Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher]

by The Sword of Destiny (fan translation) (epub)

  ‘What didn't they notice?’ asked the witcher, his face impassive.

  ‘I thank you,’ Chapelle whispered.

  ‘Are there many of you?’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘No,’ conceded the witcher. ‘It's not.’

  A form wearing a green hat and dressed in rabbit fur emerged from behind the carts and stalls.

  ‘Lord Biberveldt…’ the gnome stammered breathlessly, looking from one halfling to the other with amazement.

  ‘I think, little one,’ Dainty said, ‘that you're looking for my cousin, Dudu Biberveldt. Speak, speak, here he is.’

  ‘Oxyria reports that the stock has been completely sold,’ explained the gnome, who smiled broadly, displaying his sharp teeth. ‘At 4 crowns apiece.’

  ‘I think I know what's happening,’ said Dainty. ‘Too bad Vivaldi isn't with us: he could have calculated our profit in the wink of an eye.’

  ‘If you'll allow me, cousin,’ interrupted Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte, also known as Penstock, Dudu to his friends and, to all the city of Novigrad, member of the numerous Biberveldt clan. ‘Allow me to make the calculation. I have an infallible memory for figures. Among other things.’

  ‘Please,’ Dainty said, bowing. ‘Please do, dear cousin.’

  ‘The expenses,’ the doppler reflected, furrowing his brow, ‘weren't high: 18 for the rose essence, 8.50 for the fish oil, hum… in all, including the string: 45 crowns. The transaction is 600 pieces at 4 crowns, so 2,400. And no commission in the absence of an intermediary…’

  ‘I ask you not to forget the tax,’ Chapelle the Second prompted. ‘Remember that a representative of the municipal authorities and of the church stands before you and plans to fulfill his duties conscientiously.’

  ‘Not subject to a tax,’ Dudu Biberveldt fired back, ‘because it is a sale with religious purposes.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Mixed in suitable proportions, fish oil, wax and rose essence, colored with a little cochineal,’ the doppler explained, ‘poured into earthenware bowls around a piece of cotton cord will, when the wick is lit, burn with a beautiful red flame that will burn for a long time without an unpleasant odor: the Eternal Fire. The priests need candles for their altars to the Eternal Fire. Now we have what they need.’

  ‘By the plague,’ Chapelle groaned. ‘Indeed… We needed candles… Dudu, you really are a genius.’

  ‘I get it from my mother,’ Tellico replied modestly.

  ‘A mother you closely resemble,’ Dainty confirmed. ‘Look at those eyes shining with intelligence. Just like my dear aunt, Bégonia Biberveldt.’

  ‘Geralt,’ Dandelion moaned. ‘In three days, he earned more money than I have in all my life!’

  ‘In your place,’ the witcher said seriously, ‘I would give up singing for commerce. Ask him, perhaps he'll take you on as an apprentice.’

  ‘Witcher…’ Tellico grasped his sleeve. ‘Tell me how I can… can thank you.’

  ‘22 crowns.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For a new jacket. Look at what's left of this one.’

  ‘You know what?’ Dandelion shouted abruptly. ‘We're all gong to a brothel. To Passionflower! The Biberveldts' treat!’

  ‘They'll admit halflings?’ Dainty asked, worried.

  ‘Just let them try to keep you out.’ Chapelle made a menacing face. ‘Let them try and I'll accuse the entire brothel of heresy.’

  ‘Well,’ Dandelion said. ‘All is well. And you, Geralt, are you coming with us?’

  The witcher chuckled.

  ‘You know, Dandelion,’ he said, ‘I'd actually be happy to.’

  A Little Dedication (a.k.a A Little Sacrifice)

  This is a fan translation of a French translation of the story from Andrzej Sapkowski's The Sword of Destiny (L'Épée de la Providence). I am not a native or even a strong French speaker but I hope that the result is sufficiently readable for my fellow Anglophones.

  I

  The young siren emerged from the water up to her waist, violently splashing the surface with her hands. Geralt considered her breasts beautiful – perfect, even. Only their color spoiled the sight: the nipples were pale green and the surrounding aureola paler yet. Skillfully riding the waves that she raised, the young mermaid stretched charmingly, shaking out her wet celadon-green hair, and began to sing melodiously.

  ‘What?’ The duke leaned over the railing of the ship. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She refused,’ said Geralt. ‘She says she doesn't want to.’

  ‘You've explained that I love her, that I can't imagine living without her, that I want to marry her, be only with her, and no-one else?’

  ‘I told her that.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘And nothing.’

  ‘Tell her again.’

  The witcher touched his lips with his fingers and gave a vibrant trill. Picking up the words and the melody, he began to scrupulously pass on the duke's confessions of love.

  Drifting on her back, the young siren interrupted him: ‘Stop translating, stop working so hard,’ she sang. ‘I understood that. When he professes his love for me, it is always the same stupid simpering. Has he said anything concrete?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That's a shame.’

  The siren struck the water and immersed herself with an abrupt movement of her tail. The sea foamed where it was churned by the mullet-like fin.

  ‘What? What did she say?’ asked the duke.

  ‘That it's a shame.’

  ‘What's a shame? What does that mean: 'a shame'?’

  ‘It sounds to me like a refusal.’

  ‘Nobody refuses me anything!’ shouted the duke, in defiance of the obvious facts.

  ‘Lord,’ muttered the captain of the ship as he approached the two of them, ‘our nets are ready. All we have to do is throw them to capture…’

  ‘I wouldn't advise that,’ Geralt interrupted in a measured tone. ‘She isn't alone. Under the water there are many others, and the depths could hide a kraken.’

  The captain trembled and grew pale, fixating on the last. ‘A kra… a kraken?’

  ‘A kraken,’ confirmed the witcher. ‘I don't advise that you mess about with your nets. One scream from her would reduce us to drifting planks and drown us like common kittens. And you, Agloval, must decide: do you want a wife or a fish to keep in a bowl?’

  ‘I love her,’ Agloval answered resolutely. ‘I want to marry her. But for that, she must have legs, and not a scaly tail. Everything is prepared: I traded two pounds of beautiful pearls for a magic elixir that is fully guaranteed to cause her to grow legs. She will suffer only a little for three days, no more. Call her, witcher, tell her one more time.’

  ‘I've already explained it to her twice. She replied that she categorically refuses, but that she knows of a sea witch whose spells can turn your legs into a magnificent tail. And do so painlessly.’

  ‘Has she lost her mind? Me, I'm expected to grow a fish tail? Not on your life! Tell her, Geralt!’

  The witcher leaned heavily over the railing. In his shadow, the sea looked as lush and green as aspic. The siren emerged in a fountain of water before he even had time to call her. She froze for a moment, balanced on her tail, then turned on her back to plunge into a wave in a movement that displayed all her charms. Geralt swallowed.

  ‘Hey, you!’ she sang. ‘Will it take much longer? My skin is cracking under the sun! White-haired one, ask him if he agrees.’

  ‘He doesn't agree,’ replied the witcher, taking up the melody. ‘Sh'eenaz, you must understand that he can't possibly grow a tail and live under the water. You are free to breathe the air, but he absolutely cannot breathe water!’

  ‘I knew it!’ she squealed. ‘I knew it! The excuses, the stupid and naïve excuses: not the slightest bit of dedication! Who likes to make sacrifices? Me, I sacrifice myself for him: every day, I crawl on rocks that scrape the scales off my back and fray my fin. All for him! And now he refuses to
renounce his two horrible canes? Love is not only taking, it is also devotion and dedication! Tell that to him!’

  ‘Sh'eenaz,’ called Geralt. ‘Don't you understand? He can't live in the water!’

  ‘I do not accept the claims of an imbecile! I… I love him too, and I want to raise fry with him, but how can I do that if he refuses to become a fish like me? Where, then, am I supposed to leave my spawn, huh? In his hat?’

  ‘What does she say?’ cried the duke. ‘Geralt! I didn't bring you here so that you could have a private chat with her…’

  ‘She refuses to change her mind. She is angry.’

  ‘Throw the nets!’ bawled Agloval. ‘I will keep her trapped in a pool for a month and…’

  ‘Then what?’ the captain interrupted rudely. ‘There could be a kraken under the ship! Have you ever seen a kraken, sir? Jump into the water if you want and catch her with your hands! I'm not getting involved in this. This sea is my livelihood.’

  ‘Your livelihood? I am your livelihood, you scoundrel! Throw the nets or I'll have you drawn and quartered!’

  ‘Now see here! On this ship, I am in command. Not you!’

  ‘Shut up, both of you.’ Geralt was hoarse with anger. ‘She's trying to tell us something. It is a difficult dialect that requires concentration!’

  ‘I've had enough!’ Sh'eenaz shouted in song. ‘I'm hungry. So, white-haired one, he will decide now! Tell him only that I will no longer suffer the humiliation of waiting for him while he keeps flopping around like a four-legged starfish. Tell him that I have girlfriends who can give me better satisfaction than the trifling sort he offers me on the rocks! As for me, I think he is playing at a game intended for younger fish. I am a siren, normal and sound…’

  ‘Sh'eenaz…’

  ‘Don't interrupt me! I haven't finished yet! I'm healthy, normal, and mature enough to spawn. If he really wants me, then he must have a tail, a fin, and everything else like a normal triton. Otherwise, I won't have anything to do with him!’

  Geralt translated quickly. His efforts to avoid vulgarity were not very successful, because the duke blushed and swore horribly.

  ‘Shameless slut!’ he yelled. ‘Frigid whore! Go find yourself a herring!’

  ‘What did he say?’ Sh'eenaz asked, swimming close.

  ‘He won't grow a tail!’

  ‘Tell him… tell him to go dry out!’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She wants you,’ explained the witcher, ‘to drown yourself.’

  II

  ‘What a pity,’ sighed Dandelion. ‘I would have liked to come with you to the sea, but what can I do? I have such terrible seasickness! You know I've never spoken with a mermaid in my life? Damn it, it's too bad.’

  ‘I know you,’ said Geralt as he buckled his straps. ‘That won't stop you from writing your ballad.’

  ‘Of course. I already have the first verse. In my ballad, the mermaid sacrifices herself for the duke: she transforms her fish tail into magnificent little legs, but pays for her dedication with the loss of her voice. The duke betrays her and rejects her. She dies of grief and transforms into sea-foam when the rays of the sun…’

  ‘Who's going to believe that nonsense?’

  ‘It doesn't matter,’ Dandelion grumbled. ‘I don't write my ballads to be believable, I write them to be moving. Why am I talking to you about this? You don't know anything. Tell me instead, how much did Agloval pay you?’

  ‘He didn't give me anything. He argued that I hadn't fulfilled my part of the mission, that he expected something else from me… That he rewards effects, not good intentions.’

  Dandelion nodded and took off his hat, looking at the witcher. He pursed his lips in disappointment.

  ‘Does that mean we still don't have any money?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  Dandelion's grimace grew even more pathetic.

  ‘It's all my fault,’ he moaned. ‘Everything is my fault. Geralt, are you angry with me?’

  No, the witcher was not angry with Dandelion. Far from it.

  Still, there was no doubt that they owed their misadventures to Dandelion. It was the bard who had insisted on going to the party at Four Maples. Attending parties, he explained, satisfied a deep and natural human need. From time to time, claimed the musician, a man must meet his fellow man in a place where one can laugh and sing, eat kebabs and dumplings, drink beer, listen to music, dance and fondle girls whose curves glisten with sweat. If each individual decided to satisfy those needs any old way, he argued, without concerted organization, boundless chaos would ensue. That's why festivals and parties were invented. And when festivals and parties were organized, it was only appropriate to attend.

  Geralt wasn't stubborn enough to refuse, even if, on the list of his own deep and natural needs, attending parties was somewhere near the bottom. He agreed to accompany Dandelion, as he was relying on the contacts from such meetings to obtain information on available work: for a long time, no-one had called on him and his purse was beginning to grow dangerously light.

  Nor did the witcher blame Dandelion for provoking the guards. Geralt, in this case, was not himself blameless: he could have intervened and stopped the combative impulses of the troubadour, but he did not, preferring not to stand with the primitive forest guards known as the Foresters. That organization of volunteers had a nasty reputation for their mission of hunting ‘non-humans.’ Geralt yawned while listening to their boasting on the subject of elves, dryads or evil fairies pierced with arrows, slaughtered or hanged from trees. Dandelion, in contrast, emboldened by his association with the witcher, made his feelings known. At first the Foresters did not react badly to his banter, his jokes and his unpopular suggestions, which provoked gales of laughter from the farmers observing the scene. However, when Dandelion sang an outrageous verse that he had invented for the occasion, ending with the words ‘you're as thick as two short planks, so you must be a Forester,’ the situation degenerated into a pitched battle. The shed that served as the tavern went up in smoke. A squad under the command of Budibog the Bald, in whose domain Four-Maples was included, was forced to intervene. He ruled that the Foresters, Dandelion, and Geralt shared responsibility for the damages and the crimes, including the recent seduction of an under-aged redhead who was found after the event, in the bushes behind the field, smiling foolishly with a flushed complexion and her tunic torn down to her waist. Luckily, Budibog the Bald knew Dandelion. The sentence was commuted to a fine which nonetheless depleted all their funds. They also had to flee Four-Maples on horseback as soon as possible to avoid the vengeance of the Foresters, who had been exiled from the village and desired revemge. In the surrounding woods, forty individuals were engaged in the hunt. Geralt had no desire to become a target for the Foresters' arrows, whose harpoon-shaped tips caused horrific wounds.

  Their original plan was displaced by a detour through the villages along the forest edge, where Geralt hoped to find some work. They took the road from the sea toward Bremervoord. Unfortunately, Geralt found no work except for his involvement in the affair of Duke Agloval and the mermaid Sh'eenaz, whose chances of succeeding were a priori very slim. Geralt's gold ring and the Alexandrite brooch from one of Dandelion's numerous dalliances had been sold to buy food. Despite their present difficulties, the witcher nevertheless felt no resentment toward Dandelion.

  ‘No, Dandelion,’ he said. ‘I'm not angry with you.’

  Dandelion didn't believe a word of it. This explained the silence of the troubadour, who was rarely quiet. He patted the neck of his horse after searching afresh through the saddle-bags. Geralt knew he would find nothing of value. The smell food that the breeze brought from a nearby farm became unbearable.

  ‘Master!’ someone shouted suddenly. ‘Oy, Master!’

  ‘Yes?’ Geralt responded, turning.

  From a two-wheeled cart drawn by two asses and parked to one side, there descended a man with an imposing paunch, dressed in felt shoes and a heavy fur-trimmed wolf-skin coat
.

  ‘Uh… Well…’ the stout man said, embarrassed, as he approached. ‘I was not addressing you, sir, I only meant… Master Dandelion…’

  ‘That's me,’ the poet proudly confirmed, adjusting his feather-plumed hat. ‘What can I do for you, good man?’

  ‘With utmost respect, Master,’ said the heavyset man, ‘my name is Teleri Drouhard, spice merchant by trade, dean of the local guild. It's that my son Gaspard is engaged to Dalia, the daughter of Mestvin, captain of the royal navy.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dandelion, flawlessly maintaining a serious expression. ‘Extend my congratulations and best wishes to the lucky couple. And what can I help you with? Is it the right of first night? That, I never refuse.’

  ‘Huh? No… not that… In fact, the banquet and the wedding will be tonight. It's that my wife wanted to invite you to Bremervoord, Master Dandelion, and forced my hand… That's women for you. Listen, she said to me, 'Teleri, we should show the world that we are not governed by ignorance, but culture and art, you know, that when we host a banquet it's refined, not just an excuse for binge drinking until you throw up.' I told that stupid woman: so we already called a bard, isn't that enough? She answers that a bard isn't enough, that, oh là là, Master Dandelion, now there's a celebrity to make the neighbors die of jealousy. Master? Would you do us the honor? I symbolically present you with 25 good talars… in support of the arts…’

  ‘Do my ears deceive me?’ Dandelion demanded, after this last part. ‘Me, I'm expected to play second fiddle? You want me to be the side act for some other musician? Me? I have never yet fallen so low, venerable sir, as to be reduced to mere accompaniment for someone else.’

  Drouhard flushed.

  ‘Excuse me, Master,’ he stammered. ‘It wasn't me, but my wife… I hold you in the highest honor…’

  ‘Dandelion,’ whispered Geralt under his breath, ‘stop taking on airs. We need the coin.’

  ‘Don't tell me what to do,’ insisted the poet. ‘Me, putting on airs? Me? You're one to talk, the one who refuses interesting jobs every other day! You won't kill the hirikkhis because it's an endangered species; not the scorpion flies either because they're not dangerous; not to mention the noctambelles because they are charming sorceresses; and the dragons, because that's against your code of ethics. I too, you may imagine, am someone with self-respect! I too have my own personal code!’