Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher]

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

  ‘Dandelion, I'm begging you, do it for me. A little dedication, lad, that's all I ask. I promise that I won't be so choosy next time. Come on, Dandelion…’

  The troubadour scratched the peach-fuzz on his chin and stared at the ground. Drouhard came closer shouting:

  ‘Master… Grant us this honor. It's just that my wife would never forgive me for coming back without you. And so… I'll raise the price to 30.’

  ‘35!’ Dandelion bid firmly.

  Geralt smiled and sniffed hopefully at the smell of food coming from the farm.

  ‘All right, Master, all right,’ Teleri Drouhard said quickly, so quickly it was obvious that he could easily follow the auction until 40. ‘And… my house, if you like, to refresh and relax you, Master, is yours. And you, sir… To whom do I owe the honor?’

  ‘Geralt of Rivia.’

  ‘You too, sir, you're invited… to eat, drink…’

  ‘Of course, with pleasure,’ interrupted Dandelion. ‘Show us the way, good sir Drouhard. Between the two of us, the other bard – who is it?’

  ‘The honorable lady Essi Daven.’

  III

  Geralt rubbed his belt buckle and the silver studs of his jacket with his sleeve once more, combed his hair and tied it back with a cord and polished his shoes, rubbing the sides of his boots together.

  ‘Dandelion?’

  ‘Yes?’

  The bard stroked the egret plume attached to his hat, smoothed and straightened his jacket. Both had spent half a day washing their clothes to make them presentable.

  ‘What is it, Geralt?’

  ‘Try to behave yourself so that they run us off after the party, and not before.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Dandelion was indignant. ‘I advise you to mind your manners. Shall we go in?’

  ‘Let's go. Do you hear that? Someone's singing. It's a woman.’

  ‘You just noticed? That's Essi Daven, known as Little-Eye. You never met a woman bard? Ah yes! I forgot that you avoid places where art flourishes. Little-Eye is a poet and a gifted singer, but not without some ill-mannered faults, if I can trust my ears, not without them in the least. What she's singing now is actually none other than my own ballad. Just wait, she'll hear my performance and we'll see that little eye squint in envy.’

  ‘Dandelion, for pity's sake. They'll throw us out.’

  ‘Don't interfere. This is a professional matter. Let's go in.’

  ‘Dandelion?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why 'Little-Eye'?’

  ‘You'll see.’

  The wedding took place in a huge warehouse, emptied of its usual barrels of herrings and fish oil. The smell had almost been lifted by the hanging bunches of mistletoe and heather decorated with ribbons. Here and there, as was the custom, garlands of garlic were hung, to scare off supposed vampires. The tables and benches that flanked the walls were covered with white cloths. In one corner, a great bonfire and a spit had been installed. Although it was crowded, there was no uproar. Over five hundred people of different nations and trades, along with the spotty-faced groom and the bride he was devouring with his gaze, listened in silent contemplation to the charming ballad of a young woman, wearing a modest blue dress and sitting on a stage, singing melodiously, accompanied by a lute that rested on her knee. The girl couldn't have been older than eighteen. She was extremely thin. Her hair, long and full, was dark gold. She finished her song as they entered. She received the thunderous applause that was lavished upon her with a nod of her head that shook her hair.

  ‘I bid you welcome, Master, welcome.’ Drouhard, dressed in his finest clothes, seized them and led them to the center of the warehouse. ‘And welcome to you, Sir Gerard… It is a great honor… Yes… Allow me… Venerable ladies and gentlemen! Here is our honorable host, who does us the honor of honoring us… Master Dandelion, the famous singer and writer of verse… and poet! who honors us with this very great honor… Honors us so…’

  The cries of joy and applause drowned out Drouhard's stammered speech before he could choke. Dandelion, proud as a peacock, adopted a manner equal to the occasion and bowed deeply before gesturing with his hand to the young girls sitting in a row, like chickens on their perch, and were monitored, from the second row, by a squad of old matrons. The girls didn't flinch, giving the impression that they had been affixed to the bench with carpenter's glue or something equally effective. Without exception, they held their hands flat on their knees and kept their mouths open.

  ‘Well then!’ Drouhard called, ‘come, drink beer, my friends! And eat! Over here, over here! By the grace of…’

  The girl dressed in blue fought her way through the crowd that rushed, like a wave against the reefs, toward the tables laden with food.

  ‘Hi, Dandelion,’ she said.

  Especially since he began traveling with Dandelion, Geralt considered expressions such as ‘eyes like the stars,’ which the bard used to indiscriminately compliment the girls, to be banal and trite. In the case of Essi Daven, even someone as deaf to poetry as Geralt must concede that the expression was nonetheless fitting. In a cute and friendly little face distinguished by nothing in particular, there burned and shone a dark blue eye, beautiful, huge, hypnotic. The second eye of Essi Daven was mostly covered by a golden circlet that fell across her cheek, which she habitually adjusted by shaking her head or puffing at it: thus the second eye of Small-Eye was unveiled, revealing a perfect similarity with the first.

  ‘Hi, Little-Eye,’ Dandelion replied with a grin. ‘You sang a beautiful ballad earlier. You have significantly improved your repertoire. I've always said that when one can't write one's own verse, one must borrow it from others. Is that common practice for you?’

  ‘Not really,’ Essi Daven replied, tit for tat, with a smile that revealed small white teeth. ‘It's been known to happen. Not as often as I would like, but I usually don't have the option: the lyrics are poorly written and the melodies, while certainly enjoyable and unpretentious in their simplicity – if not downright simplistic – don't measure up to my listeners' expectations. You've written something new, Dandelion? I hadn't heard.’

  ‘Not surprisingly,’ the bard replied with a sigh. ‘I sing my ballads in places where only the most gifted and famous artists are invited: just the kind of place where I never see you.’

  Essi flushed crimson and blew on her circlet.

  ‘It is a fact,’ she said, ‘that I am not in the habit of frequenting brothels. I find their atmosphere depressing. It saddens me that you have to perform in such places, but so it goes. When you have no talent, you don't have the luxury of choosing your audience.’

  This time, it was Dandelion who blushed hotly. Little-Eye smiled happily and immediately fell upon his neck, kissing him noisily on the cheek. The witcher was surprised, but only a little. A colleague of Dandelion could hardly be expected to be less unpredictable than Dandelion himself.

  ‘Dandelion, you dear old fool!’ Essi said, continuing the hug. ‘I'm so glad to see you in good health, physical and mental.’

  ‘Hey, Doll.’ Dandelion lifted the tiny girl and whirled her around until the ruffles of her dress twirled. ‘You were wonderful, by the gods. I haven't heard such lovely wickedness in a long time. Your quarrels are even better than your singing. And you are beautiful too!’

  ‘How many times have I told you,’ Essi said, puffing on her circlet and then looking to Geralt, ‘not to call me 'Doll,' Dandelion? Besides, it's about time that you introduced your companion, who I see is not a colleague of ours.’

  ‘Thank the gods for that,’ cried the bard, laughing. ‘He has neither voice nor ear for poetry, Doll – at best, he knows how to combine booze and syphilis. This is a representative of the witcher trade: Geralt of Rivia. Come here, Geralt, and kiss Little-Eye's hand.’

  The witcher approached without knowing how to react. The kissing of hands was generally practiced on the rings of duchesses, before whom it was necessary to kneel. In regards to women of less exalted rank, here in t
he South the gesture was considered a mark of eroticism and remained reserved only for established couples.

  Little-Eye, however, dispelled Geralt's doubts by energetically extending a hand with the fingers pointed down. The witcher took her hand clumsily and kissed it. The cheeks of Essi, who had kept one eye fixed on him, colored.

  ‘Geralt of Rivia!’ she said. ‘You don't keep company with just anyone, Dandelion.’

  ‘It's my honor,’ murmured the witcher, aware that he sounded no more eloquent than Drouhard. ‘Madam…’

  ‘To hell with all that,’ growled Dandelion. ‘Stop making Little-Eye uncomfortable with your titles and your stuttering. Her name is Essi and Essi, his name is Geralt. Introductions are over. Time to get serious, Doll.’

  ‘If you call me 'Doll' again, I'll smack your ear. What are these serious matters we need to discuss?’

  ‘We need to decide the order of our program. I propose that we take turns performing our ballads. This will have the best effect. Of course, everyone will sing his own ballads.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How much is Drouhard paying you?’

  ‘That's none of your business. Who's going to start?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Agreed. Hey! Look who's decided to honor us with his presence! That's Duke Agloval. He just came in, look.’

  ‘Hey, hey! The quality of the audience rises,’ Dandelion said joyfully. ‘But there is no room for complacency either: Agloval is a miser. Geralt can attest to that. The duke loathes giving up his coin. He hires people, it's true, but as for settling the accounts afterward…’

  ‘I heard about that.’ Essi pushed back her circlet and looked at Geralt. ‘It was being discussed at the port and on the docks. This is about the famous Sh'eenaz, is it not?’

  Agloval answered the deep reverence of the honor guard at the door with a curt nod and walked directly toward Drouhard, whom he drew into a corner, which prevented him from drawing the attention of the guests at the center of the room. Geralt watched them out of the corner of his eye. The conversation took place in low tones, but the two speakers seemed extremely agitated. Drouhard could not stop wiping his forehead with his sleeve, turning his head, and scratching his neck. At his questions the duke, his expression stiff and dour, responded by shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘The duke,’ Essi said in a low voice, pressing against Geralt, ‘seems preoccupied. Could it still be a matter of the heart? This morning's misunderstanding with the famous little mermaid? What do you think, witcher?’

  ‘Could be.’ Geralt, strangely surprised and irritated by the question, afforded the poet a furtive glance. ‘Everyone has his own problems. Not all of us can get by singing at fairs.’

  Little-Eye paled slightly. She puffed at her circlet, eying him with an air of challenge.

  ‘By saying that, did you hope to hurt me or simply offend me?’

  ‘Neither. I only intended to stave off the other questions about the problems of Agloval and his mermaid that I don't feel able to answer.’

  ‘I understand.’ The pretty eye of Essi Daven narrowed slightly. ‘I will not present you with any more such dilemmas. I will not ask the questions I would like to ask and that I was considering, to be honest, to be an invitation to a friendly conversation. Thus there will be no discussion between us. Have no fear; it will not become the subject of a song at a fair. The pleasure was all mine.’

  She turned her back quickly to move to a respectable distance toward the tables. Dandelion shifted his stance and muttered:

  ‘You can't say that you were friendly to her, Geralt.’

  ‘I admit, it's stupid,’ responded the witcher. ‘I hurt her for no reason. Maybe I'd better go and offer her an apology…’

  ‘Stop,’ said the bard, adding solemnly, ‘It's difficult to correct the first impression. Come, let's pour the beer instead.’

  They didn't have time to drink their beer because Drouhard, extracting himself from conversation with a group of citizens, accosted them:

  ‘Lord Gerard,’ he said, ‘excuse me. His Lordship the Duke wants to speak with you.’

  ‘I'm coming.’

  Dandelion took the witcher's sleeve.

  ‘Geralt, don't forget.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You made a promise to accept whatever missions you are proposed without sulking. I have your word. How did you put it? A little dedication?’

  ‘I know, Dandelion. But how do you know that Agloval…’

  ‘I have a nose for it, remember, Geralt.’

  ‘Sure, Dandelion.’

  He went with Drouhard to a corner of the room, far from the guests. Agloval was sitting on a low stool. At his side was a swarthy man in colorful clothing and a short black beard. Geralt had not noticed him earlier.

  ‘We meet again, witcher,’ the duke began, ‘in spite of my oath this morning never to see you again. But I have no other witcher at hand. You will have to do. Meet Zelest, my steward in charge of pearl diving.’

  ‘This morning,’ the swarthy man intoned quietly, ‘I wanted to extend our fishing area. A boat went adrift farther west, behind the cape, in the direction of the Dragon's Teeth.’

  ‘The Dragon's Teeth,’ put in Agloval, ‘are two grand volcanic reefs that emerge from the tip of the cape. They are visible from the shore.’

  ‘Yes,’ Zelest confirmed. ‘In general, we don't sail there because there are many whirlpools and rocks. Diving is dangerous. But on the shore, there are fewer and fewer pearls. Therefore a boat was sent there with a seven-man crew: two sailors and five divers. That night, when they did not return, we grew worried, even though the sea was as flat as oil. I sent two fast skiffs which found the boat adrift. Not a soul was aboard. Vanished without a trace. It's impossible to know what happened. But there was a fight. Massacre. Signs…’

  The witcher blinked.

  ‘What signs?’

  ‘Deck covered with blood.’

  Drouhard whistled and glanced anxiously around. Zelest lowered his voice:

  ‘It is just as I say,’ he repeated, clenching his teeth. ‘Boat covered in blood. Butchery. Something has murdered people. One might say a sea monster. Yes, undoubtedly a sea monster.’

  ‘No pirates?’ Geralt asked quietly. ‘No competing pearl divers? You have ruled out the possibility that they were boarded and attacked with ordinary knives?’

  ‘We have ruled it out,’ replied the duke. ‘There are neither pirates nor competition in the area. Piracy does not end with the disappearance of all crew members without exception. No, Geralt, Zelest is right. It's the work of a sea monster, nothing else. Listen, no-one dares go out to sea, even in the corners that are well-marked and familiar. People are paralyzed by fear. The port is at a standstill. Even the ships and galleys do not leave the dock. You see, witcher?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Geralt with a nod of his head. ‘Who will show me the place?’

  ‘Ah!’ Agloval rested his hand on the table and drummed his fingers. ‘I like that. Finally a reaction from the witcher. Let's not quibble over the details. You see, Drouhard: a good witcher is a hungry witcher. Isn't that so, Geralt? Without your musician friend, you would still go to sleep tonight without a bite to eat! This is good news for you, isn't it?’

  Drouhard bowed his head. Zelest looked blankly at him.

  ‘Who will show me the place?’ Geralt repeated, staring coldly at Agloval.

  ‘Zelest,’ said the duke, his smile fading. ‘When will you get to work?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Be on the pier, sir Zelest.’

  ‘Yes, master witcher.’

  ‘Great.’ The duke rubbed his hands with a new and mocking smile. ‘Geralt, I hope the adventure with this monster ends better than the one with Sh'eenaz. I'm counting on it. Ah, one more thing. I forbid you to discuss this matter. I don't want to cause panic over anything more important than what I already have on my back. Is that understood, Drouhard? I will have your tongue ripped out if it appears that you have loose
lips.’

  ‘I understand, Duke.’

  ‘Good.’ Agloval rose. ‘I'll go before I spoil your fun and feed the rumor. Farewell, Drouhard, I want you to give all my best wishes to the couple.’

  ‘Thank you, Duke.’

  Essi Daven, sitting on a stool and surrounded by a dense ring of listeners, was singing a melodious and nostalgic ballad about the misfortunes of a woman betrayed. Leaning against a pole, Dandelion mumbled something under his breath, counting the time and the syllables on his fingers.

  ‘So,’ he asked, ‘you've found some work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The witcher did not go into details, about which the bard cared little.

  ‘I told you. I have a flair for money. Good, very good. I earn a little coin and so do you. We're going to treat ourselves. Then we'll go to Cidaris for the harvest festival. But excuse me a moment: I've spotted something interesting on the bench.’

  Geralt followed the poet's gaze, but apart from the dozen girls with their lips parted, he noticed nothing of interest. Dandelion straightened his jacket, tipped his hat at a jaunty angle and went, fully immersed in his role, toward the bench. Dodging the attending matrons with a sidelong maneuver, he began his ritual with a charming smile.

  Essi Daven ended her ballad. The audience gave her its applause, a small purse, and a large bouquet of chrysanthemums, admittedly a little faded.

  The witcher strolled into the crowd of guests in search of an opportunity to find a place at the table of food. With dismay, he saw the rapid disappearance of pickled herring, stuffed cabbage, boiled codfish heads, mutton chops, slices of salami, slices of smoked salmon and ham; the problem was that there were no places free.