not on your life. What, does he expect me to bed the judiciary?
Although, on the other hand …
INTERLUDE
Highly Honourable Madam
Lytta Neyd
Kerack, Upper Town
Villa Cyclamen
Rissberg Castle, 1 July 1245 p. R.
Dear Coral,
I trust my letter finds you in good health and mood. And that everything is as you would wish.
I hasten to inform you that the Witcher—called Geralt of Rivia—finally deigned to put in an appearance at our castle. Immediately after arriving, in less than an hour, he showed himself to be annoyingly unbearable and managed to alienate absolutely everyone, including the Reverend Ortolan, a person who could be regarded as kindness personified, and favourably disposed to everyone. The opinions circulating about that individual aren’t, as it turns out, exaggerated in even the tiniest respect, and the antipathy and hostility that he encounters everywhere have their own deep-seated grounds. But, however, insomuch as esteem should be paid him I shall be the first to do so sine ira et studio. The fellow is every inch the professional and totally trustworthy as regards his trade. There can be no doubt that he executes whatever he attempts or falls trying to achieve it.
We may thus consider the goal of our enterprise accomplished, mainly thanks to you, dear Coral. We express our thanks to you for your efforts, and you shall find us—as always—grateful. You, meanwhile, have my especial gratitude. As your old friend, mindful of what we have shared, I—more than the others—understand your sacrifice. I realise how you must have suffered the proximity of that individual, who is, indeed, an amalgam of the vices you cannot bear. Cynicism derived from a profound complex, with a pompous and introvert nature, an insincere character, a primitive mind, mediocre intelligence and great arrogance. I pass over the fact that he has ugly hands and chipped fingernails, in order not to irritate you, dear Coral; after all, I know you detest such things. But, as it’s been said before, an end has come to your suffering, troubles and distress. Nothing now stands in the way of your breaking off relations with that individual and ceasing all contact with him. In the process, definitively putting an end to and making a stand against the false slander spread by unfriendly tongues, that have brazenly tried to turn your—let’s be honest—simulated and feigned kindness to the Witcher into a vulgar affair. But enough of that, it’s not worth belabouring the point.
I’d be the happiest of people, my dear Coral, if you were to visit me in Rissberg. I don’t have to add that one word of yours, one gesture, one smile is enough for me to hasten to you as quickly as I might.
Yours with heartfelt respect,
Pinety
P.S. The unfriendly tongues I mentioned posit that your favour towards the Witcher comes from a desire to annoy our consoror Yennefer, who is still said to be interested in the Witcher. The naivety and ignorance of those schemers is indeed pitiful. Since it is widely known that Yennefer is in an ardent relationship with a certain young entrepreneur from the jewellery trade, and she cares as much about the Witcher and his transient love affairs as she does about last year’s snow.
INTERLUDE
The Highly Honourable
Lord Algernon Guincamp
Rissberg Castle
Ex urbe Kerack,
die 5 mens. Jul. anno 1245 p. R.
My dear Pinety,
Thanks for the letter, you haven’t written to me in ages. Why, there clearly has been nothing to write about or any reason to do so.
Your concern about my health and mood is endearing, also about whether things go as I would wish. I inform you with satisfaction that everything is turning out as it ought, and I’m sparing no effort in that regard. Every man, as you know, steers his own ship. Please note that I steer my ship with a sure hand through squalls and reefs, holding my head high, whenever the storm rages around.
As far as my health is concerned, everything is in order, as a matter of fact. Not only physically, but psychologically too, for some little time, since I’ve had what I’d long been lacking. I only realised how much I was missing it when I stopped missing it.
I’m glad the enterprise requiring the Witcher’s participation is heading towards success; my modest contribution in the enterprise fills me with pride. Your sorrow is needless, my dear Pinety, if you think it involved suffering, sacrifices and difficulties. It wasn’t quite so bad. Geralt is indeed a veritable conglomeration of vices. I nevertheless also uncovered in him—sine ira et studio—virtues. Considerable ones, at that. I vouch that many a man, were he to know, would worry. And many would envy.
We have become accustomed to the gossip, rumours, tall tales and intrigues of which you write, my dear Pinety, we know how to cope with them. And the method is simple: ignore them. I’m sure you recall the gossip about you and Sabrina Glevissig when it was rumoured there was something between us? I ignored it. I advise you to do the same now.
Bene vale,
Coral
P.S. I’m extremely
busy. A potential rendezvous seems impossible for the foreseeable future.
They wander through various lands, and their tastes and moods demand that they be sans all dependencies. That means they recognise not any authority—human or divine. They respect not any laws or principles. They believe themselves innocent of and uncontaminated by any obedience. Being fraudsters by nature, they live by divinations with which they deceive simple folk, serve as spies, distribute counterfeit amulets, fraudulent medicaments, stimulants and narcotics, also dabble in harlotry; that is, they supply paying customers with lewd maidens for filthy pleasures. When they know poverty, they are not ashamed to beg or commit common theft, but they prefer swindles and fraud. They delude the naive that they supposedly protect people, that supposedly they kill monsters for the sake of folk’s safety, but that is a lie. Long ago was it proven that they do it for their own amusement, for killing is a first-rate diversion to them. In preparing for their work, they make certain magic spells, howbeit it is but to delude the eyes of observers. Devout priests at once uncovered the falsity and jiggery-pokery to the confusion of those devil’s servants who call themselves witchers.
Anonymous, Monstrum, or a description of witchers
CHAPTER NINE
Rissberg looked neither menacing nor impressive. There it was, a small castle like many others, of average size, elegantly built into the mountain’s steep sides, hugging a cliff, its bright wall contrasting with the evergreen of a spruce forest, the tiles of two quadrangular towers—one tall, the other lower—overlooking the treetops. The wall surrounding the castle wasn’t—as it transpired from close up—too tall and wasn’t topped by battlements, while the small towers positioned at the corners and over the gatehouse were more decorative than defensive.
The road meandering around the hill bore the signs of intensive use. For it was used, and used intensively. The Witcher was soon overtaking carts, carriages, lone riders and pedestrians. Plenty of travellers were also moving in the opposite direction, away from the castle. Geralt guessed at the destination of these pilgrimages. Which was proved correct, it turned out, after he’d only just left the forest.
The flat hilltop beneath the curtain of the wall was occupied by a small town built of timber, reeds and straw; an entire complex of large and small buildings and roofs surrounded by a fence and enclosures for horses and livestock. There was a hubbub and people moved around briskly, like at a market or a fair. For it was indeed a fair, a bazaar, an open market; except neither poultry, fish nor vegetables were traded there. The goods on sale below the castle were magic—amulets, talismans, elixirs, opiates, philtres, decocts, extracts, distillates, concoctions, incense, syrups, scents, powders and ointments, as well as various practical enchanted objects, tools, domestic equipment, decorations, and even children’s toys. The whole assortment attracted purchasers in great numbers. There was demand, there was supply—and business was clearly flourishing.
The road divided. The Witcher headed along the path leading towards the castle gate, considerably less rutted than the other, which led the buyers towards the marketplace. He rode across the cobbled area in front of the gatehouse, along an avenue of menhirs specially set there, mostly considerably taller than him on his horse. He was soon greeted by a gate, more suited to a palace than a castle, decorated with pilasters and a pediment. The Witcher’s medallion vibrated powerfully. Roach neighed, her horseshoes clattering on the cobbles, and stopped abruptly.
“Identity and purpose of visit.”
He raised his head. A rasping and echoing voice, undoubtedly female, seemed to emerge from the wide-open mouth of the harpy’s head depicted on the tympanum. His medallion quivered and the mare snorted. Geralt felt a strange tightness at the temples.
“Identity and purpose of visit,” came the voice from the hole in the relief. A little louder than before.
“Geralt of Rivia, witcher. I’m expected.”
The harpy’s head uttered a sound resembling a trumpet call. The magic blocking the portal vanished, the pressure at his temples stopped at once, and the mare set off without being urged. Her hooves clattered on the stones.
He rode from the portal into a cul-de-sac ringed by a cloister. Two servants—boys in practical brown and grey attire—ran over to him at once. One attended to the horse and the other served as a guide.
“This way, sire.”
“Is it always like this here? Such a commotion? Down there in the suburbs?”
“No, sire.” The servant threw a frightened glance at him. “Nobbut on Wednesdays. Wednesday’s market day.”
On the arcaded finial of the next portal was a cartouche bearing another relief, undoubtedly also magical, depicting an amphisbaena’s maw. The portal was closed off by an ornate, solid-looking grille, which, however, opened easily and smoothly when the servant pushed against it.
The next courtyard was significantly larger. And the castle could only be properly admired from there. The view from a distance, it turned out, was very deceptive.
Rissberg was much larger than it appeared to be. A complex of severe and unsightly buildings—seldom encountered in castle architecture—extended deep into the mountain wall. The buildings looked like factories and probably were. For there were chimneys and ventilation pipes protruding from them. The smell of burning, sulphur and ammonia was in the air and the ground trembled slightly, proof that some kind of subterranean machinery was in operation.
A cough from the servant drew Geralt’s attention away from the industrial complex. For they were supposed to be going the other way, towards the lower of the two towers rising above the buildings with more classical architecture, befitting a palace. The interior also turned out to be typical of a palace: it smelled of dust, wood, wax and old junk. It was bright: magic balls veiled in haloes of light—the standard illumination of sorcerers’ dwelling places—floated beneath the ceiling, as languid as fish in an aquarium.
“Welcome, Witcher.”
The welcome party turned out to be two sorcerers. He knew them both, although not personally. Yennefer had once pointed out Harlan Tzara to him, and Geralt remembered him because he was probably the only mage to cultivate a completely shaven head. He remembered the other, Algernon Guincamp, called Pinety, from the academy in Oxenfurt.
“Welcome to Rissberg,” Pinety greeted him. “We’re glad you agreed to come.”
“Are you mocking me? I’m not here of my own will. In order to force me to come, Lytta Neyd shoved me in the clink—”
“But, she extracted you later,” interrupted Tzara, “and rewarded you amply. She made good your discomfort with great, hmm, devotion. Word has it that you’ve been enjoying her … company for at least a week.”
Geralt fought the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. Pinety must have noticed it.
“Pax.” He raised a hand. “Pax, Harlan. Let’s end these squabbles. Let’s give this battle of snide remarks and acerbities a miss. We know Geralt has something against us, it’s audible in every word he utters. We know why that is, we know how the affair with Yennefer saddened him. And the reaction of the wizarding community to the affair. We shan’t change that. But Geralt is a professional, he will know how to rise above it.”
“He will,” Geralt admitted caustically. “But the question is whether he’ll want to. Can we finally get to the point? Why am I here?”
“We need you,” said Tzara dryly. “You in particular.”
“Me in particular. Ought I to feel honoured? Or to start feeling afraid?”
“You are celebrated, Geralt of Rivia,” said Pinety. “Your deeds and exploits are indeed regarded by general consensus as spectacular and admirable. You may not especially count on our admiration, as you conclude. We aren’t so inclined to show our esteem, particularly to someone like you. But we’re able to acknowledge professionalism and respect experience. The facts speak for themselves. You are, I dare say, an outstanding … hmm—”
“Yes?”
“—eliminator.” Pinety fo
und the word without difficulty; he had clearly prepared it in advance. “Someone who eliminates monsters and beasts that endanger people.”
Geralt made no comment. He waited.
“Our aim, the aim of all sorcerers, is also people’s prosperity and safety. Thus, we may talk of a community of interests. Occasional misunderstandings ought not to obscure that. The lord of this castle gave us to understand that not long ago. He is aware of you and would like to meet you personally. That is his wish.”
“Ortolan.”
“Grandmaster Ortolan. And his closest collaborators. You will be introduced. Later. The servants will show you to your quarters. You may refresh yourself after your journey. Rest. We’ll send for you soon.”
Geralt pondered. He recalled everything he had ever heard about Grandmaster Ortolan. Who was—as general consensus had it—a living legend.
Ortolan was a living legend, a person who had rendered extraordinary service to the magic arts.
His obsession was the popularisation of magic. Unlike the majority of sorcerers, he thought that the benefits and advantages deriving from supernatural powers ought to be a common good and serve to strengthen universal prosperity, comfort and general bliss. It was Ortolan’s dream that everybody ought to have guaranteed free access to magical elixirs and medicaments. Magical amulets, talismans and every kind of artefact ought to be universally and freely available. Telepathy, telekinesis, teleportation and telecommunication ought to be the privilege of every citizen. In order to achieve that, Ortolan was endlessly coming up with things. Meaning inventions. Some just as legendary as he himself.
Reality painfully challenged the venerable sorcerer’s fantasies. None of his inventions—intended to popularise and democratise magic—moved beyond the prototype phase. Everything that Ortolan thought up—and what in principle ought to have been simple—turned out to be horrendously complicated. Everything that was meant to be mass-produced turned out to be devilishly expensive. But Ortolan didn’t lose heart and, instead of discouraging him, the fiascos aroused him to greater efforts. Leading to further fiascos.
Season of Storms Page 11