The wave descended on the harbour. People were screaming. The pier splintered and disintegrated under the weight of the mass of water, posts and planks went flying. The dock collapsed, cranes broke and fell over. A boat and launches moored by the wharf flew into the air like children’s toys, like boats made of bark launched in the gutter by street urchins. The cottages and shacks near the beach were simply washed away without leaving a trace. The wave burst into the river mouth, immediately turning it into some diabolical whirlpool. Crowds of people were fleeing from Palmyra, now under water, most of them running towards the upper city and the guardhouse. They survived. Others chose the riverbank as their escape route. Geralt saw them engulfed by the water.
“Another wave!” yelled Dandelion. “Another wave!”
It was true, there was another. And then a third. A fourth. A fifth. And a sixth. Walls of water rolled into the harbour and the port.
The waves struck the ships at anchor with immense force, and they thrashed about frantically. Geralt saw men falling from the decks.
Ships with their prows turned to windward fought bravely. For some time. They lost their masts, one after the next. Then the waves began to wash over them. They were engulfed by the foam and then re-emerged, were engulfed and re-emerged.
The first not to reappear was the post clipper Echo. It quite simply vanished. A moment later the same fate befell Fuchsia; the galley simply disintegrated. The taut anchor chain tore out the hull of Alke and the cog disappeared into the abyss in a flash. The prow and fo’c’sle of Albatross broke off under the pressure and the remains of the ship sank to the bottom like a stone. Vertigo’s anchor was wrenched off, the galleon danced on the crest of a wave, was spun around and shattered against the breakwater.
Acherontia, Pride of Cintra, Pandora Parvi and two galleons Geralt didn’t recognise raised their anchors and the waves bore them to the shore. This strategy was only seemingly an act of suicidal desperation. The captains had to choose between certain destruction in the bay and the risky manoeuvre of sailing into the river mouth.
The unknown galleons had no chance. Neither of them managed to align itself correctly. Both were smashed against the wharf.
Pride of Cintra and Acherontia lost their manoeuvrability too. They lurched into each other and became entangled, the waves tossing them onto the wharf and rending them to shreds. The water carried away the wreckage.
Pandora Parvi danced and leaped on the waves like a dolphin. But she held her course, borne straight into the mouth of the Adalatte which was roiling like a cauldron. Geralt heard the cries of people cheering the captain on.
Coral yelled, pointing.
A seventh wave was coming.
Geralt had estimated the previous ones—which were level with the ships’ masts—at about five or six fathoms or thirty to forty feet. The wave which was approaching now, obliterating the sky, was twice as high.
The people fleeing Palmyra, crowded by the guardhouse, began to scream. The gale knocked them down, hurled them to the ground and pinned them to the stockade.
The wave crashed down on Palmyra. And simply pulverised it, washed it off the face of the earth. The water reached the palisade in an instant, engulfing the people crowded there. The mass of timber being carried by the sea dropped onto the palisade, breaking the piles. The guardhouse collapsed and floated away.
The relentless watery battering ram struck the precipice. The hill shook so hard that Dandelion and Mozaïk fell down and Geralt only kept his balance with great difficulty.
“We must fly!” screamed Coral, hanging on to the balustrade. “Geralt! Let’s get out of here! More waves are coming!”
A wave crashed over them, swamping them. The people on the terrace who hadn’t fled earlier did now. They fled screaming, higher, ever higher, up the hill, towards the royal palace. A few stayed. Geralt recognised Ravenga and Antea Derris among them.
People screamed and pointed. To their left the waves were washing away the cliff beneath the villa district. The first villa crumpled like a house of cards and slid down the slope, straight into the maelstrom. Then a second, a third and a fourth.
“The city is disintegrating!” wailed Dandelion. “It’s falling apart!”
Lytta Neyd raised her arms. Chanted a spell. And vanished.
Mozaïk clutched Geralt’s arm. Dandelion yelled.
The water was right beneath them, below the terrace. And there were people in the water. Others were lowering poles and boathooks to them, ropes were being thrown and they were being pulled out. Not far from them, a powerfully built man dived into the whirlpool and swam to rescue a drowning woman.
Mozaïk screamed.
She saw a fragment from the roof of a cottage floating past. With some children clinging to it. Three children. Geralt unslung his sword from his back.
“Hold it, Dandelion!”
Geralt threw off his jacket. And dived into the water.
It wasn’t normal swimming and his normal swimming skills were fit for nothing. The waves tossed him upwards, downwards and sideways, pummelled him with the beams, planks and furniture spinning in the whirlpool. The mass of timber bearing down on him threatened to crush him to a pulp. When he finally swam over and caught hold of the roof he was already severely battered. The roof bucked and whirled in the waves like a spinning top. The children were bawling at various pitches.
Three, he thought. No way will I manage to carry all three of them.
He felt a shoulder alongside his.
“Two!” Antea Derris spat water and seized one of the children. “Take two!”
It wasn’t so simple. He peeled a little boy off and pinned him under one arm. A little girl was clinging to the rafters in such desperation that it took Geralt a long time to pry open her fingers. The waves, swamping and covering them, helped. The half-drowned little girl released the roof timbers and Geralt shoved her beneath his other arm. And then all three of them began to go under. The children gurgled and struggled. Geralt fought.
He had no idea how, but he swam up to the surface. A wave tossed him against the wall of the terrace, knocking the wind out of him. He didn’t release the children. The people above shouted, tried to help, reaching down with anything they could seize hold of. But to no avail. The whirlpool snatched them and carried them away. The Witcher slammed into somebody. It was Antea Derris with the little girl in her arms. She was putting up a fight, but he saw she was exhausted. She was struggling to hold her head and that of the child above water.
A splash alongside and faltering breathing. It was Mozaïk. She tore one of the children from Geralt’s arms and swam off. Geralt saw her being struck by a beam carried by the waves. She screamed but kept hold of the child.
The waves flung them against the wall of the terrace again. This time the people above were prepared, they’d even brought a ladder and were hanging from it with outstretched arms. They lifted up the children. The Witcher saw Dandelion grab Mozaïk and drag her onto the terrace.
Antea Derris looked at him. She had beautiful eyes. She smiled.
They were struck by the mass of timber—heavy stakes from the palisade—being carried on the wave.
One of them jabbed Antea Derris and crushed her against the terrace. She coughed up blood. A lot of blood. Then her head lolled on her chest and she vanished beneath the waves.
Geralt was hit by two stakes, one in the shoulder, the other in the hip. The impact paralysed him, totally numbing him in an instant. He choked on water and began to sink.
Someone seized him in a painful, iron grip and snatched him upwards, towards the surface and the light. He groped around and felt a powerful bicep as hard as rock. The strongman was pumping with his legs, forging through the water like a triton, shoving away the wood floating around and the drowned corpses spinning in the turmoil. Geralt came up right by the terrace. Shouts and cheers from above. Arms reaching out.
A moment later the Witcher was lying in a pool of water, coughing, spluttering and retching o
nto the terrace. Dandelion knelt beside him, as white as a sheet. Mozaïk was on his other side. Also pale-faced. But with trembling hands. Geralt sat up with difficulty.
“Antea?”
Dandelion shook his head and looked away. Mozaïk lowered her head onto her lap. He saw the sobbing shaking her shoulders.
His rescuer was sitting beside him. The strongman. Or to be more precise, strongwoman. The untidy bristles on the shaven head. The belly like pork shoulder covered in netting. The shoulders like a wrestler’s. The calves like a discus thrower’s.
“I owe you my life.”
“Don’t be soft …” said the commandant of the guardhouse, waving a dismissive arm. “Think nothing of it. And anyway, you’re an arse, and me and the girls are pissed off with you about that rumpus. So you’d better steer clear of us, or you’ll get a good hiding. Is that clear?”
“Indeed.”
“But I have to admit,” said the commandant, hawking noisily and shaking water from an ear. “You’re a courageous arse. A courageous arse, Geralt of Rivia.”
“What about you? What’s your name?”
“Violetta,” said the commandant and suddenly turned gloomy. “What about her? That one …”
“Antea Derris.”
“Antea Derris,” she repeated, grimacing. “Pity.”
“Pity.”
More people came to the terrace, it became crowded. The danger had passed, the sky had brightened up, the gale had stopped blowing, the pennants were hanging limp. The sea was calm, the water had receded. Leaving devastation and disarray. And corpses which the crabs were already scuttling over.
Geralt stood up with difficulty. Every movement and every breath returned as a throbbing pain in his side. His knee was aching intensely. Both his shirtsleeves had been torn off, he couldn’t recall exactly when he had lost them. The skin on his left elbow, right shoulder and probably his shoulder blade had been rubbed raw. He was bleeding from numerous shallow cuts. All in all, nothing serious, nothing he needed to worry about.
The sun had broken through the clouds, the sunlight glistened on the calming sea. The roof of the lighthouse at the end of the headland was sparkling. It was built of white and red brick, a relic of elven times. A relic that had endured many storms like that. And would endure many more, it would seem.
The schooner Pandora Parvi, having overcome the river mouth, which was now calm although still densely encumbered with flotsam, sailed out to anchor under full canvas as though taking part in a regatta. The crowd cheered.
Geralt helped Mozaïk stand up. Not many of her clothes remained on her, either. Dandelion gave her his cloak to cover herself up. And cleared his throat meaningfully.
Lytta Neyd was standing in front of them. With her medical bag on her shoulder.
“I came back,” she said, looking at the Witcher.
“No, you didn’t,” he retorted. “You left.”
She looked at him. With cold, strange eyes. And soon after fixed her gaze on something very distant, located very far over the Witcher’s right shoulder.
“So, you want to play it like that,” she stated coolly. “And leave a memory like that. Well, it’s your will, your choice. Although you might have chosen a little less lofty style. Farewell then. I’m going to offer help to the wounded and the needy. You clearly don’t need my help. Or me. Mozaïk!”
Mozaïk shook her head. And linked her arm through Geralt’s. Coral snorted.
“It’s like that, is it? That’s what you want? Like that? Well, it’s your will. Your choice. Farewell.”
She turned and walked away.
Febus Ravenga appeared in the crowd that had begun to gather on the terrace. He must have taken part in the rescue, because his wet clothes were hanging on him in shreds. An attentive factotum approached and handed him his hat. Or rather what remained of it.
“What now?” called a voice in the crowd. “What now, councillor?”
“What now? What shall we do?”
Ravenga looked at them. For a long time. Then straightened up, wrung out his hat and put it on.
“Bury the dead,” he said. “Take care of the living. And start rebuilding.”
The bell in the belfry tolled. As though it wanted to assert that it had survived. That although much had changed, certain things were unchanging.
“Let’s go,” said Geralt, pulling wet seaweed from his collar. “Dandelion? Where’s my sword?”
Dandelion choked, pointing at an empty place at the foot of a wall.
“A moment ago … They were here a moment ago! Your sword and your jacket. They’ve been stolen! The fucking bastards! They’ve been stolen! Hey, you there! There was a sword here! Give it back! Come on! Oh, you whoresons! Damn you!”
The Witcher suddenly felt weak. Mozaïk held him up. I must be in poor shape, he thought. I must be in poor shape if a girl has to hold me up.
“I’ve had enough of this town,” he said. “Enough of everything this town is. And represents. Let’s get out of here. As soon as possible. And as far away as possible.”
INTERLUDE
Twelve days later
The fountain splashed very softly, the basin smelled of wet stone. There was a scent of flowers and of the ivy growing up the walls of the patio. And it smelled of the apples in a dish on the marble table top. There were beads of condensation on two goblets of chilled wine.
Two women were seated at the table. Two sorceresses. If, as luck would have it, someone with artistic sensibilities had been in the vicinity, full of painterly imagination and capable of lyrical allegories, that person wouldn’t have had any problem portraying the two of them. The flame-haired Lytta Neyd in a vermillion and green gown was like a sunset in September. Yennefer of Vengerberg, black-haired, dressed in a composition of black and white, evoked a December morning.
“Most of the neighbouring villas are lying in rubble at the foot of the cliff,” Yennefer said, breaking the silence. “But yours is untouched. Not even a single roof tile was lost. You’re a lucky woman, Coral. I advise you to consider buying a ticket in the lottery.”
“The priests wouldn’t call that luck.” Lytta Neyd smiled. “They’d say it was protection by the divinities and heavenly forces. The divinities safeguard the just and protect the virtuous. They reward goodness and righteousness.”
“Indeed. Reward. If they want to and happen to be nearby. Your good health, my friend.”
“And yours, my friend. Mozaïk! Fill up Madam Yennefer’s goblet. It’s empty.
“Regarding the villa, though.” Lytta followed Mozaïk with her eyes. “It’s for sale. I’m selling it, because … Because I have to move out. The weather in Kerack has stopped suiting me.”
Yennefer raised an eyebrow. Lytta didn’t keep her waiting.
“King Viraxas has begun his reign with truly royal edicts,” she said in a barely audible sneer. “Primo, his coronation day has been declared a state holiday in the Kingdom of Kerack. Secundo, an amnesty is being proclaimed … for criminals. Political prisoners remain in prison without the right to be visited or conducting correspondence. Tertio, customs and port fees are being increased by a hundred per cent. Quarto, all non-humans and residents that harm the state’s economy and take jobs away from pure-blooded people are to leave Kerack within two weeks. Quinto, in Kerack it is forbidden to work any magic without the king’s permission and mages are not allowed to possess land or property. Sorcerers living in Kerack must dispose of their property and obtain a licence. Or leave the kingdom.”
“A marvellous demonstration of gratitude.” Yennefer snorted. “And rumour has it that it was the sorcerers who got Viraxas crowned. That they organised and financed his return. And helped him to seize power.”
“Rumour knows what it’s talking about. Viraxas will be paying the Chapter generously, and in order to do that he’s raising duty and hopes to confiscate non-humans’ property. The edict affects me personally; no other sorcerer has a house in Kerack. It’s Ildiko Breckl’s revenge. And re
tribution for the medical help I gave to the local women, which Viraxas’ counsellors consider immoral. The Chapter could put pressure on my behalf, but won’t. They’re not satisfied with the commercial privileges, shares in the shipyard and maritime companies acquired from Viraxas. They’re negotiating further ones and have no inention of weakening their position. Thus—now regarded as persona non grata—I shall have to emigrate to search for pastures new.”
“Which I nonetheless imagine you will do without undue regret. I’d have thought that under the present government, Kerack wouldn’t have a great chance in a competition for the most pleasant place under the sun. You’ll sell this villa and buy another. In the mountains in Lyria, for instance. The Lyrian mountains are fashionable now. Plenty of sorcerers have moved there, because it’s pretty and the taxes are reasonable.”
“I don’t like mountains. I prefer the sea. Never fear, I shall find a safe haven without much difficulty, considering my specialty. Women are everywhere and they all need me. Drink, Yennefer. Your good health.”
“You urge me to drink, but barely moisten your lips yourself. Are you perhaps ill? You don’t look very well.”
Lytta sighed theatrically.
“The last few days have been hard. The palace coup, that dreadful storm, ah … On top of that, morning sickness … I know, it’ll pass after the first trimester. But that’s not for another two months …”
It was possible to discern the buzzing of a wasp circling above an apple in the silence that fell.
“Ha, ha,” said Coral, breaking the silence. “I was joking. Pity you can’t see your face. I took you in! Ha, ha.”
Yennefer looked upwards at the ivy-covered top of the wall. For a long time.
“I took you in,” Lytta continued. “And I’ll bet your imagination was working hard at once. Admit it, you immediately linked my delicate condition with … Don’t make faces, don’t make faces. The news must have reached you, for rumours spread like ripples on the water. But relax, there isn’t a scrap of truth in them. My chances of getting pregnant are no greater than yours, nothing has changed in that regard. And all that linked me to your Witcher was business. Professional matters. Nothing else.”
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