Yennefer gave herself up to his caresses, purring like a cat, wrapping her legs around his hips.
The witcher soon realised that he had, as usual, overestimated his resistance to the elixirs and had forgotten their negative effects on the body.
Maybe it's not the elixirs, he thought. Maybe it's down to battle fatigue and the ever present risk of death. It's a fatigue that's so routine, I often forget about it. My body, even though it's enhanced, can't fight that routine. It reacts in the usual way, but the only trouble is that it happens when you don't want it to. Damn it…
As usual, Yennefer didn't allow herself to lose heart over such a trifle. He felt her touch and heard her soft murmur in his ear. As usual, he thought of the countless number of times she'd needed to use this very practical spell. And then he thought of it no more.
As usual, it was extraordinary.
He gazed at her mouth, the corners quivering in an involuntary smile. He knew this smile well; more a smile of triumph than happiness. He never asked her about it. He knew that she wouldn't have answered him.
The black kestrel, perched on the deer's antlers, flapped its wings and snapped its crooked beak. Yennefer turned her head and sighed with great sadness.
‘Yen?’
‘Nothing, Geralt.’ She kissed him. ‘It's Nothing.’
The lantern shone with a flickering light. In the wall, a mouse scratched and a beetle rustled quietly and rhythmically in the chest of drawers.
‘Yen?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Let's get away from here. I have a bad feeling about this place. This city has a malignant effect on me.’
The sorceress turned on her side and caressed his cheek, pushing away strands of hair. Her fingers slid lower, touching the calloused scar that ran across his neck.
‘Do you know what the name of this city means? Aedd Gynvael?’
‘No. Is it the language of the elves?’
‘Yes. It means 'Shard of Ice'.’
‘That's strange, it doesn't suit this disgusting hell-hole.’
‘Amongst the elves,’ she whispered thoughtfully, ‘there is the legend of the Queen of Winter, travelling across the country through a blizzard on a sleigh drawn by white horses. She sows hard, sharp, tiny shards of ice as she goes and woe betide he should one of these shards pierce his eye or his heart. That someone is lost forever. Nothing will be able to cheer him, all that is not the pure white of snow will become for him ugly, hateful, disgusting. He will not know peace and, forsaking all, will follow the Queen in pursuit of his dream and his love. Of course, he will never find it and will die of sorrow. Apparently in this city, in ancient times, such a thing happened. It's a beautiful legend, isn't it?’
‘The elves know how to dress everything up with pretty words,’ mumbled Geralt sleepily, tracing her shoulder with his lips. ‘It's not a legend, Yen. It's a beautiful way to describe the terrible phenomenon called the Wild Hunt, a curse apparent in certain lands. An irrational collective insanity drives people to follow the ghostly procession racing across the sky. I've seen it. Indeed, it's not uncommon in winter. I've been offered a lot of money to end the curse, but I didn't take it. Nothing can stand against the Wild Hunt…’
‘Witcher,’ Yennefer murmured, kissing his cheek, ‘you possess not one ounce of romanticism. I… I love the legends of the elves; they're so beautiful. It's a pity that humans don't have such legends. Maybe one day they'll create some? But what will their legends be like? All around, everywhere you look, is dullness and uncertainty. Even something born of beauty soon leads to boredom and banality, commonplace, the human ritual, the tedious rhythm of life. Oh, Geralt, it's not easy being a sorceress, but in comparison with ordinary human existence… Geralt?’
She laid her head on his chest, feeling his slow, rhythmic breathing.
‘Sleep,’ she whispered, ‘Sleep, witcher.’
III
The city had a malignant effect on him.
From the moment he awoke, everything put him in a bad mood and roused his anger. Everything. He was annoyed that much of the morning had been wasted because he had overslept and annoyed at the absence of Yennefer who had left before he woke up.
She must have hurried, because her accoutrements, which were usually neatly put away in the caskets, had been left scattered across the table like dice thrown by a fortune-teller during a divination: brushes of fine hair - the largest to powder her face, the smaller to apply lipstick, the smaller still for the paint that Yennefer used on her eyelashes; pencils and sticks for her eyelids and eyebrows; tweezers and silver spoons; jars and bottles made of porcelain and milky-white glass containing, as he knew, potions and ointments made of commonplace ingredients such as soot, goose grease and carrot juice and dangerous ingredients such as the mysterious mandrake, antimony, belladonna, cannabis, dragon's blood and the concentrated venom of giant scorpions. And finally, the air was filled with the scent of lilac and gooseberries - the perfume she always wore.
Her presence was felt in these objects. In this scent.
But she was not there.
He went downstairs, feeling a growing anxiety and rising anger. At everything.
Angry at the cold and congealed scrambled eggs which the innkeeper, distracted from feeling up the girl who worked in the kitchen, served him. Particularly annoyed that the girl was barely twelve years old and tears stood in her eyes.
The warm spring weather and the joyful noise of street life did nothing to alleviate Geralt's mood. There was still nothing he liked about Aedd Gynvael, which was an unpleasant parody of all the small cities he had ever known - infinitely more noisy, more humid, dirtier and more annoying.
He still caught the faint odour of refuse in his clothes and hair. He decided to go to the baths.
There, he was irritated by the expression of the bath attendant, who stared at the witcher's medallion and his sword as it lay on the edge of the tub. Geralt was angered at the fact that the bath attendant had not offered him the services of a young woman. He had no intention of making use of such a girl, but the fact that they offered such a service to everybody except him enraged him.
When he left, despite the clean scent of the soap on his body, the witcher's mood had not improved and Aedd Gynvael seemed no better. Still there was nothing that pleased him. He didn't like the piles of manure littering the streets. He didn't like the beggars crouched around the temple walls. He didn't like the slapdash inscription painted on the walls: ELVES: SEGREGATION NOW!
He was denied entrance to the castle, being told to seek out the alderman of the Guild of Merchants. This upset him. It also upset him when a senior guildsman, an elf, told him to look for the alderman in the market place with a look of contempt and superiority, which was strange for someone about to be forced into a ghetto.
The market place swarmed with people, stalls, wagons, horses, cattle and flies. Upon a dais, a pilloried convict was pelted with mud and dung by a mob of people. Showing admirable composure, the convict mocked his tormentors with a string of obscenities, barely raising his voice.
For Geralt, having seen such set ups before, the reason for the alderman's presence in the throng became clear. The travelling traders inflated their prices to cover the bribes they had to pay and the bribes had to trace back to somebody. The alderman, well aware of the custom, attended to it in person so the other merchants didn't have to bother.
He officiated under a dirty blue canopy, held up by poles. There was a table beneath it besieged by angry customers. Alderman Herbolth sat behind the table, his contempt and disdain for all and sundry showing clearly on his pallid face.
‘Hey! Where are you going? ‘
Geralt slowly turned around. He immediately suppressed his anger and frustration, becoming a sliver of cold, hard ice. He couldn't allow himself to express any emotion. The man who approached him had hair as yellow as an oriole and brows of the same colour above pale and empty eyes. Slim hands with long fingers rested on his belt of large brass plates whi
ch bore a sword, a mace and two daggers.
‘Yeah,’ said the man. ‘I know you. You're the witcher, right? Here to see Herbolth?’
Geralt nodded, keeping his eyes on the man's hands. He knew it was dangerous to lose sight of a man's hands.
‘I've heard of you, monster slayer’ said the blonde man as he paid careful attention to Geralt's hands. ‘Although I don't believe we've ever met, you've probably heard of me. My name is Ivo Mirce. But everyone calls me The Cicada.’
The witcher nodded to confirm that he had heard of him. He also knew that there was a price on head of The Cicada in Wyzim, Caelf and Vattweir. If they had asked his opinion, he would have told them it was too little. But they hadn't, so he didn't.
‘Okay,’ said The Cicada. ‘I know that the alderman's waiting for you. You can pass. But your sword, my friend, will have to stay here. I'm paid to keep an eye on proceedings. Nobody can approach Herbolth armed. Got it?’
Geralt shrugged indifferently and unbuckled his belt, wrapping it around his scabbard and handing it to The Cicada. The Cicada gave a slight smile.
‘Goodness me,’ he said. ‘Such manners, not a word of protest. I knew the rumours about you were exaggerated. I wish you'd asked me for my sword, just so you could see my response.’
‘Hey, Cicada!’ the alderman suddenly cried, rising, ‘Leave him be! Come over here Lord Geralt, welcome, welcome. Away, gentlemen, merchants, leave us alone for a moment. Your interests give way to issues of greater importance to the city. Submit your requests to my secretary!’
The outpouring of false welcome didn't fool Geralt. He knew that it served only as an opportunity for bargaining. The merchant wanted some time to consider whether the bribes were high enough.
‘I'll bet that The Cicada was trying to provoke you.’ Herbolth casually raised his hand in reply to the witcher's equally hurried bow. ‘Don't worry about it. The Cicada only draws his sword when ordered. True, he doesn't much like that, but as long as I'm in charge, he'll have to obey or he'll be sent on his way. Don't worry about it.’
‘Why the hell do you need someone like The Cicada, alderman? Surely it's not that dangerous here?’
‘It's not dangerous because of the presence of The Cicada.’ Herbolth smiled. ‘His fame travels far and he's on my side. You know, Aedd Gynvael and all the other cities in the Toine Valley belongs to the Governors of Rakverelin. Recently, these governors are changing all the time. It's not clear why, because nothing else changes and every other one is half or quarter elf; cursed breed. They're responsible for all the problems around here.’
Geralt didn't add that the current situation could also be down to those actually driving the wagon, because the joke, although well known, wasn't funny to everyone.
‘Every new governor,’ continued Herbolth, warming up, ‘starts by getting rid of all the chief magistrates and aldermen and replacing them with friends and relatives. But after what The Cicada did to the envoy of one of the governors, nobody has dared to replace me and I'm the longest serving alderman from the oldest regime, so old, even I don't recall which. But here we are, chatting away and polishing peanuts, as my first wife used to say, may she rest in peace. Let's get to the point. What kind of creature crept into our dump?’
‘A zeugl.’
‘I've never heard of such a creature. I suppose it's dead?’
‘Yes, it's dead.’
‘And how much is it going to cost the municipal fund? Seventy?’
‘One hundred.’
‘Well, well, Sir Witcher! I think you've been at the henbane! One hundred marks for killing a foul worm living in a shit heap?
‘Worm or not, alderman, it devoured eight people, as you told me yourself.’
‘People? Good one! The monster, as I told you, ate old Hylaste, who had famously never been sober, an old woman from the suburbs and some of Sulirad the Rafter's children. We didn't even know how many straight away, because even Sulirad doesn't know how many children he has. He makes them at such a rate, he doesn't have time to count them. Some people! Eighty.’
‘If I hadn't killed the zeugl, it would have eventually eaten somebody more important. The apothecary, say. Where would you buy your chancre ointment? One hundred.’
‘One hundred marks is a lot of money. I don't know if I'd give you that much for a nine-headed hydra. Eighty five.’
‘A hundred, Lord Herbolth. It may not have been a nine-headed hydra, but nobody here, including the famous Cicada, was able to handle the zeugl.’
‘Because nobody here wanted to go wading through trash and manure. My final offer: ninety.’
‘One hundred.’
‘Ninety five, by all the demons and devils!’
‘Agreed.’
‘Well.’ Herbolth smiled broadly. ‘That's settled. Do you always barter so wonderfully, witcher?’
‘No.’ Geralt did not smile. ‘It's quite rare. I just wanted to impress you, alderman.’
‘That you did and may the plague take you,’ laughed Herbolth. ‘Hey, Peregrine! Come here! Bring me the ledger and a purse and count out ninety marks for me.’
‘We agreed on ninety five.’
‘What about tax?’
The witcher cursed softly. The alderman signed the receipt with a flourish, then scratched his ear with the end of the quill.
‘I hope that the dump is safe now. Eh, witcher?
‘It should be. There was only one zeugl. Although it's possible that it reproduced. Zeugls are hermaphrodites, like snails.’
‘Now what are you saying?’ Herbolth looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Reproduction takes two: a male and a female. Is it possible for zeugls to multiply like fleas or mice in a rotten straw mattress? Every idiot knows there are no male and female mice; they are all identical and just hatch by themselves from the rotten straw.’
‘And snails hatch from damp leaves,’ added the secretary, Peregrine, still busy placing the coins in piles.
‘Indeed, everybody knows,’ Geralt agreed, smiling reassuringly. ‘That there are no male or female snails. There are only snails and leaves. And anyone who says otherwise is wrong.’
‘Enough,’ the alderman cut in, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘No more about bugs. I want to know if there's still something dangerous in the dump, and please have the courtesy reply plainly and succinctly.’
‘In a month or so, you'll have to search the dump again, preferably with dogs. Young zeugls are not very dangerous.’
‘Can't you do that, witcher? We can discuss prices.’
‘No.’ Geralt took the money from Peregrine. ‘I have no intention of staying in your lovely town for a week, never mind a month.’
‘It's interesting that you should say that.’ Herbolth smiled wryly, looking him in the eye. ‘Very interesting, in fact. Because I think you're going to stay here longer.’
‘You think wrongly, alderman.’
‘Really? You came here with that dark-haired sorceress, I've forgotten her name… Guinevere, I think. You stayed with her at The Sturgeon. They say in the same room.’
‘What of it?’
‘Whenever she visits Aedd Gynvael, she does not leave too quickly. And she's been here many times before.’
Peregrine smiled significantly; a wide, toothless grin. Herbolth still met Geralt's eyes, unsmiling. Geralt smiled as threateningly as he could.
‘Anyway, what do I know?’ The alderman looked away and dug a heel into the ground. ‘And I don't give a shit. But just so you know, the wizard Istredd is a very important person. He is irreplaceable in this town, priceless, I might say. He is respected by all, locals and outsiders too. We don't stick our noses into his business, magical or otherwise.’
‘Perhaps rightly so,’ agreed the witcher. ‘Where does he live, if I may ask?’
‘Don't you know? It's right here. Do you see that house? The tall, white one between the warehouse and the armoury, standing up like a candle stuck in an arse. But you won't find him there now. Istredd recently unearthed someth
ing next to the south wall and is currently digging around there like a mole. So many people were milling around the excavation site, that I went to take a look. I politely asked him: 'Why, sir, are you digging in the ground like a small child?' and everybody started to laugh, 'What's hidden there, in the ground?' He looked at me as if I were a beggar and said: 'History.' 'What history is that, then?' I asked, and he replied: 'The history of mankind. Answers to questions. The answer to what was and what shall be.' 'There was only a pile of shit here before the town was built,' said I, 'fallow land, shrubs and werewolves. And what will be depends on who is next governor appointed by the administration of Rakverelin - another mangy half-elf, I fear. The earth holds no answers, only worms.' Do you think he listened? He's still there, still digging. If you want to see him, go to the south wall.’
‘Oh, Lord Alderman,’ Peregrine snorted. ‘He's at home now. He doesn't care about the excavations now that…’
Herbolth looked at him menacingly. Peregrine turned away and coughed, shifting from one foot to the other. The witcher continued to smile forcedly, crossing his arms over his chest.
‘Yes, ahem, ahem.’ The alderman cleared his throat. ‘Who knows, maybe Istredd has returned home now. What's it to me, anyway?’
‘Take care of yourself, alderman,’ said Geralt, not bothering with the pretence of a bow. ‘I wish you a good day.’
He returned to The Cicada, who met him with a clinking of weaponry. Without a word, the witcher reached for his sword which The Cicada held in the crook of his elbow. The Cicada stood back.
‘In a hurry, witcher?’
‘Yes, I'm in a hurry.’
‘I took a look at your sword.’
Geralt threw him a look that could never have been considered warm.
‘That's something to boast about,’ nodded the witcher. ‘Few have seen it. Even fewer are able to talk about it.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 10