It was suspected—although, naturally, this never dawned on Ortolan himself—that the cause of the inventor’s failures was often sheer sabotage. It wasn’t caused by—well, not just—by the simple envy of the sorcerers’ brotherhood, the reluctance to popularise the art of magic, which sorcerers and sorceresses preferred to see in the hands of the elite—i.e. their own. The fears were more about inventions of a military and lethal nature.
And the fears were justified. Like every inventor, Ortolan had phases of fascination with explosive and flammable materials, siege catapults, armoured chariots, crude firearms, sticks that hit by themselves and poison gases. Universal peace among nations is a condition of prosperity, the old man tried to prove, and peace is achieved by arming oneself. The most certain method of preventing wars is to have a terrible weapon as a deterrent: the more terrible it is, the more enduring and certain the peace. Because Ortolan wasn’t accustomed to listening to arguments, saboteurs who torpedoed his dangerous inventions were hidden among his inventing team. Almost none of the inventions saw the light of day. An exception was the notorious missile-hurler, the subject of numerous anecdotes. It was a kind of telekinetic arbalest with a large container for lead missiles. This missile-hurler—as the name suggested—was meant to throw missiles at a target, in whole series. The prototype made it out of Rissberg’s walls—astonishingly—and it was even tested in some skirmish or other. With pitiful results, however. The artilleryman using the invention, when asked about the weapon’s usefulness, apparently said that the missile-hurler was like his mother-in-law. Heavy, ugly, totally useless and only fit to be taken and thrown in a river. The old sorcerer wasn’t upset when this was relayed to him. The weapon was a toy—he was said to have declared—and he already had many more advanced projects on his drawing board capable of mass destruction. He, Ortolan, would give humanity the benefit of peace, even if it would first be necessary to destroy half of it.
The wall of the chamber where he was led was graced by a huge tapestry, a masterpiece of weaving, of Arcadian verdure. The tapestry was marred by a stain, somewhat resembling a large squid, that hadn’t been completely washed off. Someone, thought the Witcher, must have puked up on the masterpiece not long before.
Seven people were seated at a long table occupying the centre of the chamber.
“Master Ortolan.” Pinety bowed slightly. “Let me introduce to you Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher.”
Ortolan’s appearance didn’t surprise Geralt. It was believed he was the world’s oldest living sorcerer. Perhaps that was really true, perhaps not, but the fact remained that Ortolan was the oldest-looking sorcerer. This was strange, in so far as Ortolan was the inventor of a celebrated mandrake decoction, an elixir used by sorcerers in order to arrest the ageing process. Ortolan himself, when he had finally developed a reliably acting formula for the magical liquid, didn’t gain much benefit from it, because by then he was quite advanced in age. The elixir prevented ageing, but by no means rejuvenated. For which reason Ortolan too, although he had used the remedy for a long time, continued to look like an old codger—particularly when compared to his confraters: venerable sorcerers, who resembled men in the prime of life, and his consorors: world-weary sorceresses, who looked like maids. The sorceresses bursting with youth and charm and the slightly grey-haired sorcerers, whose real dates of birth had vanished in the mists of time, jealously guarded the secrets of Ortolan’s elixir, and sometimes quite simply even denied its existence. Meanwhile, they kept Ortolan convinced that the elixir was generally available, owing to which humanity was practically immortal and—consequently—absolutely happy.
“Geralt of Rivia,” repeated Ortolan, crushing a tuft of his grey beard in his hand. “Indeed, indeed, we have heard. The Witcher. A defender, they say, a guardian, protecting people from Evil. A prophylactic agent and esteemed antidote to all fearsome Evil.”
Geralt assumed a modest expression and bowed.
“Indeed, indeed …” continued the mage, tugging at his beard. “We know, we know. According to all testimony you spare not your strength to defend folk, my boy, you spare it not. And your practice is verily estimable, your craft is estimable. We welcome you to our castle, content that the fates brought you here. For though you may not know it yourself, you have returned like a bird to its nest … Verily, like a bird. We are glad to see you and trust that you also are glad to see us. Eh?”
Geralt was undecided about how to address Ortolan. Sorcerers didn’t recognise polite forms and didn’t expect them from others. But he didn’t know if that was acceptable with regard to a grey-haired and grey-bearded old man, and a living legend to boot. Instead of speaking, he bowed again.
Pinety introduced the sorcerers seated at the table in turn. Geralt had heard of some of them.
The forehead and cheeks of Axel Esparza, more widely known as Pockmarked Axel, were indeed covered with pitted scars. He hadn’t removed them, so went the rumour, out of sheer contrariness. The slightly grizzled Myles Trethevey and slightly more grizzled Stucco Zangenis examined the Witcher with moderate interest. The interest of Biruta Icarti, a moderately attractive blonde, seemed a little greater. Tarvix Sandoval, broad-shouldered, with a physique more befitting a knight than a sorcerer, looked to one side, at the tapestry, as though he was also admiring the stain and was wondering where it came from and who was responsible for it.
The seat nearest Ortolan was occupied by Sorel Degerlund, apparently the youngest of those present, whose long hair lent him a slightly effeminate look.
“We, too, welcome the famous Witcher, the defender of folk,” said Biruta Icarti. “We are glad to welcome you, since we also toil in this castle under the auspices of Grandmaster Ortolan, in order that thanks to progress we will make people’s lives safer and easier. People’s best interests are our overriding goal, too. The grandmaster’s age doesn’t permit us overly to prolong the audience. Thus, I shall ask what is appropriate: do you have any wishes, Geralt of Rivia? Is there something we can do for you?”
“I thank you, Grandmaster Ortolan.” Geralt bowed again. “And you, distinguished sorcerers. And since you embolden me with the question … Yes, there is something you can do for me. You could enlighten me … about this. This thing. I tore it from a vigilosaur I killed.”
He placed on the table the oval plate the size of a child’s hand. With characters embossed in it.
“RISS PSREP Mk IV/002 025,” Pockmarked Axel read aloud. And passed the plate to Sandoval.
“It’s a mutation, created here, by us, at Rissberg,” Sandoval stated bluntly. “In the pseudoreptile section. It’s a guard lizard. Mark four, series two, specimen twenty-five. Obsolete, we’ve been manufacturing an improved model for a long time. What else needs explaining?”
“He says he killed the vigilosaur.” Stucco Zangenis grimaced. “So, it’s not about an explanation, but a claim. We only accept and look into complaints, Witcher, from legal buyers, and only on the basis of proof of purchase. We only service and remove defects on the basis of proof of purchase …”
“That model’s guarantee expired long ago,” added Myles Trethevey. “And anyway, no guarantee covers defects resulting from inappropriate use of the product or in breach of the operating instructions. If the product was used inappropriately, Rissberg doesn’t take responsibility. Of any kind.”
“And do you take responsibility for this?” Geralt took another plate from his pocket and threw it down on the table.
The other plate was similar in shape and size to the previous one, but darkened and tarnished. Dirt had become embedded and fused into the grooves. But the characters were still legible:
IDR UL Ex IX 0012 BETA.
A long silence fell.
“Idarran of Ulivo,” Pinety said at last, surprisingly quietly and surprisingly hesitantly. “One of Alzur’s students. I never expected …”
“Where did you get it, Witcher?” Pockmarked Axel leaned across the table. “How did you come by it?”
“You ask as
though you didn’t know,” retorted Geralt. “I dug it out of the carapace of a creature I killed. One that had murdered at least twenty people in the district. At least twenty—for I think it was many more. I think it had been killing for years.”
“Idarran …” muttered Tarvix Sandoval. “And before him Malaspina and Alzur …”
“But it wasn’t us,” said Zangenis. “It wasn’t us. Not Rissberg.”
“Experimental model nine,” added Biruta Icarti pensively. “Beta version. Specimen twelve …”
“Specimen twelve,” Geralt chimed in, not without spitefulness. “And how many were there all together? How many were manufactured? I won’t be getting an answer to my question about responsibility, that’s clear, because it wasn’t you, it wasn’t Rissberg, you’re clean and you want me to believe that. But at least tell me, because you surely know how many of them there are wandering around in forests, murdering people. How many of them will have to be found? And hacked to death? I meant to say: eliminated.”
“What is it, what is it?” Ortolan suddenly became animated. “What do you have there? Show me! Ah …”
Sorel Degerlund leaned over towards the old man’s ear, and whispered for a long time. Myles Trethevey, showing him the plate, whispered from the other side. Ortolan tugged at his beard.
“Killed it?” he suddenly shouted in a high, thin voice. “The Witcher? Destroyed Idarran’s work of genius? Killed it? Unthinkingly destroyed it?”
The Witcher couldn’t control himself. He snorted. His respect for advanced age and grey hair suddenly abandoned him altogether. He snorted again. And then laughed. Heartily and relentlessly.
The stony faces of the sorcerers sitting at the table, rather than restraining him, made him even more amused. By the devil, he thought, I don’t remember when I last laughed so heartily. Probably in Kaer Morhen, he recalled, yes, in Kaer Morhen. When that rotten plank broke underneath Vesemir in the privy.
“He’s still laughing, the pup,” cried out Ortolan. “He’s neighing like an ass! Doltish whippersnapper! To think I came to your defence when others vilified you! So what if he has become enamoured of little Yennefer? I said. And what if little Yennefer dotes on him? The heart is no servant, I said, leave them both in peace!”
Geralt stopped laughing.
“And what have you done, most stupid of assassins?” the old man yelled. “What did you do? Do you comprehend what a work of art, what a miracle of genetics you have ruined? No, no, you cannot conceive of that with your shallow mind, layman! You cannot comprehend the ideas of brilliant people! Such as Idarran and Alzur, his teacher, who were graced with genius and extraordinary talent! Who invented and created great works, meant to serve humanity, without taking profit, nor taking base mammon into account, not recreation nor diversion, but solely progress and the commonweal! But what can you apprehend of such things? You apprehend nothing, nothing, nothing, not a scrap!
“And indeed, I tell you further,” Ortolan panted, “that you have dishonoured the work of your own fathers with this imprudent murder. For it was Cosimo Malaspina, and after him his student Alzur, yes, Alzur, who created the witchers. They invented the mutation owing to which men like you were bred. Owing to which you exist, owing to which you walk upon this earth, ungrateful one. You ought to esteem Alzur, his successors and their works, and not destroy them! Oh dear … Oh dear …”
The old sorcerer suddenly fell silent, rolled his eyes and groaned heavily.
“I needs must to the stool,” he announced plaintively. “I needs must quickly to the stool! Sorel! My dear boy!”
Degerlund and Trethevey leaped up from their seats, helped the old man stand up and led him out of the chamber.
A short while after, Biruta Icarti stood up. She threw the Witcher a very expressive glance, then exited without a word. Sandoval and Zangenis headed out after her, not even looking at Geralt at all. Pockmarked Axel stood up and crossed his arms on his chest. He looked at Geralt for a long time. Lengthily and rather unpleasantly.
“It was a mistake to invite you,” he said finally. “I knew it. But I deluded myself in thinking you’d muster up even a semblance of good manners.”
“It was a mistake to accept your invitation,” Geralt replied coldly. “I also knew it. But I deluded myself in thinking I would receive answers to my questions. How many numbered masterpieces are still at large? How many similar masterworks did Malaspina, Alzur and Idarran manufacture? And the esteemed Ortolan? How many more monsters bearing your plates will I have to kill? I, a witcher, prophylactic agent and antidote? I didn’t receive an answer and I well apprehend why not. Regarding good manners, however: fuck off, Esparza.”
Esparza the Pockmarked slammed the door as he went out. So hard that plaster fell from the ceiling.
“I don’t think I made a good impression,” concluded the Witcher. “But I didn’t expect to, hence there is no disappointment. But that probably isn’t everything, is it? So much trouble to get me here … And that would be all? Why, if it’s like that … Will I find a tavern selling alcohol in the suburbs? Can I toddle along now?”
“No,” replied Harlan Tzara. “No, you can’t.”
“Because it’s by no means all,” added Pinety.
The chamber he was led to wasn’t typical of the rooms where sorcerers usually received applicants. Usually—Geralt was well acquainted with the custom—mages gave audiences in large rooms with very formal, often severe and cheerless décor. It was practically unthinkable for a sorcerer to receive anybody in a private, personal room, a room able to provide information about the disposition, tastes and predilections of a mage—particularly about the type and specific character of the magic they made.
This time it was totally different. The chamber’s walls were decorated with numerous prints and watercolours, every last one of them of erotic or downright pornographic character. Models of sailing ships were displayed on shelves, delighting the eye with the precision of their details. Miniature sails proudly billowed out on tiny ships in bottles. There were numerous display cases of various sizes full of toy soldiers: cavalry and infantry, in all sorts of formations. Opposite the entrance, also behind glass, hung a stuffed and mounted brown trout. Of considerable size, for a trout.
“Be seated, Witcher.” Pinety, it became clear at once, was in charge.
Geralt sat down, scrutinising the stuffed trout. The fish must have weighed a good fifteen pounds alive. Assuming it wasn’t a plaster imitation.
“Magic protects us from being eavesdropped upon.” Pinety swept a hand through the air. “We shall thus be able finally to speak freely about the real reasons for your being brought here, Geralt of Rivia. The trout which so interests you was caught on a fly in the River Ribbon and weighed fourteen pounds nine ounces. It was released alive, and the display case contains a magically created copy. And now please concentrate. On what I’m about to tell you.”
“I’m ready. For anything.”
“We’re curious to know what experience you have with demons.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t been expecting that. And a short time before, he had thought that nothing would surprise him.
“And what is a demon? In your opinion?”
Harlan Tzara grimaced and shifted suddenly. Pinety appeased him with a look.
“There is a department of supernatural phenomena at the Academy of Oxenfurt,” he said. “Masters of magic give guest lectures there. Some of which concern the subject of demons and demonism, in the many aspects of that phenomenon, including the physical, metaphysical, philosophical and moral. But I think I’m telling you about it needlessly, for you attended those lectures, after all. I remember you, even though as a visiting student you would usually sit in the back row of the lecture theatre. I therefore repeat the question regarding your experience of demons. Be good enough to answer. Without being a smart aleck, if you please. Or feigning astonishment.”
“There isn’t a scrap of pretence in my astonishment,” Geralt replied
dryly. “It’s so sincere it pains me. How can it not astonish me when I, a simple witcher, a simple prophylactic agent and even more simple antidote, am asked about my experience with demons? And the questions are being asked by masters of magic, who lecture about demonism and its aspects at the university.”
“Answer the question.”
“I’m a witcher, not a sorcerer. Which means my experience comes nowhere near yours regarding demons. I attended your lectures at Oxenfurt, Guincamp. Anything important reached the back row of the lecture theatre. Demons are creatures from different worlds than ours. Elemental planes … dimensions, spacetimes or whatever they’re called. In order to have any kind of experience with a demon you have to invoke it, meaning forcibly extract it from its plane. It can only be accomplished using magic—”
“Not magic, but goetia,” interrupted Pinety. “There’s a fundamental difference. And don’t tell us what we already know. Answer the question that was asked. I request it for the third time, amazed by my own patience.”
“I’ll answer the question: yes, I have dealt with demons. I was hired twice in order to … eliminate them. I’ve dealt with two demons. With one that entered a wolf. And another that possessed a human being.”
“You ‘dealt’ with them.”
“Yes, I did. It wasn’t easy—”
“But it was feasible,” interjected Tzara. “In spite of what’s claimed. And it’s claimed that it’s impossible to destroy a demon.”
“I didn’t claim I ever destroyed a demon. I killed a wolf and a human being. Do the details interest you?”
Season of Storms Page 12