Season of Storms

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “What’s happening today?”

  “Regarding that, please see my superiors. They ordered me to search everybody.”

  The instigator swore under his breath and yielded to the search. He didn’t even have a penknife.

  “I’d like to know what this is all about,” he said when they were finally walking along the corridor. “I’m seriously perturbed. Seriously perturbed, Witcher.”

  “Did you see Dandelion? He was apparently summoned to the palace to sing.”

  “I know nothing of that.”

  “But did you know that the Acherontia has sailed into harbour? Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “A great deal. And my anxiety grows. By the minute. Let’s make haste!”

  Guardsmen armed with partisans were moving around the vestibule—once the temple cloisters—and blue and red uniforms also flitted through the cloisters. The clatter of boots and raised voices reached them from the corridor.

  “I say!” said the instigator, beckoning at a passing soldier. “Sergeant! What’s going on here?”

  “Forgive me, Your Excellency … I’m hurrying with orders …”

  “Stand still, I say! What’s going on? I demand an explanation! Is something the matter? Where is Prince Egmund?”

  “Mr. Ferrant de Lettenhove.”

  King Belohun himself stood in a doorway, beneath standards bearing the blue dolphin, accompanied by four sturdy toughs in leather jerkins. He had disposed of his royal trappings, so he didn’t look like a king. He looked like a peasant whose cow had just calved and given birth to a gorgeous specimen.

  “Mr. Ferrant de Lettenhove.” Joy at the calf could also be heard in the king’s voice. “The royal instigator. I mean, my instigator. Or perhaps not mine. Perhaps my son’s. You appear, although I haven’t summoned you. In principle, being here at this moment was your professional duty, but I didn’t summon you. Let Ferrant, I thought to myself, let Ferrant eat, drink, pick up a bit of skirt and shag her in the bower. I won’t summon him, I don’t want him here. Do you know why I didn’t want you? Because I wasn’t certain who you serve. Whom do you serve, Ferrant?”

  “I serve Your Majesty,” replied the instigator, bowing low. “And I’m utterly devoted to Your Majesty.”

  “Did you all hear that?” asked the king, looking around theatrically. “Ferrant is devoted to me! Very well, Ferrant, very well. I expected an answer like that, O royal instigator. You may remain, you’ll come in useful. I shall at once charge you with a task befitting an instigator … I say! And this one? Who is it? Just a minute! Could it be that witcher who engages in swindles? Whom the sorceress fingered?”

  “He turned out to be innocent, the sorceress was misled. He had been informed upon—”

  “The innocent are not informed upon.”

  “It was a decision of the court. The case was closed owing to lack of evidence.”

  “But there was a case, meaning there was a stink. Decisions of the court and its verdicts derive from the imaginations and caprices of court officers, while the stink issues from the very nub of the case. That’s all I wish to say, I won’t waste time on lectures about jurisprudence. On the day of my marriage I can show magnanimity, not order him locked up, but get that witcher out of my sight at once. And may he never darken my door again!”

  “Your Majesty … I am perturbed … Acherontia has allegedly sailed into port. In this situation safety considerations dictate the need for protection … The Witcher could …”

  “Could what? Shield me with his own bosom? Paralyse the assassins with a witcher spell? For did Egmund, my loving son, charge him with such a task? To protect his father and ensure his safety? Step this way, Ferrant. Why, and you bloody come too, Witcher. I’ll show you something. You’ll see how one takes care of one’s own safety and guarantees oneself protection. Have a good look. Listen. Perhaps you’ll learn something. And find something out. About yourselves. Come on, follow me!”

  They set off, urged by the king and surrounded by the bruisers in leather jerkins. They entered a large room where a throne stood on a dais beneath a plafond decorated with waves and sea monsters. Belohun seated himself on the throne. Opposite, beneath a fresco portraying a stylised map of the world, the king’s sons sat on a bench, guarded by other bruisers. The princes of Kerack. The coal-black-haired Egmund and the albino-blonde Xander.

  Belohun sat back comfortably on his throne. He looked down on his sons with the air of a victorious commander before whom kneel his enemies, crushed in battle, begging for mercy. However, the victors on the paintings Geralt had seen usually wore expressions of gravity, dignity, nobility and magnamity for the vanquished. One would have searched in vain for that on Belohun’s face. It was painted with nothing but scathing derision.

  “My court jester fell ill yesterday,” spoke the king. “He came down with the shits. What bad luck, I thought, there’ll be no jokes, no japes, no fun and games. I was wrong. It’s funny. So funny, it’s side-splitting. For you, you two, my sons, are hilarious. Pathetic, but hilarious. In the coming years, I guarantee, lying in bed with my little wife, after amorous capers and frolics, whenever we recall you and this day, we shall laugh until we weep. For there’s nothing funnier than a fool.”

  Xander, it was readily apparent, was afraid. His eyes were sweeping over the chamber and he was sweating profusely. Egmund, on the contrary, didn’t evince any fear. He looked his father straight in the eyes and returned the derision as his father spoke on.

  “Folk wisdom declares: hope for the best, expect the worst. So, I was prepared for the worst. For could there be anything worse than betrayal by one’s own sons? I placed agents among your most trusted comrades. Your accomplices betrayed you immediately, as soon as I put the screws on them. Your factotums and favourites are right now fleeing the city.

  “Yes, my sons. You thought me deaf and blind? Old, senile and decrepit? You thought I couldn’t see that you both craved the throne and crown? That you desired them like a swine desires truffles? A swine that sniffs out a truffle loses its head. From desire, lust, urges and untamed appetite. The swine goes insane, squeals, burrows, paying no heed, as long as it can get hold of the truffles. You need to whack it severely with a stick to drive it away. And you, my sons, turned out to be just such swine. You sniffed out a mushroom and went berserk with lust and cravings. But you’ll receive shit—and no truffles. Though you will taste a thrashing. You acted against me, my sons, you violated my authority and person. The health of people who act against me usually deteriorates violently. It’s a fact confirmed by medical science.

  “The frigate Acherontia has dropped anchor in the harbour. It sailed here on my orders, it was I who commissioned the captain. The court will convene tomorrow morning and the verdict will be reached before noon. And at noon the two of you will be aboard the ship. They’ll only allow you to disembark once the frigate passes the lighthouse at Peixe de Mar. Which means in practical terms that your new place of abode will be Nazair. Ebbing. Maecht. Or Nilfgaard. Or the very end of the world and the gates of hell, if it’s your will to travel there. For you shall never return to these parts. Ever. If you want your heads to remain on your shoulders.”

  “You mean to banish us?” howled Xander. “As you banished Viraxas? Will you also forbid our names from being mentioned at court?”

  “I banished Viraxas in wrath and without a judgement. Which doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have him beheaded should he dare to return. The tribunal will sentence you to exile. Legally and bindingly.”

  “Are you so sure of that? We shall see! We shall see what the court has to say about such lawlessness!”

  “The court knows what verdict I expect and that’s the one it will pronounce. Unanimously.”

  “Like hell it’ll be unanimous! The courts are independent in this country.”

  “The courts may be. But the judges aren’t. You’re a fool, Xander. Your mother was as thick as two short planks and you take after her. You certainly didn’t concoct
the murder plot yourself, one of your favourites planned it all. But actually, I’m glad you did, I’ll gleefully rid myself of you. It’s different with Egmund, yes, Egmund is cunning. The Witcher, hired by the caring son to protect his father, ah, how shrewdly you kept that a secret, so that everybody found out. And then the contact poison. A wily thing, poison like that, my food and drink is tasted, but who would have thought of the handle of the poker from the fireplace in the royal bedchamber? The poker I use and don’t let anybody touch? Cunning, my son, cunning. Pity that your poisoner betrayed you, but that’s the way it is, traitors betray traitors. Why do you say nothing, Egmund? Do you have nothing to say?”

  Egmund’s eyes were cold and still showed no traces of fear. He isn’t at all daunted by the prospect of banishment, thought Geralt. He isn’t thinking about banishment or going into exile, isn’t thinking about the Acherontia, isn’t thinking about Peixe de Mar. So what is he thinking about?

  “Nothing to say, son?” repeated the King.

  “Only one thing,” Egmund said through pursed lips. “From the folk wisdom you’re so fond of. ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’ Remember my words, father dear. When the time comes.”

  “Take them away, lock them up and guard them,” ordered Belohun. “That’s your job, Ferrant, the job of the instigator. And now call the tailor in here, the marshal of the court and the notary, everyone else—out. And you, Witcher … You’ve learned something today, haven’t you? Have you learned something about yourself? Namely, that you’re a naive chump? If you’ve understood that then there’ll be some benefit from your visit today. A visit which has just finished. Hi, over there, two men to me. Escort this witcher to the gate and eject him from it. Making sure first that he hasn’t swiped any of the silverware!”

  Captain Ropp barred their way in the corridor outside the throne room. Accompanied by two individuals with similar eyes, movements and bearing. Geralt would have wagered that all three of them had once served in the same unit. He suddenly understood. He suddenly realised he knew what was about to happen, how things would develop. Thus, it came as no surprise to him when Ropp announced he was taking control of the escort and ordered the guardsmen away. The Witcher knew the captain would order him to follow. As he had expected, the other two men were close behind.

  He had a foreboding about who he would find in the chamber they were about to enter.

  Dandelion was as white as a sheet and clearly terrified. But probably unharmed. He was sitting on a chair with a high backrest. Behind the chair stood a skinny character with hair combed and plaited into a queue. The character was holding a misericorde with a long, narrow, four-sided blade. The blade was pressed against the poet’s neck, below his jaw, slanting upwards.

  “No funny business,” warned Ropp. “No funny business, witcher. One false move, even one twitch, and Mr. Samsa will stick the minstrel like a hog. He won’t hesitate.”

  Geralt knew that Mr. Samsa wouldn’t hesitate. Because Mr. Samsa’s eyes were even nastier than Ropp’s. They were eyes with a very specific expression. People with eyes like that could occasionally be come across in morgues and anatomy laboratories. They weren’t employed there by any means to support themselves, but to have the opportunity to indulge their dark predilections.

  Geralt now understood why Prince Egmund had been so calm. Why he had been looking ahead fearlessly. And into his father’s eyes.

  “We ask you to be obedient,” said Ropp. “If you’re obedient, you’ll both get out alive.

  “Do what we ask and we’ll release you and the poetaster,” the captain continued to lie. “If you’re obstructive we’ll kill you both.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Ropp.”

  “Mr. Samsa will remain here with the minstrel,” said Ropp, unconcerned by the warning. “We—I mean you and I—will go to the royal chambers. There’ll be a guard. I have your sword, as you see. I’ll give it back to you and you’ll deal with the sentries. And the reinforcements that the guards will summon before you kill them all. On hearing the din, the chamber man will spirit the king away through a secret exit, and Messrs Richter and Tverdoruk will be waiting there. They will change the succession of the throne and the history of the local monarchy.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Ropp.”

  “Now,” said the captain, moving in very close. “Now you will confirm that you’ve understood the task and will execute it. Should you not, before I count to ten under my breath, Mr. Samsa will rupture the minstrel’s right eardrum and I shall carry on counting. If the desired result does not ensue, Mr. Samsa stabs the other ear. And will then gouge out the poet’s eye. And so on, to the bitter end, which is a jab to the brain. I’m starting to count, Witcher.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Geralt!” Dandelion somehow managed to make a sound from his constricted throat. “They won’t dare to touch me! I’m famous!”

  “He doesn’t seem to be taking us seriously. Mr. Samsa, the right ear.”

  “Stop! No!”

  “That’s better,” nodded Ropp. “Much better, Witcher. Confirm that you’ve understood the task. And that you’ll execute it.”

  “First, move that dagger away from the poet’s ear.”

  “Ha,” snorted Mr. Samsa, lifting the misericorde high over his head. “Is that better?”

  “Better.”

  Geralt’s left hand caught Ropp by the wrist and his right seized the hilt of his sword. He pulled the captain towards him with a powerful tug and headbutted him in the face with all his strength. There was a crunching sound. The Witcher jerked the sword from the scabbard before Ropp fell and with one fluid movement coming out of a short spin hacked off Samsa’s raised hand. Samsa yelled and dropped to his knees. Richter and Tverdoruk, daggers drawn, fell on the Witcher, who spun among them. In passing, he slit open Richter’s neck and blood spurted right up to the chandelier on the ceiling. Tverdoruk attacked, leaping in knifeman’s feints, but he tripped on Ropp’s inert body, losing his balance for a moment. Geralt didn’t let him recover. With a rapid lunge, he slashed him from below in the groin and a second time from above in the carotid artery. Tverdoruk fell over and curled up in a ball.

  Mr. Samsa took him by surprise. Although lacking his right hand, although gushing blood from the stump, he found the misericorde on the floor with his left hand. And aimed it at Dandelion. The poet screamed, yet demonstrated presence of mind. He fell from his chair and put it between himself and the assailant. Geralt didn’t let Mr. Samsa do anything else. Blood once again splashed the ceiling, the chandelier and the candle-ends stuck into it.

  Dandelion got up from his knees, rested his forehead against the wall, then vomited extremely copiously and splattering the floor.

  Ferrant de Lettenhove rushed into the chamber with several guardsmen.

  “What’s going on? What happened? Julian! Are you in one piece? Julian!”

  Dandelion raised a hand, signalling that he would answer in a moment, because he didn’t have time right then. And vomited again.

  The instigator ordered the guardsmen to leave and closed the door behind them. He looked at the bodies, cautiously, so as not to tread in the spilt blood and making certain that the blood dripping from the chandelier didn’t stain his doublet.

  “Samsa, Tverdoruk, Richter,” he said, listing them. “And Master Captain Ropp. Prince Egmund’s confidants.”

  “They carried out their orders,” said the Witcher, shrugging, looking down at his sword. “Like you, they obeyed their orders. And you didn’t know anything about it. Confirm that, Ferrant.”

  “I didn’t know anything about it,” the instigator confirmed hastily and stepped back, leaning against the wall. “I swear! You can’t possibly suspect … You don’t think …”

  “If I did you’d be dead. I believe you. You wouldn’t have risked Dandelion’s life, after all.”

  “The king must be informed. I’m afraid that for Prince Egmund it may mean amendments and appendices to the indictment. Ropp is alive, I
think. He’ll testify …”

  “I doubt he’ll be in a fit state.”

  The instigator examined the captain, who was lying, stretched out in a pool of urine, salivating copiously and trembling incessantly.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Shards of nasal bones in the brain. And probably several splinters in his eyeballs.”

  “You struck him too hard.”

  “That was my intention,” said Geralt, wiping the sword blade with a napkin taken from the table. “Dandelion, how are you? Everything in order? Can you stand?”

  “I’m good, I’m good,” gibbered Dandelion. “I’m feeling better. Much better …”

  “You don’t look like someone who’s feeling better.”

  “Dammit, I’ve barely escaped with my life!” said the poet, getting to his feet and holding on to a bureau. “For fuck’s sake, I’ve never been so afraid … I felt like the insides were falling out of my arse. And that everything would drop out of me, teeth included. But when I saw you I knew you’d save me. I mean, I didn’t, but I was counting strongly on it … How much sodding blood there is … How it stinks in here! I think I’m going to puke again …”

  “We’re going to the king,” said Ferrant de Lettenhove. “Give me your sword, Witcher … And clean it a little. You stay here, Julian—”

  “Fuck that. I’m not staying here for a moment. I prefer sticking close to Geralt.”

  The entrance to the royal antechambers was being guarded by sentries who, however, recognised the instigator and let him through. But getting into the actual chambers was not so straightforward. A herald, two seneschals and their entourage, consisting of four bruisers, turned out to be an insurmountable obstacle.

  “The king is being fitted for his wedding outfit,” the herald pronounced. “He made it clear he is not to be disturbed.”